Creepy - Day 32 - Stef & The Scarecrow in Paulson's Field

Episode Date: November 1, 2025

Stef***Written by: L.S. Murphy and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***The Scarecrow in Paulson's Field***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Special thanks to: Tanja Milojevic and Adam Peacock for lending their voice talents, all of the writers who contributed, and of course our amazing listeners and patreon supporters!***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 32. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. these stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. J.V., you did it.

Was there any doubt? Was anyone else hoping that there wouldn't be a long, dark hallway with flickering lights on the other side of the door? I assumed there would be. It looks like there's stairs at the end. Look, there's an elevator, too. Do we really want to trap ourselves? in a steel box. Yes, I'm so tired.

Let's just take the elevator. Yeah, I second that. Motion passes. Owen? Why are you still in the vent? I gotta find Holly. Come on. Let's just take the elevator.

Owen's gone full John McLean. Well, having only one button in here makes it easier, doesn't it? This is a slow elevator. Ah! Whoa! The elevator stopped. Do you think someone did that on purpose? I sure hope not,

but all the signs are kind of pointing toward that, aren't they? Great, now what do we do? There's like no employees left. We could be trapped in here forever. I could tell you all about the dream I had last night. I really don't think this is the time to... Hey, everyone else got to talk about all their dreams. I want to, too.

I'm sorry, Nicole. You're right. It's not like we have any other options right now. Maybe it will help us not think about being stuck in a metal box. Who knows how deep in the ground. Thank you. It was about stuff. Pamela set her purse in her office chair and shrugged out of her favorite gray cardigan, hanging it on the small coat rack in the corner of a cubicle. Her four-day weekend was a blur of nothingness. She'd sat at home, watch TV, read three books, and basically did the same thing she did when she had a normal two-day weekend. Cynthia stormed by not bothering to stop. It wasn't unexpected.

Her supervisor rarely even acknowledged her existence. Sighing, she moved the person to the lower left drawer she always kept it in and settled in for the day. It was still ten minutes until she signed in. While her computer booted, Pamela took in the cubicle she'd worked in for the last eight years. Gray fabric walls, six feet high, surrounded her large L-shaped desk. There were two plastic chairs that nobody ever had sat in. Her desk was just as bland. a blotter, her keyboard, and monitor, and a cup of pens took up the large space.

It all gave the impression of being empty. They claimed your desk was a reflection of your soul, whoever they were. Pamela ignored the loneliness that surged up in her throat. She'd lost herself in the numbers and spreadsheets, catching up the work in no time. At lunch, she grabbed her small cooler and went to her usual bench outside. She hadn't been to the break room since her first day after Mark and IT had knocked her salad out of her hand without apologizing. He hadn't even noticed. She returned to her desk and caught up on the other files that hadn't been touched even though they weren't her responsibility.

There were no welcome backs or how was your long weekend or good to see yous. She'd heard Alice, her cubicle neighbor, spent ten minutes chatting with Harold from payroll about a TV show they both loved. Pamela loved it too. A week ago, she had mentioned it to Harold, but he hadn't heard her. She had shuffled back to her desk, dejected. Some days she wondered why she even came in. All of her work could have been done in the comfort and safety of her own home. Pamela signed out and joined the rush of people leaving the office.

She crushed in the two small elevator, holding her breath against a man's body odor. She shuffled out into the parking garage. People bumped and jostled her, but nobody said sorry. She was nothing more than a punching bag. Six years, still the same. She climbed into her 30-year-old Toyota Corolla with less than 150,000 miles on it and joined the masses again. A heavy weight pressed on her chest. If she rammed one of them, would they notice her then?

shaking off the morbid thoughts that were more common lately, she left the garage and the day behind, driving the familiar path home. I wish someone... Anyone would see me, she thought, as she stared at the broken tail light of the car in front of her. A horn blared and she realized the light had turned green. She waved her hand and continued on. Thankfully, nobody could see the way her face burned from embarrassment. At the last stoplight before her neighborhood, Pamela made a left instead of a right.

She didn't know why, just that she needed to go left. the next intersection she made a right without thinking, then another left, putting her on the interstate. It was like she was a marionette and someone pulled the strings. She drove mindlessly for 20 miles until she heard a voice. Come. She took the next exit, cutting off a man in a big pickup truck. Absent-mindedly, she waved at him in an apology.

Something nobody did anymore, she thought. The truck roared down the road as if it had never happened. A right at the bottom of the ramp, another left three miles in, then a right onto a small gravel road. She slowed to a crawl finally stopping in the middle of an intersection. Pamela had never been here before. She didn't even know where here was. Climbing out of the driver's side, she looked around the landscape.

Another mile down the gravel road in front of her was the rusted rails of a forgotten bridge. Farmlands surrounded the roads, fading into distant woods. There were no sounds, no smells, no birds, no fresh grass, not even the smell of spring wildflowers on the light wind. The cloudless gray sky blanketed over her. Not quite daylight, but not quite night. Nowhere. She'd driven nowhere, but the anticipation clawed in her chest.

This place was far more significant than nowhere. Pamela took tentative steps forward in her orthopedics. Technically, she didn't need them, but the shoes were more comfortable than most, even if they made her look 20 years older. She stopped in the middle of the gravel intersection. The breeze picked up and she instinctively tugged her cardigan closer. It wasn't cold, per se, but it wasn't warm either. Like her, the breeze just was.

Why am I here? She asked into the air, not expecting a response. Because I called you as you called to me, a gentle voice answered. The same voice she'd heard before she took the exit. Pamela spun around. A man stood at the edge of the intersection. His jeans and leather jacket were more 1950s than 2020s unless he preferred the retro look. The duck tail, greaser hairstyle and white dirty tea also belonged to another time.

His eyes flashed a blue-white. When he smiled, the world appeared to brighten and darken simultaneously. You've been calling me for a long time, Pamela. He flipped a toothpick between his lips. This is the first time you've heard my reply, although I have been answering you for years. Who are you? Pamela stuttered. She tightened her grip on her cardigan

as if that little gesture would protect her from whatever this was. You may call me Stefan. on. More stuff, if you wish. He smiled and her knees quaked. It was that devastating. Nobody had ever smiled at her like that before. The dimple in his cheek, the way his mouth lifted more on the left than the right, and the way it was only for her. Her throat dried and it was hard to even swallow. How do you know my name? She whispered. Her mind conjured up a million scenarios, but the one that stuck out was that this man looked like James Dean. That was what she focused on. Not the fact that she was alone in the middle of nowhere with a man she didn't know who somehow knew her.

No, that would crack her fragile mind. What do you want? He took the toothpick out and pointed it at her. Now, that's the wrong question. What do I want? What do you want, Pamela? You could have anything you desire if you would only ask. What would that be, I wonder?

He grinned and it had a boyish charm full of wonder and mischief. Although I think I know the answer. The answer? Her hand slid up the front of her sweater, tightening it at the neck. Oh, I'll just say it. He waved his hand around like this was nothing major, like they were old friends. Pamela noticed the glint of a gold ring on his left hand. You want to be seen.

His eyes flashed the brilliant blue-white again before settling into a calm gray. You want the world to know you exist? I can help with that. Pamela shook her head stepping back from this man. Her actions said no, but she still asked, how? She cringed at her question and added, Why should I believe you? That's fair. Steph smiled, but he didn't step closer. I see you, don't I? Pamela almost scoffed, but it was true. He stared at her, through her.

What I see is a woman who hasn't been loved properly, a woman who has so much to give to the right man. A woman who is smart, capable, lovable. His smile dropped and he shook his head. I see the real you, Pamela. The real me? She muttered, her hands loosening from her cardigan. Steph held out his hand, the solid gold band catching a flash of light. Pamela started his fingers. The skin looked soft, not calloused. She wondered what it would feel like against her own. It had been far too long since she felt the touch of another person. But she didn't know if she could trust this complete stranger, this totally unrealistic chance encounter. She reached out almost without realizing what she did. His skin warmed against hers. She closed her eyes, sliding her fingers along

his palm until she gripped his hand. Do you trust me? He asked. His hot breath danced over her lips, her chin. She opened her eyes to discover she was standing toe to toe with this strange man. Her mouth parted to say no, but she whispered, yes. Steph smiled softly. I promise, this won't hurt a bit. He leaned down brushing his lips over hers. Pamela's side and her eyelids drifted closed again. Her mouth parted. Her shoulders dropped as the tension disappeared from her muscles. The kiss was soft, gentle, and chaste.

It was over quickly. Steph's hand rested on her upper arms. She inhaled a scent. It was like a fireplace on a cold night, a bonfire during a summer. Did that hurt, my Pamela? He whispered. No, she said, hoping for more. I'm sorry, but that's not.

this will. His hands tightened on her arms. Her eyes opened wide. She tried to jerk away, but Steph's grip was too powerful. She met his gaze and screamed. The blue-white flash in his eyes was gone. All that was left was pure darkness. Steph pulled her against him and slammed his mouth over hers. His tongue forced her lips open. She tried to scream again, but he sucked her breath away. Her lungs tightened. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Something deep inside her dislodged like a solid stone. Its weight was everything that held her up. Steph inhaled hard and the boulder rose up in her chest into her throat choking her. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't move. She was dying and she had let a stranger kill her.

And nobody would know. Nobody would care. The boulder filled her mouth and rolled out between her lips. Steph took it in every inch. Her mouth widened with his lips until there was nothing but his tongue caressing hers. An emptiness filled her chest, her heart that was worse than just being alone. Is this death? She wondered. Steph's eyes were closed. His grip loosened, but Pamela couldn't move. She didn't want to. It was like her brain was disconnected from her body. Oh, Pamela, that was delightful. Steph said, looking his lips. His eyes opened once again and they were as blue as the Mediterranean. He smiled down at her. You will be seen, my Pamela. You will not be invisible. She expected to feel hope, but there was nothing.

He lifted a finger and creased her jawline. I know all of you now. We're bound in this life. He took the ring off and slid it on hers. It fit perfectly like it was made for her smaller finger. In the next life you will serve me as I serve you here. She opened her mouth, but he put his finger over her lips. Sleep, my Pamela.

The wailing of her alarm startled her like it did every morning. It was Tuesday. Her internal clock was never wrong. She blinked away the sleep reluctant to go to work. A warm arm lay across her stomach, her naked stomach. Pamela opened one eye. Her entire body was exposed. No blanket, no comforter, no sheet. Her gaze followed the arm to the man beside her. He stared back with bright blue eyes and a grin. Morning, she said, leaning down and kissing his cheek. He tugged her against him. It will be. Pamela left. The morning haze disappeared.

It was like a veil had been lifted and her body responded to his instantly. She'd been with Steph nonstop since they'd met. This past four-day weekend, they'd never left her bed. Normally she spent her downtime reading, catching up on TV, and just being alone. With Steph, her life was filled with laughter, love, and of course, sex. She hadn't went to return to work the day before, and she definitely didn't want to this morning either. After another round of the naked tango, Pamela showered and left for her job.

For the first time since her first day, she didn't dread it. Her company was large and she was nothing more than a small cog in the machine. Nobody talked to her. Hell, three months ago she experimented with working from home and not telling anyone, they hadn't noticed. Not even her immediate supervisor, Cynthia. A man bumped into her shoulder in the elevator. He glanced down with a sheepish expression.

Sorry. No problem, she said. completely surprised. He slammed his elbow into her almost every morning. This was the first time he'd apologized. She stepped off onto her floor. Good morning, Pamela. Someone said as they walked by. Good morning. She responded automatically. Okay, this was weird. Pamela made it to her cubicle without any other contact. She said her purse in its normal drawer and hung her cardigan on the hook. The picture of her and stuffed by her monitor brought a smile. They'd taken it over the weekend during their getaway. He was handsome with his dark hair, old-school style, and bright eyes.

She loved how his hands worshipped every inch of her body. The house lake had privacy, and he'd made love to her on the dock under the burning sun. Pamela, good you're here, Cynthia said from what served as the cubicle's doorway. Her blonde hair was in a tight bun and her makeup was model perfect. Pamela used to envy Cynthia's way-thin body, but not any longer. Steph loved Pamela's curves. Mr. White wants to see you in his office, Pronto. Um, okay. Pamela's hand started to shake.

She shoved them under her desk to hide it. Do you know why? Cynthia shrugged and scurried away. She'd started two years after Pamela and she was promoted a year later. Pamela had never liked that woman, probably because she stole credit for other people's work. Pamela took a deep breath and glanced at her engagement ring. The large Princess Diamond gave her confidence. She wore a single gold band on her other hand, another gift from her fiancé. Steph believed in her.

If Mr. White had wanted to fire her, he would have sent HR to do the job. She strode to the elevator spinning the ring around her finger. When Steph had proposed, she'd been shocked. They were on the river in a hidden spot along the shore, camping. Nobody was around. And they had made love outside then, too. They were both naked, sitting on a blanket with their feet in the icy water.

Steph pulled the ring out of the air. It had been so romantic. The elevator took her to the 10th of the top. the floor. She stepped off, her hand on her stomach. Mrs. Messier, so good to see you, Angela said from behind her desk. Her bright hazel eyes widened with joy. She was the executive receptionist for the partners. Pamela thought Angela too green for the job, but the young woman was always pleasant to her. How's the baby doing? Pamela glanced down at the rounding bump. Great, we just had a check-up. The doctor said everything's going as it should, only four more months. How's your husband

handling everything? Angela asked, with a conspiratorial grin. Like I'm a delicate flower, Pamela laughed. Just this morning, Steph refused to let me put my own shoes on. He acts like I'll break. Sounds about right. Mr. White strode out of his office with his hand extended. Pamela, so good to see you.

You too, sir. How's Betsy doing? Pamela asked as she shook his hand. Good, good. Mr. White walked back towards his office. Pamela fast on his heels. She's about to have her litter. After Pamela crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind her. In about eight weeks, Steph Jr. can have his puppy. Pamela laughed and ran her hand down her cart again.

She missed being pregnant sometimes. He'll love that. That child is growing so fast. Seems like only yesterday I was on maternity leave. Time really does fly. Mr. White grinned then motioned for Pamela to take a seat. Now, let's talk about the clerical pool. How are things running down there now that you've taken over for Cynthia?

It is smoothed out. The transition wasn't easy to be honest, but I feel like my team is adjusted. Pamela glanced down at her hands. The promotion had come as a surprise, but she'd relished the challenge. After years of not being noticed within the company, she was a new woman now.

She owed that to Steph. She owed so much to her late husband. They're a great team, efficient and effective. Mr. White smiled. His pearly whites hadn't changed in all these years. He stood and offered his hand again. That's good, good. Well, you come up to see me if you're not.

need anything, anything at all. Pamela shook it firmly noticing how wrinkled and gray her skin was against his. Yes, sir. After she left his office, she stood at the elevator alone. Her husband was gone, her son living his own life and she was alone again. It had all been nothing more than a blank, like it had been just yesterday when she'd been invisible to the world. Then she met Steph at that intersection, and her life turned on a dime. Time really does fly, she thought as the elevator doors opened. Steph stood inside. He looked the same as the day she'd met him. Same jacket and jeans, same dark hair and a ducktail. She smiled as he held out his hand. Pamela didn't hesitate. She reached for her husband. As her fingers crossed into the elevator, they grew younger.

She sighed happily when she finally touched Steph again. He gripped her tight, yanking her inside. A scream echoed behind her. Pamela turned to see Angela running toward them. Could she see Steph? Pamela wondered. She followed Angela's panicked gaze. Pamela's body lay crumpled at her feet, aged and empty. Time to go, Steph said on a hot breath into her ear. Your wish is fulfilled. Your soul is mine. Soul? Pamela turned towards her husband. What are you talking? Steph laughed and Pamela's stomach cramped. My love, you came to the crossroads on your own, praying to be seen. He kissed her forehead, burning her skin. I gave you the life you always wanted for 24 hours. You gave me, Mephistopheles, a son, along with your soul. I never... Pamela's

heart seized and her breath stopped. You came to me, Pamela, when I called to you. It was your choice, my love. Steph leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. Then he inhaled. Pamela couldn't fight him. A pebble ludged in her throat. It tore against her body as it rose. She tried to swallow and blood pulled in her mouth dripping from her lips. The hard stone shot forward shattering her teeth before filling Steph's mouth. His eyes closed, in ecstasy contorting his features. She thought of their son, Steph Jr.

Where was he? What had happened? Was it all an illusion? As if he could read her mind, Steph chuckled. He's found his own crossroads to patrol. The gold ring fell from her finger to the elevator floor spinning on its edge. Pamela saw her shriveled body lying beside it through Steph's eyes. Angela knelt beside her, crying. Someone yelled to call 911, but the voice was muffled.

Steph bent down and retrieved the ring, a chuckle vibrating his chest. Oh, my Pamela, this was so worth time in your bed. Steph blinked hard, and everything went blank. Not about the dream, but thank you for letting me share. When do you think we're going to get out of here? Hopefully soon. I can't decide if seeing John's smiling face the moment these doors open is going to make me feel better or totally enraged. You really still think he's involved in this?

It isn't gentlemen. It looks like we are having a small issue with our alarm systems. I'm sure there is nothing to worry about. There, see? I'm... Everything is a... under control. No.

What did you say? Is under control. They're coming. What do you mean? Who are you talking about? I want you to see. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to cut things short. My assistant will be in touch with you shortly.

Bye now. Now what are you talking about? What do you want me to see? I want you to see. I want you to see. see the scarecrow at Paulson's Field. There's a stretch of land past the old mill. Between the railroad and the edge of Paulson's woods,

where no one builds, no one farms, no one lingers after sunset. They call it Paulson's field, though no one in town remembers of Paulson owning it. It's just a patch of earth to town of voids, except for every October 18th, when the scarecrow appears. I'd heard the stories, of course, everyone had.

I grew up with them. The hay-stuffed figure hammered to a wooden cross in the center of the field, its face stitched from burlap, its button eyes the color of rust, always the same posture, arms splayed wide, one boot missing, mouth open and a silent scream. Every year someone new tried to take it down. Every year, someone failed. Last year, it was me.

I wasn't trying to be brave. I wasn't trying to be anything, really. I was 23, back in town after school, working at a parts shop and living in my parents' basement. October rolled in with rain and brittle wind, and with that came that old whisper in the bars and diners. Let's see who does it this year. The dare.

The tradition. The curse. It was never official. It was no sign-up sheet. But on the 17th, some fool always said something loud enough to get noticed, and the town let it happen. I said it this time.

Me, after more than a couple beers and a half-hearted story about ghost tours, I'll tear it down. I'll burn it right in the field. Laughter, a few claps on the back. One solemn shake of the head from an older man who didn't finish his fries. The morning of the 18th I walked to the field alone. It was cold, overcast, the kind of gray that makes even grass look dead.

The field was empty when I arrived except for the scarecrow, nailed to its post in the exact center, just like always. I stepped through the brittle weeds and muddy stalks, each footfall heavier than the last. Something in the air was too still. No birds, no wind, just me and a creaking of my boots. The scarecrow was worse up close. It wasn't as old. It was wrong.

There's levels to anything. And yes, a scarecrow appearing in a field every year with no one taking responsibility is weird. Yes, going into the field on a dare, self-inflicted or not, is weird. is weird. But looking at that thing? It was like... What's it called? An uncanny valley?

Nothing about it was wrong exactly, but it wasn't right either. Its arms weren't quite symmetrical. One longer than the other by a good six inches. Its shirt was stitched from mismatched rags, stained and damp. Its head saved

as if the post was the only thing holding it together. And its eyes... They weren't buttons. They were glass, like from a doll, and they shined like they were wet. I raised the pride bar I had brought and wedged it beneath the left arm where it met the cross. The wood groaned. The arm twitched. I froze.

No breeze, no movement in the grass. Just that twitch of fabric. I yanked the bar. The nail came loose with it. with a shriek, the arm dropped to the side limp. As it fell, something hissed, like air escaping a throat. I took a step back. The scarecrow's head lull to the side. Its mouth changed. What had been an open O shape, stitched and expressionless, was now a grin. A wide, uneven grin made a black threat stretched too far. My heart thudded. I dropped the pry bar and ran.

The town was quiet when I returned. Nobody asked what happened. No one looked surprised when I sat alone at the diner, hands shaking around a cup of coffee I didn't drink. That night I didn't sleep. I watched the news, read articles, paste. Around 2 a.m., something about the light shifted in the room. A sort of shadow briefly moved across the laptop screen.

I looked behind me toward the basement window well. I looked out the small window and saw something in the backyard. Not moving, just standing. Tall, still. A figure with long arms and a slumped head. I didn't go outside. I locked the doors and waited until dawn. When the sun rose, it was gone.

But something had been left behind. A single muddy boot print on the porch, bigger than mine. and a button No, not a button A glass eye The next day I visited the field Maybe to see if it was real Maybe to see if I imagined the whole thing

The scarecrow was back on the cross Both arms nailed in place Smiling And this time It was wearing my jacket That should have been the end of it But the next morning there were crows not a few

hundreds they covered the telephone lines the fence posts the trees silent watching their eyes all fixed in the same direction the scarecrow and each day after

something else changed the field grew darker shadows that lingered too long a noxious smell that hung in the air I saw footprints in the mud circling the cross. They weren't mine.

Then the dreams began. I'd wake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, with the memory of straw brushing my face and cold fingers at my throat. One night I found my window wide open, even though I remembered locking it. On the sill, another glass eye. I tried to tell someone, my parents, a friend, but they looked through me like I wasn't there.

Worse, like they were afraid to acknowledge what they already knew. So I went back one last time. It was dark when I reached the field. The sky glowed orange behind the clouds. The scarecrow stood where it always had, but this time there was something at its hand. My pry bar, I walked closer, every instinct screaming to stop. I finally did five feet away. The scarecrow turned its head.

It didn't jump or twitch. It moved like a person. Slow, deliberate. Eyes locked on mine. It lifted the pry bar and pointed it at me. The next moment I remember clearly I was on the ground gasping. My arms scraped, palms bleeding. The scarecrow hadn't moved, but my phone was gone.

That was last year. Today is October 17th. They say someone who always takes the dare. This year no one has, so far. I don't think the scare crow will wait much longer. God, please, someone else take the dare. I don't want to know what will happen if they don't. Do you really think that scares me?

This is what I want. This is what I've worked for for years. for for years. I'm not scared of what's on the other side. I wasn't talking about that when I said they were coming. Then who were you talking about... Finally! Longest elevator ever! Oh look, there's John. I knew it...

...strapped down to a table. Why are the shadows on the walls moving? I was talking about them. How did you all get here? Get out! What in the holy fuck is going on here? Are you stealing John's kidneys? No, they're trying to break down the walls of reality. You know, there was a time when hearing that would sound more concerning.

Can someone please let me out of here now? No, he's not going anywhere. Whoa. Hey, put down the scalpel. No one's trying to hurt you. Hurt me. Are you serious? You morons have no idea what this is all about. And if you think I'm going to let him go, you're even dumber than I thought. I'd rather see him dead than risk someone else getting him. I don't know how you managed to do any of this, John, but I can't believe you thought. thought that this was the group that was going to help you. Not them.

Him. Who? Leroy Jenkins! Hey Owen. Nice of you to drop in... Boo! Give me a break. I've been locked in a padded cell or strapped down to an exam table for the last month.

You remember? Well, not until you decided to run about a thousand volts through my hands. had. Didn't even get superpowers. John? What the hell is going on here? I think I can help explain. Who are you? And why do I immediately want to punch you in the face? I get that a lot. I'm the one who unlocked the security door for you all to get in here. For the record, J.V. doesn't know how to bypass it and really close to starting a fire.

Why did you help us? You traitor. That scuple's really not going to help you where you're going. Do you really think your legal system is going to do anything to me? Do you have any idea what power our financial backers have? I will never see the inside of a prison cell. I know. And thank you for that ironic setup.

I wasn't talking about getting arrested. I was talking about them. You spent a lot of time studying them and they really didn't like it. Now they want to see what makes you take. No, no, stay back. That was kind of like that scene in Ghost. It was a lot more entertaining in the movie. You know, because you knew that guy was the bad guy, so it was just desserts. But we all kind of grew to appreciate Dr. Hall taking the time to talk us through our dreams.

I'm sure she was a monster. But we really didn't see that side of her, did we? Well, at least not until the end. I don't know. I think this might take some time to process. This could really create some trust issues with us that last for the rest of our lives. Okay, processing over. The building's collapsing.

We've got to get out of here. Quick, get back to the elevator. Are you kidding me? Take the stairs. Oh, come on. I hate the stairs. We all hate stairs. Whole heat getting crushed even more.

Not cleaning this up. Can someone please tell me what's going on here? It's complicated, but the gist of it is for years we've been working on ways to control dreams and understand sleep in a way that we could control. When John reached out about his sleeping issues, we realized he was exactly what we were looking for. See, when he hovers in a chemically maintained state between sleep and waking, he's like a lighthouse in a black ocean. and the ocean isn't empty.

The institute wasn't studying him. He was just the bait. He's the dreamer, the one who lives in the dream world voluntarily. Other people's stories have blurred the lines between dreams and reality to the point where he no longer fully exists in either world, and his words can be heard by beings in the darkness drawing them towards him. The longer he kept himself half asleep, the more whatever's on the other side was drawn to him.

Wait. Are you saying that the Russian sleep experiment is a real thing? Basically, hiding in plain sight is the easiest way to get away with anything. Aw. Hey, what's wrong? Well, nothing. I just thought maybe we were trapped in a nightmare on Elm Street 3 scenario. Oh, listening to all this, I was thinking Inception.

Or dreamscape. Really? Russian sleep experiment felt pretty on the nose to me. Between you and me? I was hoping to do a whole dream warrior's thing. I just couldn't afford the license. You do the weirdest fourth wall breaks. If you were trying to help us, why did you trap us in the elevator?

That wasn't me. It was the alarm lockdown. I couldn't control that from where I was. Then who let us out? That was me. Natalie? Is that you? Hey John. Wait, you're Natalie? Our story coordinator? How did no one know that? Because she didn't come with us on the team building trips. Why do y'all think I'm so weird about that? You want us all to know each other face to face in case we end up being involved in some evil sleep experiment? Well, yeah, pretty much. Anyway, Natalie, what are you doing working as a nurse at a sleep clinic?

Being your story coordinator doesn't pay all the bills, you know. Huh. Weird. So that's it? We just go home now? No, you aren't understanding what's actually going on. Dr. Hall being gone doesn't end anything. You have to understand that John's psyche has actually poisoned yours.

His desire to be heard and seen and understood has somehow manifested through his stories, and it's infected you all. And the longer you were around it, the more unhinged you all be. Who here's worked with John the longest? They're most likely the most unstable. Owen. Oh, no. Now I can't.

I guess. Wait, what's happening now? I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about turtles. I like turtles. Hey, I like turtles too. Did we just become best friends? What?

No. We just met. That'd be weird. But we can try sharing an apartment for a while. I'd love to, but I should ask my wife first. Yeah, me too. I know she's going to say no. So, anyway, now you know.

Now you know you have to stop this. These stories must end. No. What? No, I'm going to keep doing creepy. How can you say that? This is my job, man. I get to do this for a living.

You think I'm just going to give that up because the descendant of a scientist, bent on controlling dreams and the sleeping world, lures me into their experiment under the guise of helping my sleep issues? And then injected me with a drug to try and stimulate my dreams all while keeping me in an amnesiatic state and testing the bounds of my mind through psychological torture? So I'm supposed to quit being a podcaster for a living.

Just because we saw with our own eyes proof that there's life beyond the reality we see and that our dreams are somehow a part of their world? You want me to write my resume again? Because I'm also evidently a conduit to that world in the horrors that are willing and able to pull us into them for reasons unknown? And what? Now I have to spend the rest of my life thinking there's a shadow government out there with motives unknown that could upend my life at any moment on a whim?

That's not a nightmare. That's just a day that ends in why? Good one. Okay, I think we all need to get going. We still got to get ready for the 31 days of horror. Hey, John, today is September 30th. What? How are we supposed to get anything ready in time for October?

I don't know if this helps at all, but Dr. Hall did record just about everything that happened over the last month, I have it saved on my I-Cloud account? I don't know. Do you really think we could take an unimaginable nightmare that happened to all of us and present it to the listeners? Like, hey, everyone, check out this totally crazy thing that happened to us, and no one will question it? Yeah, probably. You know, I'm starting to think that the listeners actually want bad things to happen to us.

Stop reading our reviews. John, can you wrap this up? I got to get home to my cat. Oh, um, yeah. I mean, I think we're done here. That's it? You're just going to walk away? You're going to end it like this? Well, no, I would have ended it back when we all walked out of the collapsing building without looking back.

That was way cooler. Then he had to drag it out and try and make me feel bad. We're in overtime right now because of you. Aren't you the least bit worried that someone's going to come after you and try this again? Oh my God! You mean some totally once-in-a-lifetime catastrophe? sure if you might befall me? Pff, do you have any idea how many of those have happened this year alone?

This was a vacation. At least I kept me off social media for a month. Now let's go get some beer and make appointments with our therapists. Not going to lie, kind of excited to have something new to tell her. All right. Creepy, creepy, creepy, creepy. Happy Halloween from everyone here at Creepy. Who's he talking to?

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