Creepy - Day 8 - Spring Creek & The Scarecrow of Black Hollow Farm

Episode Date: October 8, 2026

Spring Creek (starts at 1:40)***Written by: Cyndi Gradel and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Content warning: child death***The Scarecrow of Black Hollow Farm (starts at 19:32)***Written by: Ria Cabral***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm John Grills from Creepy, and I listen to the Be Afraid Podcast Network. Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 8. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Evening everyone. Hope you've all been having fun this year. I know we've had some new faces up on stage selling stories and you've been really great welcoming them to town and taking part in our annual tradition. Better this than the alternative, right? What does that mean? Huh? What? Were you asleep? Not if the bartender asks. Speaking of, need another round? Okay. Next up, we have a new face on stage, but you might be familiar with her music. Please give it up for Megan McDuffie.

Never mind. Break a leg. Hi, I'm Megan. First, Lee, thank you so much. I really love this time. so I hope you like my story, Spring Creek. Halloween was always one of my busiest days. Not like wedding season or Christmas, but still enough to keep me busy. I was just finishing up my final order when I got a call from Mrs. Wexler. She asked me to deliver her cupcakes because her ride never showed up and she needed them that night. I was reluctant to do it because I always spent Halloween watching scary movies and talking on the phone with my sister,

but I felt bad for Mrs. Wexler, so I told her. I would. Spring Creek had a small downtown area where I opened my shop the year before. I was lucky because I had the only bakery in the area. There was one at the Walmart off the interstate, but their cakes were not even close to the quality of mine. Most of the 800 residents lived near downtown, and the rest were spread out on nearby soybean farms. Mrs. Wexler's place was five miles outside of town. I had been out that way a few times, so I was pretty sure it wouldn't take long. The streets were Quiet, when I left the shop. Back home, there would have been kids and costumes racing from door to door for candy.

I was still adjusting to the lifestyle in Spring Creek. People didn't celebrate Halloween the way we did back in St. Louis. Nobody went trick-or-treating. They just had parties at their own homes. I thought it was because the houses were so far apart, but my realtor said it was because of the tragedy that happened back in the 90s. Everything quieted after I got through the residence. part of town. I passed a few storage silos and a couple of abandoned sheds. Then it was strictly

farmland leading up to Betty Wexler's place. She had an old house that used to be attached to a working dairy farm. She sold off most of her land, but kept the old two-story house that sat at the edge of the land near the road. I learned from my realtor that she and her husband used to have a whole team of people working for them when their farm was still operating. But then something happened that changed the Wexler's life forever. The Wexlers lost their only daughter 30 years ago. She was walking home from a Halloween party at school and somehow ended up drowning in the creek. The town searched for her for days before her body turned up. The Wexlers were devastated. Their business suffered and eventually Mr. Wexler died from heart failure. That's when Betty sold the

land and became a recluse. She only occasionally came to town when someone from church was kind enough to drive out to her place and pick her up. She had been to my bakery a few times, and she always seemed kind, but a little sad. The porch lights were on when I pulled up the gravel driveway. The sun was just setting behind the house. Pink and purple hues lit up the sky, giving the old house a beautiful backdrop. Spring Creek quietly flowed just beyond the edge of the yard, a heartbreaking reminder of her loss that Mrs. Wexler had to witness daily. The steps groaned when I climbed them, as if they weren't used to having company. The tired wooden boards were chipped and peeling.

I suspected that she had let everything go for years, and without family around, she didn't have anyone to encourage her to keep the place up. She thanked me profusely when I arrived. Her face lit up when she looked inside the boxes. I brought a dozen cupcakes, split up into two neatly wrapped packages. I watched her unwrap them and placed them on a beautiful, silver plate with a white paper doily underneath. I looked around the kitchen. Didn't seem as if anyone else was in the house. We had already passed through her empty living room, and I didn't see anyone

in the dining room either. I asked her if she had company coming over. Oh no, these are for my daughter. It was the first time she had ever mentioned her daughter to me. The few times she had been to my bakery, our conversations had always been light and friendly. We stuck to things like the weather and local news before discussing what she wanted to order. This was different. I wasn't sure if I should push her to clarify or let the comment go, as if I understood what she meant. If she wanted cupcakes to honor the memory of her daughter, who was I to judge her? I went through the usual polite way to begin an exit.

I looked at my watch and commented on the time, and I adjusted my purse on my shoulder while looking towards the door. Mrs. Wexler seemed oblivious to me being there. She kept staring at the cupcakes as if she was remembering previous birthdays and holidays. I inched my way toward the door, and just as I reached the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, she came out of her trance and looked my way. Nonsense! You have to join us. Help me bring this upstairs. She gestured to the counter, and that's when I noticed that she had a tray with four glasses on it. They were filled with ice cubes and bright red fruit puns.

I could smell the sweet liquid from where I was standing. She pointed to the staircase at the back of the kitchen. I wanted to say no. Something was off about the whole thing. The kitchen had a strange, moldy odor, lingering under the leftover scent of whatever she had made in her oven earlier. I wanted to tell her I had to go, but I felt guilty. This kind woman who lost her child needed company on a tragic night.

The anniversary of her daughter's death must have been overwhelming, and she had no one to comfort her. The rest of the town was enjoying the beautiful autumn evening while she had to sit in that old, rotten house and think about what might have been. I could have left, but I would have felt guilty for the rest of the night. I picked up the tray with the glasses while she held the one with the cupcakes. I followed closely behind her up the stairs. Her dress smelled like mothballs and cedar. I took each step carefully so I wouldn't spill the drinks. She climbed the steps slowly until we made it to the second floor.

The hallway runner was dusty and frayed at the edges. I wondered if everything in the house was in a state of decay. Mrs. Wexler passed two doors before pausing at the one at the very end of the hall. The door was already open, and I could see that the two large windows in the room had newspapers covering the glass. I stepped into the room and was immediately hit by the smell. It was rot. That was the best way I could describe it. Rotting wood, rotting fabric, decaying walls and floor.

Everything was being eaten away by time and mold and whatever parasites had infested every inch of the space. She turned the switch on an old floor lamp with a broken shade and the room filled up with a hazy yellow glow. I wish I hadn't seen it. I wished right then that I could look away and not see what was there. We were in her daughter's bedroom. It looked as if she hadn't changed it from the day her daughter died.

The room was large with a separate alcove that had a double bed and a nightstand. The bed had a pink bed spread on it, which had probably once been a vibrant color. It had faded over the years and was now a dull pastel color that matched the various pillows that were piled up against the headboard. A poster for a band, I didn't recognize, was partially attached to the wall above the bed. One of the corners had lost its pushpin, and it was curling away from the wall. A matching set of drawers and wardrobe were against the opposite wall. Four wooden letters were assembled on the dresser that spelled out the name, Lisa. I assumed that all of her clothes and belongings were still in those drawers, too painful

for her mother to get rid of. I walked closer and picked up a picture frame that was on the dresser. I blew a layer of dust off of it and saw a smiling girl with dark curly hair. She looked so happy. I felt guilty being in her room, touching her things. Almost ready. I followed the sound of Mrs. Wexler's voice across the room. I caught my breath when my eyes finally found her. She stood over a small table with four chairs set up around it. Four place settings were neatly arranged on the table, along with the glasses of punch. It would have been nothing more than a sad memorial, except for the bizarre detail that I couldn't take my eyes off of. All four of the chairs were occupied by things that were the size of a child, but they looked

like dolls. They were handmade like scarecrows, with faces made of corn husks and burlap. Their dresses were stuffed with straw, with strands of it poking out of the neck and sleeves. They had wigs on their heads, three of them light brown, and one with jet black, pearls, just like the girl I saw in the photograph. The doll was meant to be Mrs. Wexler's daughter, Lisa. I struggled for the right thing to say while she arranged cloth napkins on the table. I couldn't think of anything that would be appropriate. She stood over the table and smiled at the things seated in front of her. She was obviously suffering from unheeled grief. I felt sorry for her, but I wanted to get out of that house. The smell of dirt and straw lingered in

the air, which made me even more uncomfortable. I didn't care how much it would offend her. I needed to go. I'm so sorry, ma'am. I know this is a difficult time for you, but I really need to. You'll stay. It's almost sunset. Her eyes went dark. She suddenly looked taller and more agile than she did earlier. I wasn't expecting her commands, and it made me angry. I needed to go, but something was making me afraid to move. I asked her what happens at sunset, but she had already turned her attention back to the table. She continued fussing over the dolls, fixing bows in their hair and fluffing the fabric on their puffy sleeves. The last few rays of sunlight bled light bled in through the yellowed newspapers. I wanted to get back on the road so I could get back to town before nightfall. I was

still getting used to driving on the farm roads, which were unlit and sometimes difficult to navigate. Mrs. Wexler, what happens at sunset? She didn't answer my question. Instead, she started serving the cupcakes. She placed one on each of the plates until she got to the head of the table. She had asked me to add extra icing to one of the cupcakes, and just then I understood why. She placed it on the plate of the doll that was supposed to represent her daughter,

then stepped back and beamed as if her actual... daughter was there. The room was dark, except for the light from the aging floor lamp. The dolls had a strange sheen to them as if they were perspiring. I silently cursed myself for not leaving. Who would care that I was being rude? Would anyone even believe what I was looking at? Maybe they all knew how strange she was, and that's why no one from town ever visited her. The air turned heavier with an earthy smell. I looked around at the room's decaying features. Pictures hung unevenly from the dusty walls. Pink and silver wallpaper peeled away at the edges. The colors lost their vividness long ago. It was an unpreserved time capsule, one that should have been taken apart years ago.

My skin tingled with unseen crawly things that fell from the ceiling or flew up from the old carpet. I turned to leave just as Mrs. Wexler finally spoke. My daughter wasn't the first, you know. I froze mid-stride, feeling compelled to hear her story. Spring Creek has taken so many others. They found each other so they wouldn't have to be alone. They helped Myelisa find her way back, and this is when I get to see her again.

She gestured to the window, Even though I couldn't see past the paper, I knew that she was referring to the night. It was Halloween night and the sun had set. I didn't believe in supernatural things, but even I knew that it was the time when the dead visit the living. Something rattled like the sound of ice cubes tumbling in a glass. I kept my eyes on the door, unable to look over at the things seated at the table. I saw a hint of movement out of the corner of my eye, but I refused to look. A child's giggle floated towards me.

Then another. I squeezed my eyes closed and then opened them again. Mrs. Wexler was singing the birthday song. Her eyes found mine and she nodded towards the table. She was willing me to look at them, but I couldn't do it. I closed my eyes again and waited for the song to end. The room went quiet, and then the very real and distinct sound of someone inhaling came from the table. I looked down and saw what I knew couldn't be real.

The thing that was shaped like little Lisa let go of a very real breath, and blew it toward a single candle that was in the center of her cupcake. My throat tightened until I thought I would choke. My hands flew up to cover my mouth. I couldn't stop a scream from escaping, which drew their eyes toward. me. The orbs, sunken into their burlap skulls, glowed a reflective green, the way cats' eyes do in the darkness. The fabric stretched and twisted into human features. It formed noses and lips. They suddenly had chins and cheekbones, and none of it made sense. I call it her new birthday, Mrs. Wexler said. She wrapped her arms around the thing that was Lisa. I expected the doll to

remained stiff and lifeless, but she reached up and wrapped her arms around her mother's waist. Tiny hands peeked through the straw that curled out of the long sleeves of her dress. They pressed into her mother's hip, clinging to her as if she was pulling herself back to life. Her little fingers were blue with death, but they dug into Mrs. Wexler's dress until tiny red droplets bled through the material. Mrs. Wexler didn't seem to notice. she just swayed and cooed and hummed to her daughter. It was heartbreaking and horrific.

It was impossible not to feel the grief that emanated from both of them, but it was unnatural. No amount of love could bring back her daughter. Whatever the thing was that she was holding, it was unholy and shouldn't have been allowed to enter the living world. I turned my attention to the other dolls. I couldn't bring myself to call them children. Their bodies were still, but the cupcakes were gone, leaving nothing but crumbs and paper wrappers on their plates.

Smears of purple and orange frosting were visible on their burlap faces. Their eyes burned a bright green that pierced the dim light inside the room. I heard a giggle from one of them which led to the others joining in a chorus of laughter. The one closest to me moved. The back of her dress expanded and then caved back in as if she was breathing. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. My legs finally moved and I bolted towards the door. Mrs. Wexler remained in her macabre embrace with her daughter, completely oblivious to my movements.

I ran out of the bedroom and down the narrow hallway. The sound of footsteps followed me, but I didn't dare to look back. I took the stairs two at a time and then raced toward the entrance. A foul odor followed me. It reeked of dead flesh and wet. wet soil. I practically flew off of the porch and landed on a small patch of grass in the front yard. The fresh autumn air felt so good to breathe in. Whatever was following me wasn't there anymore. The house was quiet. Behind the house, Spring Creek splashed violently against its banks.

I see water spread across the soil, trying to reclaim its victims. The house groaned as if it was joining the battle against the creek. The silhouette of a woman and child stood out in one of the windows. They held on to each other and the brief moments they had remaining until sunrise. Let's give it up again for Megan. And it looks like our next storyteller had to run out. So is there anyone out there who can step in for a story? Right here. What are you doing? Oh, come on, it's fun. I've already done it. Looks like we have a volunteer. Come on up and share your story, unless you want the bad things to happen here. Thanks, Megan.

Sorry about that. I'm really planning on doing a story tonight, so I'm at a little bit of a loss. I guess I can tell you all about the scarecrow of Black Hollow Farm. By the second week of October, the scarecrows started appearing along the old county road. Not one by one, like you might expect, out of the same. outside a farmhouse or propped in a pumpkin patch for decoration. They stood in the ditches with their straw stuffed arms stretched wide. Their burlap heads tilted toward the road as if watching each car pass.

Some wore old flannel shirts. Some had Sunday jackets gone green with mold. One had a child's raincoat, yellow and split at the seams, with straw poking through the sleeves like brittle fingers. Every morning on my drive to work, there were more of them. By Halloween week, they lined both sides of the road leading the Black Hollow Farm. Nobody had lived there for years. At least, nobody human.

I told myself that last part was a joke. A small town kind of joke. The sort people make when they don't want to admit they're afraid of an empty house with broken windows and a saking porch. Black Hollow Farm had always been the place parents worn kids away from. When I was a little, we dared each other to run up and touch the game. Nobody ever did. The farmhouse sat far back from the road, surrounded by cornfields that had not been planted in decades,

but still seemed to rustle every autumn. The story was that a man named Elias Crow had owned it. He'd been a farmer, a widower, and by all accounts, unpleasant enough that people cross the street to avoid him. When Halloween night, children came trick-or-treating out that way, for them. They never came home. home. Surte parties found candy buckets in the field, one small shoe by the well. Nothing else. Elias Crow vanished that same night. After that, the farm was left alone. This year,

someone had reopened the pumpkin patch. A hand-painted sign appeared near the road. Black hollow pumpkins, hayrides, cider, Halloween night tour. The paint looked fresh. The wood underneath looked old enough to remember screams. I should have stayed away. Everyone should have. But curiosity is a stupid little animal. And mine had claws. On Halloween evening, I drove out alone. The sky was the color of bruised plums. Wind dragged dead leaves across the road in dry whispering packs. The scarecrow's stood in the ditches. Their button eyes and stitched mouths turned toward my headlights. I slowed as I passed them. One wore a police uniform. One more little skeleton costume. One wore a faded blue dress with lace at the collar. I remember that dress because,

as my car rolled by, it's head turned. Not much, just enough. I nearly drove into the ditch. They hit the break and stared through the windshield, heart knocking hard enough to hurt. The scarecrow stood motionless again, arms out, her lap face smiling with a crooked black thread mouse. Wind, it whispered. But there was no wind. The pumpkin patch was lit by strings of worn bulbs.

They swayed above rows of pumpkins. throwing soft, pulsing light over the field. A few cars were parked near the barn. Families moved between displays, children in costumes, laughing and shrieking. That helped. Nothing terrible could happen where a little girl dressed as a fairy was crying because her brother had stolen her caramel apple. I bought a cup of cider from an old woman under a canvas tent.

Her face was narrow and pale. Her eyes sunk deep beneath a black bonnet. You here for the tour? She asked. I looked toward the farmhouse at the edge of the property and stood dark against the last trip of sunset. I was thinking about it. Her smile showed too many teeth.

Tour starts at midnight. That seems late. That's when the house wakes up. I laughed because I thought she meant it as a joke. She didn't laugh with me. By 11.30, most families had gone. Pumpkin patch changed after that. The cheerful orange light seems dimmer.

The carved jackalantrons lining the path no longer looked silly or festive. Their faces leered. Their candle flames shivering, though the air had gone still. Only six of us waited by the hay wagon. A teenage couple, two college boys, an older man with a camera, and me. The old woman appeared again with a lantern in one hand. No flashlights, she said. No phones, no wandering.

One of the college boys grinned. What happens if we wander? The old woman looked past him toward the cornfield. They find you. He stopped grinning. The hayride took us down a dirt lane between dead corn. The stalk stood taller than they should. of dry leaves scratching together like fingernails.

Scarecrowse appeared among them, half hidden in the rows. The wagon mills creaked. No one talked. I noticed the teenage girl clutching her boyfriend's arm. The older man raised his camera, then lowered it without taking a picture. At the end of the lane, the farmhouse waited. It was worse up close. The porch saved like a broken jaw.

The windows were black holes. The front door hung slightly open. And from inside came a smell like damp wood, old soil, and something sweet gone rotten. The old woman led us to the porch. Black Hollow Farm, she said, was built on hungry ground. Nobody spoke. Elias Crow loved only one thing after his wife died. His fields.

But the land failed him. Every crop withered. Every animal sickened. He prayed, he cursed. Then he listened. To what? The teenage boy asked. The old woman lifted the lantern and shadows climbed her face.

To what answered? The front door opened wider by itself. The tour should have ended there. We should have run. Instead, we stepped inside. The hallway was narrow and cold, wallpaper peeled in long strips hanging like dead skin. Old portraits lined the walls, but the faces have been scratched away. The floorboards groaned under us.

The old woman's lantern gave just enough light to see the rooms as we passed, a parlor with a collapsed piano, a kitchen with rusted knives arranged neatly on the table, a nursery with one small bed and a ceiling covered in dark handprints. The teenage girl began crying quietly. Is this part of it? One of the college boys asked. The old woman didn't answer. At the end of the hall was a door bound with black iron.

This, she said, is where Elias made his offering. She opened it. The stairs led down. A cellar. Of course it was a cellar. It was a cellar in stories. like this. A place beneath the house where the dark wits patiently and breathes against the walls would ascend one by one. The air grew colder with every step. The smell of rot thickened.

At the bottom the lantern revealed a low room with stone walls and a dirt floor. In the center stood four scarecrow's. Small ones. Child-sized. Their arms were stretched wide. Their burlap head sagged forward. Each wore a costume faded by time. A witch cape, a cowboy vest, a princess dress, and a sheet cut with two eye holes. The old woman whispered, The missing children.

The teenage girl screamed. The lantern went out. Darkness swallowed his whole. Immediately everyone began shouting. Sheet scraped dirt. Someone fell. The older man. and cursed. I reached for the wall and found only cold stone slick with moisture.

Then the whispering began. Not from one place. From everywhere. Trick or treat. It was a child voice. Then another. Smell my feet. A giggle in the dark. Give me something good to eat. Something brushed my shoulder. Straw. I shoved backwards and collided with someone. A hand grabbed my coat and slipped away. There was a wet choking sound, followed by the hard thud of a body hitting the dirt. The lantern flared back to life. For one second, I saw everything. The old woman stood by the stairs, smiling. The college boy lay on the ground with straw spilling from his open mouth. The four small scarecrows had lifted their head.

and behind them, in the far corner of the cellar, stood Elias Crow. He wasn't alive. No man could be that thin. His body was wrapped in a black coat caked with mud. His face was a collapsed thing beneath a wide-brimmed hat. His mouth stitched shut with twine. Where his eyes should have been, two candle flames burned deep in the sockets. He raised one long finger and pointed out.

pointed at us. The small scarecrow has moved. I ran. I don't remember climbing the stairs. I remember hands grabbing at my ankles. I remember the teenage boy screaming for his girlfriend. I remember the old woman laughing behind us, high and delighted. I burst through the front door and fell onto the porch.

The pumpkin patch was gone. No lights, no cars, no cider tent. and lit the dead field under a cold moon. Behind me, the house creaked. Something inside dragged itself across the floor. I ran for the road. The cornfield had changed. The path was no longer straight.

Twisted between rows that leaned inward, scraping my face and arms. Scarecrow stood everywhere now, blocking the way. Some were still. Some were not. A scarecrow on a police uniform stepped from the cornfield and reached for me with straw fingers. I ducked under its arm and felt its burlap had brushed my cheek. It smelled like dust and grave dirt. Another came stumbling after me in a blue lace dress.

A child's voice whispered from inside it. Wait for us. They kept running. The road seemed impossibly far away. My lungs burned. my shoes sank into mud that grabbed at each step. The corn hissed around me full of little voices. Finally, I saw my car.

I sat beneath the hollow sign, silver and the moonlight. Beyond it the road stretched empty between the rows of watching scarecrows. I fumbled the keys twice before getting the door open. As I started the engine, something landed on the hood. The old woman. She crouched like a spider, bonnet, strings hanging loose, lanterns swinging from one hand. Her face pressed close to the windshield. You took the tour, she said through the glass. I locked the doors with shaking fingers.

She smiled. Now you help bring them in. The windshield cracked under her fingernails. I slammed the car in reverse and hit the gas. She rolled off the hood. I heard the bump as a car struck her. then another as the wheels passed over something soft. It didn't stop. I drove until the scarecrow's vanished from the roadside. I drove until the sky paled in the first gray light of November touched the fields. Only then did I pull over, shaking so badly I could barely breathe. In the rearview mirror, I saw a straw on the back seat.

Just a little. A few dry pieces scattered across the upholstery. I told myself it had gotten in. on my clothes. I told myself many things after that. The police found nothing at Black Hollow Farm. No pumpkin patch, no old woman, no missing tourists. The farmhouse was empty except for dust, animal bones, and old boards nailed over the cellar door. They asked why I'd gone there. I said I didn't know. That was almost true. Since that night, I avoid the County Road in October.

I close my curtains before dusk. I don't answer the door on Halloween, no matter how sweetly children call from the porch. But every year, in the first cold night of the season, I wake to the smell of damp straw. This morning there was a scarecrow in my yard. It stands beneath the maple tree, wearing an old coat I threw away years ago. Burlap head is bowled It's of sleeping Crows perch on its shoulders

They do not call They only watch Pin to its chest is a piece of wood painted in crooked black letters Tour starts at midnight And from the attic above me Where no one has been for years I can hear children laughing

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