Creepy - Death Letter

Episode Date: November 16, 2020

To whom it may concern...***Content warning: sounds of combat***Call the Veterans Crisis Line at 1-800-273-8255 and Press 1 or text to 838255.***Written by Grant Hinton***See your donation rewards at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is the Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network. This podcast has made possible thanks to our patrons. Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Dan O. of the Dead. Joella Gutierrez, Ivy Hansen, Ian Gilbert, Ronald Alexander, Ferry Grove, Brittany Gunther, Deadly Space Cato, Switchblade Brigade, Brenda Bernatti, Derek Deutsch,

Jen Collessel, and Lorraine Mendelbaum. Our patrons mean everything to us, and we do all we can to get back for their generosity. I can't emphasize this enough, that without our patrons and the ad campaigns were able to run, the show can't keep going. We pay everyone who's involved with the show, and I can't and won't ask anyone to work for free. If you listen to the show and you just can't stand the ads, regardless of how much work we put in making them enjoyable, there's a really simple solution. Join Patreon.

Patreon rewards start with shoutouts and early commercial. free access to all episodes and go up from there to include bonus episodes, coffee cups, t-shirts, and more. And if you sign up for the yearly membership, you'll get 12 months for the price of 11. If you'd like to see how you can support the podcast and get rewarded for doing so, please check out our reward tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. And as Veterans Day was this week, I just wanted to say a quick thank you to veterans around the world for your service. The following episode does contain zones of combat. Normally, I don't do content warnings the announcements and leave them for the show notes.

But I've done fundraising and support for foundations like Mission 22 and We Defy in the past. Organizations focused on helping veterans get back on their feet when they're done serving, as well as focusing on their mental health. Many of you know that 100% of the proceeds from our shop go to suicide prevention and awareness. If you're a veteran struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts, please reach out for help. You can reach the Veterans Crisis Line by calling 1-800-273 8255 or by texting 838255.

If you're feeling anxious or alone, please reach out. That goes for all listeners. We're here to entertain and distract, but I can't pretend like the reality of the world right now isn't hard, sometimes bordering on impossible. I'll keep doing all I can to create entertaining narrations. But you have to be around to hear them. Please. It's okay to feel vulnerable. It's okay to feel confused. It's okay to feel overwhelmed. I know I do. Please.

If you need help, there are people ready to listen. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened

or are simply fascinating. The provocations is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Death Letter Written by Grant Hinton and produced by Steve Blisen.

Dear Melody, this is the last letter I'm going to write to you. I'm not sure if you're getting these, And that scares me more than what's going on in my head. Being a soldier is hard. Do you remember what I made you promise? If you're reading this, please give it to Bobby. I want him to remember his dad. I've got to tell you so much, Mel, but I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that if I put all this down on paper, then it makes it real. I don't know if I can handle that. I first saw this thing during our halo drop. High altitude, low opening. The doors of the cargo hole opened. The wind roaring noisily out into the black void of space. It was so dark, Mel. You wouldn't understand.

In London, the lights never go off. But on that plane, the only lights were the red jump lights behind us and the rhythmic splash of green and red on the cloud from the position lights on the wings. We're all nervous. Don't let anyone tell you their man wasn't. It's bullshit. Fear sat amongst us like a brother.

But we had to be men. So I jumped. 30,000 feet is a long way down, Mel. And it goes by so fast. Bullets started to zip past as the ground lit up with enemy fire. I didn't know this at the time. But a few of the guys got picked off as a shit. The air suits opened.

At 10,000 feet I deployed mine and jerked up into a far scarier position. I could see the land better now, a dark gray massive, in hospitable sand and shabby buildings. As we dropped, a large hill appeared. I knew what would separate us from the enemy fire from the west. Over the clamor gunfire and the wind to the commanding officer shouted to aim for it. I was barely able to keep myself high enough so as to not crash into the peak. That's when the thing flew past me as I crested the top. I shouldn't say thing.

Because I knew what it was as it sailed by. A boy. That's what it looked like. A farmer boy. Threst in strips of clothes and with a brown cloth covering his hat, I came crashing down the side of the hill and strayed into the cluster fucking men from our earbrought. My units stare back at me with wild, unblinking. eyes. Each and every one of us at the same white gene etched onto our face by adrenaline.

I only had a moment before I realized with horror that the kid on the hill could give a wear position. I raced back up, the sand slipping in places. Some of the guys scrambled to help me. So the gunshots and missile fire were so loud and became part of me. If I close my eyes, and I won't. I can still hear. it like a heartbeat. I'm not proud of the decision I made next. It was either one child's life but the lives of my squadron.

I thought about Bobby then, Mel. I was going to kill someone's son. I knew why. And I also knew I would. Does that make me a monster? I crept up behind the boy. His short and slender silhouette had to wait on my soul.

He'd either turn or acknowledge my presence. I drew my knife and rimmed it up and under where his chum should have been. But there wasn't anyone there, but an assortment of rags laid out over cross sticks. Bewildered by the sudden reality, panic said it. A bullet hit the ground a few millimeters from where I crouched. I didn't need any more encouragement. I half slid, half fell back down the hell of my waiting squad. Lachlan asked what had seen, but I brushed it off telling him was a false alarm.

But our position were compromised. We moved off and searched for a better place to mount a defense. Do you remember that time we went to Canterbury? And he wanted to ride a horse? We went to a stable. And he spent the best part of the day riding while I got roped into helping the old man repair his barn. Well, that barn was in far better condition than the one we found to hole up in. I could see so many stars through the missing roof and holes in the wall that I might as well have been standing outside.

standing outside. For hours we protected our position waiting for an airstrike to relieve us of the heavy resistance we faced. And all the while I took enemy life, I saw that boy standing up on the same hill mocking me. The rational part of my mind told me it couldn't possibly be a boy. There's a makeshift scarecrow, nothing more. But I also knew it was a boy, because I could see the smile on his face. I don't know when exhaustion took me. I do remember it beginning to lighten as the moon dropped. But when I woke, it took me a moment to remember the carnage around me.

The soft feeling my head used as a pillow was a dead insurgent ass cheek. The darkness has its advantages, Mel. Namely not being able to see the blood and gore covering you. All the blood that covered me wasn't my own. I suddenly felt sick. Sick of a war I'd only graced for a fistful of hours. A scream woke me to full wakefulness faster than a taser of the eyeball. Lockland was wrestling with a young man.

The screams came from a petrified girl on the floor behind him. It looked like the farmer who owned the bar and had started work early and caught asleep. One of our unit rushed forward and brought the butt of his gun down in the man's nose. flattening it into his skull with each blow. But not before he grasped Lachlan's knife and jammed it into his ribs. We dispatched the man and his woman quickly as a new sound. I sound blessed with all the intoxicating ways for relief rumbled around our position. The air support had showed up.

But Lachlan was in bad shape. He needed a casualty evacuation asap. We managed to relay our coordinate. as soon as the Hilo arrived. I cradled Lachlan trying to stem the blood leaking from his side with a cloth from his pocket, a British cloth, once a stark white, lost its virginity on Afghan soil. We got him to the helicopter while exchanging enemy fire. We all knew he wasn't going to make it.

Already his lungs were filling up with blood. But the Casavac took him, and an armored vehicle loaded the rest of us up and sped off. I looked back once as we left the ruins of the village and saw the boy standing on top of the hill. His smile was gone, replaced with empty air as the boy disappeared. Do you remember the marquise we used for your mother's 50th birthday? When we came to the base, we were ushered into one similar in height and length, but not in content. While we all danced and drank under a winter night that night, the guys sat or laid in rows of gray clothed cots.

No one smiled. It was as if by some unspoken agreement no one wanted to share what we'd been through. We all wanted to voice the horrors we had seen and done, but none wanted to bring them to life either. It was a silent solitude, a vigil of violence. Two days later, I was sitting in the base when a guy from a unit came back from his shift on the post, the garden point to our base. The Afghanistan landscape surrounding our location made the only entrance and exit through a pass we called the Point. It was a triangular-shaped ridge that ran for a kilometer around our base, providing enough cover from hostile forces.

But we still needed a sentry tower, felt like a wooden cubby house located at the start of the point as our first line of defense. Then it was manned by one person, day and night. The guy who'd come back from his shift was called Gary Anderson. A young guy out of Bristol, and he walked through like a ghost. I heard the rumors about our location being built around the mass graves of an earlier takeover. It never bothered me. I didn't believe in the supernatural. The guys whispered that the formations weren't natural at all,

but rather the sheer magnitude of Afghani bodies hidden by the excavation of sand. I didn't believe it. Not right away anyway. Anderson stood by a cot. His gun still strapped over his shoulder. I knew something I'd rocked the kid because cleaning your gun is the first port of call when you're back. And I also saw the look in his eyes. Or the lack of.

I remember looking into your eyes, Mel, seeing the beauty in them. They filled my soul with something I couldn't hold or touch, but was still tangible at the same moment. It was like I saw your soul. the energy inside you. Anderson had none. The guy was drawn out, sucked out, completely and utterly lost to whatever had happened out in the post. I shook his shoulder and he turned toward me.

I steered him out, helped clean his gun, and returned him back to the tent. He hadn't spoken a word, although his lips constantly moved. It was as if he was whispering, to someone only he could see and hear. Slowly I coaxed him out and he began to talk. What he said chilled me to the bone, even in the Afghan heat.

He spoke about hearing screams coming from beyond the reaches of the searchlights. Maddening shouts filled with anguish, pleading, and dread. I don't know how long he endured them before calling for backup. But a search ensued. Everyone stated that they couldn't hear these screams. It was only Anderson. You're not allowed to leave your post, Mel. If you do, well, that's not the point.

The point is that he was left at the post with no escape from whatever he thought was happening. If they were real or not, it wasn't a question. You've got to understand that we all have demons in our heads from the deeds we've committed. And whatever he had just been through had shook him to the core. But that's not what sent chills through me, Mel. No. That was the mention of the boy up on the hill. I sat back then. The icy feeling of dread spreading down my back like a slow avalanche of fear.

I described the boy I had seen. Anderson's face fell and his voice seized up. That day I awoke to Anderson scrambling on the floor. I sat up and rubbed asleep from my eyes. No one else was awake. Or if they were, they refused to be found. out. Curiosity got the better of me and I went to see if the guy was all right. He spoke in a whisper, but the words he spoke weren't English. The floor was a tapestry of marks and slashes. It took me a

moment to realize what they were. Arabic. I copied them down before touching him. Anderson's eyes were closed, but he moved like he could see me, striking out with numerous blows. Each one connected with my face, even as I tried to dodge them. I grabbed his wrist and pulled him off his feet. In that moment, I saw something. I saw something I couldn't have seen in the darkness. Cut into his palms was a symbol. A crude drawing of a stick man on a hill came to life.

My unit pounced on us both. Needless to say, our CO wasn't impressed. We were warned about our behavior. The next day, Anderson refused to man the post. Instead, he was left curled up on his cot softly crying. Another of the guys took his shift. We are, after all, family here, and must watch out for each other. The next afternoon, Anderson was backed his normal self.

I told him I'd swap his shift and manned the post that night. But he refused it saying it wasn't a problem, and he was almost looking forward to the peace and quiet. I thought that weird. One, because the screams he'd reported hearing. And two, he was petrified a day ago, refusing point blank to man the post. That was the last time I saw Anderson. He went on on a scouting mission the next day.

Local information suggested a band of insurgents hold up in some sort of cave four kilometers south of her base. We couldn't let any potential threats get that close. Two teams of six went on a desert train vehicle, strapped with a 50 Cal on the back to the location. We passed through a small village. The inhabitants hid frighten by crumbling walls. It was eerie and wrong. Not wrong for what they were, or how bad they had it, but just wrong.

Like I felt it in my bones. The village sat on flat plains and stretched for miles. We didn't know what we were looking for, until one of the DTVs felt. through a patch of sand. A hole had been covered by a sheet of metal a few meters wide. The thin layer of sand blending it into the earth. The fall killed one of our men.

The impact of the DTV and crushing rocks below its snap follows neck. But we did never breathe. We came under attack. In moments like this, it's as if a switch is thrown. Your mind becomes tuned to the environment. Your heartbeat drowns out all sound for a second as the adrenaline rushes into your furnace and explodes along your nerves.

My gun was already firing before I realized it. The cave was a hole cut roughly into the side of the earth. It's big enough for two insurgents to stand side by side to fire at us. The DTV provided cover for the men below. Would not be harass what we called it to base. A moment later, and the command to stand down and wait backup came through. Denver took a shot to the face. I and the surviving guy, Jasper saw cover.

Well, I did. Jasper stood there, guns slumped, face pale and unresponsive. I shouted, screamed for him to get down, but he didn't. Jasper dropped his gun, mumbling something incoherent. I thought for a second he said, He comes before he jumped into the hole. I couldn't stop. him, but I wasn't going to let him go alone.

We were a unit. I jumped down and landed beside the other DPT. The two guys were already assuming, with Harrison Maxwell, the three on two odds, into the fight quickly. We would have been fools to think it was an end. As soon as the men fell, Jasper was off down the tunnel.

We had to follow. It was dark, Mel. So dark. Like the airdrop in the clock. without the flashing lights. We turned on our gear and the tunnel flared up. Along the walls were scratches deep enough to fit my fingers in. As if something sharp was dragged against them.

A horrible smell crept over us. It was like rotting garbage and shit. It was all I could do not to choke. The scratches ended as abruptly as they started. A flat piece of earth faced us, with a small hole only big enough to fit one man, on his stomach. Above, scratched into the wall were a series of markings. I pulled out Anderson's strange writing and measured them up. They were the same. No one spoke Arabic, and no one knew what it meant.

But we knew we had to press on. One by one, we squirmed through on our stomachs like snakes hoping to see Jasper. But we didn't. A sense of claustrophobia crept over me. A sense of claustrophobia a crypt over me as I snagged on the jutting rocks. So incredibly dark. And I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was pressing on top of me when no one possibly could. The rock held me fast like a claw from the earth's. I drew in ragged breaths trying to calm myself, squeezed my hand down my side, and unhitched my belt from the rock. The tunnel ended in a large precipice, and Jasper was nowhere to be seen. A cave opened up before us with no viable route down to the floor. The light from our gear was lost at the distance of the cave. As we shown the lights around, we saw what we could only

believe were buildings cut from the rock. We had found an ancient abandoned underground city. Each row of roughed card blocks drew closer to a large structure at the rear of the cave. Whoever had taken the time to cut this relic was long dead. So were the men after. him and after them. I didn't need a translator to know what I saw. It was a temple, and an evil wanted that. I felt the oppressiveness of it like someone breathing down my neck, like someone stood behind me, towering over my shoulders.

I felt it like a shadow. The stench was stronger here too, strong enough to make Harris puke and Maxwell faint. I covered my nose with my sleeve and tried to see how we could get down. If any insurgents were on the cave floor, we couldn't see them. Neither could we see Jasper. The only thing revealed is that there was no way of getting down other than alleged 50 feet below. Relieved the no insurgents were at arms and still somewhat jacked up on adrenaline, we decided to go back and call in the casualties and our findings.

But to my horror, we couldn't go back. The hole and the rock formation didn't allow it. We were stuck. It's funny how certain things can remind you of other times. Do you remember when we went camping in the Lake District? It was in the middle of winter. Frost coated the ground like icing on a cake. The hills and vastness was something we'd never experienced in London.

We were happy. Cold, but happy. When our lights faded in the cave and the oppressive blackness settled in, it reminded me of that night we spent huddled in the tent. We stumbled around not being able to see a hand in front of our face because you forgot the light. I wouldn't change that night for the world now. I learned your body by touch, memorized every inch of your body by the goosebumps running under your skin.

That allowed me to envision you every time I've closed my eyes since. It also reminded me of that chilly night sky. Millions of stars prevailed, just like the glow of creatures on the cave ceiling. The illumination showed us a path we hadn't seen, a series of rough cut holes in the wall leading to the floor. One by one we descended into the madness. I've never felt so alone. The anxiety being trapped rose electric through my nerves.

I knew it was stupid. it. I've been trained for this, mentally and physically. But still, walking with my hand on the shoulder, the guy in front of me through those dusty buildings kept the spike of its electric finger jabbing my heart. I don't know how far we went or how long. The darkness stole that from us. But at some point, the crackle of the radio split the air. We disassembled and curled her on the one working radio. The crackle played a wave of static, a few partially heard words, and then more static. The guys brightened and steered us in a new direction.

I didn't hear that, Mel. I heard something else. The same thing Anderson heard out on the post. Sitting in the confines of the tent with your unit around you can waver most of what you thought you saw or heard to a disillusioned motion of momentary madness. I asked myself a thousand times if what I heard was real, and if it was real, how I'd heard it. I didn't know Arabic. I couldn't possibly have understood the words I heard in the static of the radio. But I did.

I knew what the scribble of Anderson's hands had unveiled. But I dared not look. If I did, I knew it would be real. As real as this letter makes it now. I didn't eat or sleep that day. I just pretended to be asleep so my unit would leave me be. I heard them talk. Some about loved ones at home.

Some about what they miss or the progression of their football team. I thought about you and Bobby. I thought about the ring I asked you to keep form and the letters I've sent before this one. I'm writing this now, Mo, because I'm being put out on the post tonight. I've heard the rumors about the mass graves. I've seen the underground city. I've felt the presence and the smell and the boy on the hill.

And I know what it means. This place is evil. We're told to keep our death letters up to date. And so this is mine. I love you, Melody. I can't wait to spend another moonless night together so I can memorize your skin again. I love you, Bob. be, can't wait to kick a soccer ball or hear you speak.

But if not, be kind of mom. If she's upset, she'll understanding. If she's angry, she'll restraint. If she's sad, she'll compassion. I love you, son. With all my love, Travis, he was right. I hear the screams. They're all in trouble.

They're burning. They're all burning. The boy's real. He's the one, the one doing this. We shouldn't have come. It's all our fault. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com.

If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comment, share-alike licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author. The Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network, home of creepy for disturbing and terrifying. Creepy pastas. SCP archives with full cast storytelling.

Horror queers. Genre commentary from the LGBT perspective. The Boo Crew for horror-centric interviews. Listen free, wherever you stream audio, and at bloodydiscusting.com

slash podcasts.