Creepy - Desert Lions & Rock Quarry Anomalies - Training

Episode Date: December 14, 2023

Desert Lions***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Rock Quarry Anomalies - Training***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Content Warning: Violence against women and children Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Desert Lions.

Written by known of consequence, and narrated by Rissa Montanaz. The sand stretches on in the blazing sun, sending shimmers through the air from the heat. Yesterday had been a hard day. But now that we know of the flying serpents and what they're capable of, we can defeat them.

rather easily. The tell-tale pups of sand on the sides of our drive path are warnings that they're near. But as long as we keep a fast pace, they remain hidden. Reading while in a moving vehicle is difficult enough, but translating proves to be nearly impossible. Maybe if we were on paved roads I'd make some headway, but the constant bouncing makes it a challenge. Going over my old notes, bringing out different books, and referencing the original text requires a lot of space. And I certainly don't have much in this sand vehicle. Even in the air-conditioned space, I sweat a lot. It may have to do with being responsible for so many lives and keeping them intact,

and how that requires me to understand the warnings I'm trying so desperately to decode. I take up my canteen and accidentally spill a few droplets. I panic, because the old tome is in my lap, but thankfully the book is closed. I fear what water would do to such old parchment and ink. With my handkerchief, I wipe up the little spots of water and discover something quite alarming. The purple on the cover comes off on the white cloth, revealing a golden color. All this time, I thought the leather had been dyed purple, but somehow the built-up grind and dust has hidden the original color.

Perhaps it doesn't hold any significance, but I can't shake the feeling that this means something. I pour some water onto my handkerchief and wipe more of the grime off. Every inch of the leather appears to be an old yellow, or a dull gold. Realizing it'll take too much water to uncover the entire book, I leave it as is. If we ever get back to civilization,

I'll restore the original cover. But this is hardly the time or place. Such work as this requires a far more delicate workspace than the rattling of the sand vehicle. Besides, I have more pressing things to worry about. My original translation revealed another upcoming danger, something referred to as a rage sandbug cyclone. After encountering the flying serpents, I've decided that the word rage simply refers to the

ferocity of the creatures. I'm trying to figure out the sandbug part, but I keep running into dead ends. Considering the desert we're in, it obviously refers to some kind of critter that dwells in the sand, though that part should go without saying, cyclone is more straightforward, and every interpretation comes to some kind of swirling vortex. After racking my brain and exhausting all possible interpretations, I fight the urge to throw the books out the window. I've managed to decode dead languages before,

but those are more recent deaths than this one. That end, images of those horrible serpents slithering out of the bodies of my fallen men, keep popping into my head. It's like a truly disgusting scene from a... horror movie that keeps replaying over and over when I'm actively trying to forget it. Having to watch a scaly murder rope slither its way out of a dead man's mouth will probably haunt me for the rest of my days. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. But the crew presses on. We've all lost too much to turn back now. And that's not the mad ravings of a rich

asshole talking. That's the general consensus of the crew. After the death in trial, they're more determined than ever to complete the excursion. If not for themselves, then for those who have given their lives. The bonus of finding the treasure will go a long way to help the families of the fallen. The already bumpy terrain suddenly becomes more unruly. My books start jumping about as the vehicle experiences worse turbulence than ever. What in the world is going on? I call out over the radio to the lead car.

my man in the lead vehicle calls back, not understanding what is happening either. The wheels are having more trouble with the sand, as if it's no longer hard-packed. The convoy begins to slow, so our teeth won't be rattled out of our heads. I tell the gunners to keep an eye out for servants. At this speed, they could be honest in a matter of minutes.

I decide to call out an audible. The convoy will pull back to where the ground was more stable, while the lead car and motorcycle try to find a more favorable path. Turning around in the unstable ground proves most difficult. But that's what four-wheel drive us for. The tanker holding our extra fuel and water has the most trouble. In the end, we managed to hook it up to the front wensions of three vehicles and pull the dam thing back to stable ground.

The whole thing takes the better part of an hour. The lead car and motorcycle split off in opposite directions to cover more ground. Over the radio, I hear the lead car call out that he's found a stable patch and is working to see how far it goes. There's nothing from the motorcycle. He can travel much faster, even in the loose sand, but he'd have to go pretty damn far to be out of radio range. Much farther than he could have gone in an hour. I try to reach him a few times, but each of my call-outs are met with silence. I'm starting to get worried, and that's when it happens.

There's no sound. Just a giant dust cloud shooting up in the distance like a bomb went off. It's far too big to be a dust plume from one of the flying serpents, but it can't mean anything good. I get into the sidecar of one of the few motorcycles that has one until the convoy to circle the wagons. They create a 360 perimeter, all mounted weapons pointing out

with the tanker and supply trucks in the center. We do a quick radio check, and everyone comes in loud and clear, and then I take three of the five remaining motorcycles in the direction of the dust cloud. As we come to the rough terrain, I halt our progress for a moment. I certainly don't want the rest of the rest of the road,

of us to succumb to the same fate as whatever happened to the missing motorcycle. After a few minutes of staring into the sand, my eyes finally pick up on something. The loose sand on the right looks a little darker than the hard-packed sand on the left, almost as if it's been recently plowed. After pointing this out to the others, it takes a minute for their tired eyes to see what I do. The blinding light of the sun, coupled with the intent, Hence heat has us all fatigued, and the tinted goggles can only help so much. We skirt the outside of the loose sand at a moderate pace, occasionally slowing down when we

lose sight of the difference. As we continue on, I notice that the edge starts turning to the right, in the direction of the dust cloud. After a quarter mile, we come to a stop. There's something small and black laying in our path. I'm the first one to step foot on the ground, shotgun in hand, and slowly approach the object. It's a hand radio, like the ones all the motorcycle riders have, but the headset attachment is missing. Now I know why the missing motorcycle hadn't responded. He somehow lost his radio.

But that doesn't explain the dust cloud that's only a few hundred yards away. By this point, the cloud is well above the ground. and so far there is no sign of the motorcycle or the rider. We slow our pace to about 15 as we approach and keep to the hard surface. My rider comes to a complete stop, and we finally see why there's no trace of either on the surface. Underneath the giant dust cloud is a giant cone-shaped hole in the loose sand. It goes down at least 20 feet.

There are visible tire tracks leading up to the hole. I've seen something like this before, but on a much smaller scale, there's an insect known as the ant-lion, or sand-lion. It digs itself a small pit in the sand and waits at the bottom for ants or other insects to fall in. From there, they drag their prey further into the sand and drink their bodily fluids. However, these creatures are small enough to fit a dozen in the palm of your hand. What lies at the bottom of this pit has got to be the size of a truck. What I don't understand is why the rider drove directly into the pit. The visible tire tracks had right for it.

No indication that he hit the brakes or tried to swerve. He couldn't have been going so fast as to not see it. The sand is too loose. The vibrations in the handlebars would have been too difficult to control at that speed, so... What happened? I'm about to dismount and slowly walk to the edge, but the sudden gunfire in the distance keeps me rooted to my seat.

Panic chatter screams over the radio, and I order our group to return. We don't bother keeping the slow pace, following our own tracks back to the convoy allows us to fly through the desert. I have a feeling this won't be our last encounter with the creature in that pit. As we get closer to the gunfire,

the pace car calls out that his route is clear, and the convoy can follow his train. tracks at a fast pace. It should be fast enough to get away from the small army of flying serpents that have moved in. According to the chatter, they didn't emerge from the sand surrounding the convoy like last time, but from the direction we came. That's a new tactic. Our motorcycles get there in time to see the last tanker roll out, and the last truck bringing up the rear. The gunner of that vehicle is laying down some impressive cover fire, obliterate a lot of the serpents. They swim in the air like majestic pixies, but the murderous bone hooks on

their tails make them all the more nightmarish. We race to catch up, and I use my shotgun to take out a handful of the serpents. The few remaining decide to call it quits, and fly off to the left, into the air above the loose sand. That's fine with me. Half the gunners are pointed in that direction. As my rider zooms up the convoy, there's still a lot of yelling over the radio. Halfway up the line, one of my trucks is swerving dangerously while still driving fast. I try to get their attention, but whatever is going on in there keeps the occupants distracted. So much so that the driver starts drifting to the left, right into the loose sand. I keep yelling over the radio, but my attempts to get their attention,

fall on deaf ears. There is too much chaos inside, and I gather that one of the flying serpents made it in. I can make out a lot of the thrashing from the two men through the small windows. Their gunner decides to bail and jumps from the turret. The front tires of the vehicle sink into the sand, and something moves underneath it. I have my rider slow down as the rest of the convoy continues to put distance between us. I need to see what the hell is going on. But it all happens so fast. Something is just below the surface of the sand, and it suddenly swirls in a violent spin

that creates a large plume of dust. The vehicle falls into a hidden pit, and a giant, fleshy creature continues to swirl around the top. Suddenly, it plummets into the pit, creating an even larger plume of dust. It shoots violently into the sky, creating a near-mushroom-like cloud of dust. More frantic screams sound out over the radio,

but they cut out rather quickly as I hear metal crunching. The gunner picks himself up from the sand, shaking himself off because he was nearly covered. He staggers a little as he tries to orient himself. My writer completely stops, and we frantically get the poor man's attention with raised arms and shouts. It takes a moment for his feet to work properly, and then he moves towards us.

He only gets a few yards away when I see a long, fleshy appendage reach out from the pit. It slithers out, going directly for the man. I can only guess that the creature is sensing the vibrations of his movement through the ground because that thing

wraps around his legs and brings him down disturbingly quick. I go for the pistol on my belt. The shotgun in my hands is loaded with buckshot and I'd likely hit the gunner if I try to use it. The fleshy rope is slowly dragging him into the pit and he flails around trying to find anything in the sand to hold on to. His screams chill me down to the bone as I desperately try to aim.

I squeeze the trigger on my exhale, and my bullet hits the monstrous limb. I expect the thing to let him go, but it doesn't. His screams and flailing become more erratic, and I fire again and again. Both bullets hit and gouts of some dark fluid spray into the sand. But instead of letting go, it jerks the gunner quickly back, and he continues screaming as he goes over the edge of the pit.

Help me, he wails. But there's nothing we can do. The desert is silent once again. And guilt grips my heart. Maybe we shouldn't have come here. I have been all over the world with my crew and battled against many dangers. This is a whole new game, and while we may not be losing just yet, we are paying a heavy cost to play.

Four more of my crew have been lost to this desert wasteland, and my guilt is turning to rage. And that can be a dangerous place to be. Judging the distance to the pit at about 30 yards, I hold out my hand to the rider. He doesn't need to be told what I want. Considering the part of the world we're in, my quartermaster managed to talk me into investing in a number of items

I'd never agree to otherwise. And as the writer puts an M-67 fragmentation grenade into my hand, I'm glad the quartermaster fought so hard to bring a few crates of these along with us. I gripped the round ball of death, holding the metal bar on it called the spoon against it tightly. With a hard yanked from my other hand, I pull the pin and stare at the pit with hatred in my eyes. How many more of these dangers are there going to be? How many more of my crew will be claimed by the desert?

I don't have answers to those questions. But this, I know. This fucking thing won't feed on my crew any longer. And then I hurl the grenade. We watch as it flies through the air, and right into the hole. I hear the distinct clunk of metal-on-metal, followed by an alien growl. And then comes the boom. But thankfully, I have enough time to cover my ears. A large fireball licks up the edges of the pit and a plume of black smoke comes after, mingling with the dust cloud.

Wet, dark chunks of the creature rained down around us, but we managed to avoid getting hit by any of it. This is the kind of fireball that you'd see in a movie, but not reality. If it had been the grenade alone, this fireball wouldn't have happened. Thankfully, the convoy had stopped about two hours ago to do a quick refuel on most of the vehicles. The grenade, coupled with at least 15 gallons of diesel fuel, was more than enough to kill whatever that thing is. As we race to catch on up with the convoy, I call up to them over the radio, to slow their progress. After half an hour we take a quick stop,

and I assign a new bike to accompany the lead car. My orders are for our pace to exceed 40, and for the lead car to travel a quarter mile ahead of us. This way, if they encounter more of the loose sand, it'll give the convoy more time to stop while they backtrack. Hindsight is the best reference tool I have for my translations, but the cost of it is too great. Rage sandbug cyclone is clearly a violent creature that dwells in loose patches of sand

and creates traps for prey to fall into. After going over more revisions of this creature's description, the only way to know when one is near is to feel when the sand gets loose. That should be easy enough to avoid, unless they somehow create the loose sand by digging into the hard-pack sand. If that's the case, we could wake up in the morning to find our entire camp sitting on loose sand. Well, at least the guard shifts do regular foot patrols.

For the sake of easy communication, we refer to these new creatures as sand lions. Three more times the convoy has to stop because of loose sand, but the precautions are sufficient. We managed to make camp without another incident. There hasn't been another siding of the flying serpents either. I have a meeting with the quartermaster. during the evening meal.

We have enough supplies that we can spend an extra day here if I'd like to work on the translations before continuing on. This is a suggestion from the crew as a whole, so I decide to take it. It'll give the men time to rest, and me a decent opportunity to figure out the next dangers. After what we've seen so far, I really want to know what the tough shell burning spitcrawler means

before it pops out of the sand. though this is the first thing not to have rage in its description. Maybe after I rack my brain trying to figure that out, I'll work on figuring out what the gates of gold are. Unfortunately, I've been working so much on translating the dangers, I haven't had any time to research the treasure more. I can't believe I'd ever been satisfied enough with my translation that I'd given the green light to this expedition.

If we make it out of this alive, I'll make sure never to make that mistake again. I got too excited by this one. After filling my belly, I sit in my tent and get to work with the books. Several men are on guard, and a rotating shift will run through the night with foot patrols. We are as secure as we are ever going to be, and so I decide to let my guard down. Turning my entire focus on the table full of books and notepads, I dive into them head first.

Every once in a while, I take a quick sip for my flask. The brandy burns my throat and keeps me awake. Thankfully, there isn't near enough in the flask to get me drunk. It's small by design. Just enough to keep me sharp and nothing more. Moving one of the reference texts away, getting frustrated that it's not helping, my brow is wet with sweat. I wipe it up with my handkerchief, but not in time to keep a bead of sweat running down my nose.

It rolls off the tip and splats right onto the text of the faded yellow tome. I curse as I go to wipe it off, but something catches my eye. The black script doesn't run. But something appears below it in a lighter color. I couldn't have seen this without the page getting wet. and it dawns on me. The yellow cover had been purple before I spilled water on it. Using my damp handkerchief to get the page just a little more wet,

I discover a whole new line of text regarding the new danger. I frantically write down the series of symbols so I can let the text dry and scurry over to my reference materials. After half an hour, I sit back in my chair and can't help but utter the words. You've got to be fucking shitting me. It appears that one of the translations for this Tough Shell Burning Spitcrawler is Dragon. I'll definitely have to check with the quartermaster

to see if we have something that could take one of those down. Creepy Presents Rock Quarry Anomalies Training Narrated by Cole Burkart. As the Senior Hors haul truck operator. It falls on me to train new employees most of the time. I hate doing it, mostly because the cab is cramped when someone sits in the passenger seat. When you're alone,

there's plenty of space, but having another body in it is just uncomfortable. Not to mention, the passenger seat is exceedingly smaller, and this industry isn't known for employing small people. Everyone in the quarry has been subjected to that unfortunate seat at one time, but none so much as myself. When you train someone, you have to spend half the time in that seat while the new guy drives. What really sucks, I don't get paid extra to train. If I did, I wouldn't complain about it so much. At any given time, there are at least two positions open at the quarry. It's a demanding job, no matter which position.

you have, and this company doesn't pay the best. Not to say that we make minimum wage, but starting pay here is on average $3 less than most places. I could name three other companies that pay better, but there is a trade-off. Those other companies are a hell of a lot more strict, and the environments are very toxic. So much that the other employees will rat you out on some of the dumbest shit. From what I've heard, managers will even reward tattletails. This often prompts those douchebags to make shit up, too. Last I'd heard, they've even started putting cameras in the mobile equipment to keep tabs on their employees. The company I work for is so much more laid back than that crap. Hell, most mornings I clocked in 45 minutes early, which wouldn't be possible at other

places. I claim it's so I can do an extremely thorough pre-shift inspection of my haul truck. Truth be told, I do it to get so much to time on the clock. I will do a better than average inspection, but I often end up eating my breakfast and lounging around for half an hour before the loader operator shows up. Gives me a chance to really wake up, which is needed, considering me roll off the line at 5 a.m. The last thing you want is a sleepy driver behind the wheel of a 50-ton truck, and that's before getting 75 tons of raw material loaded into the bed. Since positions are always open, management usually doesn't inform us when they hire someone. Most of the time I find out about it, I've been running loads to the crusher for a couple of hours. The only reason I find out

is because my supervisor calls me on the radio and tells me to pick up the new guy. No chance to mentally prepare myself for what will inevitably be a long day. Sometimes I wonder if he does it like this, so I don't have the chance to call in sick ahead of time. I've threatened to do it often enough, so the ambush is probably my own damn fault. For the new guy, Jonathan, the first day is moderately boring. I don't get stuck with him until after the sun is already out. I show him what all the buttons and switches on the truck do and how to raise the bed to drop the load. Then we move on to drive patterns, proper right-of-way designations, and the lay of the land.

Currently, we have two pits, the old one that only has level two and three, and the new pit that's only one level or base material. The following day is a bit more interesting. He shows up the same time as everyone else, which means I've already done my inspection and eaten my breakfast. As soon as the others come to the line, I use the flashlight on my hard hat to show him everything he needs to look at before turning the truck on. One of the hydraulic lines next to the front left tire is dark and looks wet with a few drops of fluid on the ground beneath it. This qualifies as a Class 2 leak, meaning that the leak is actively dripping fluid, but not bad enough to warrant service. A Class 1 leak would be the dark hose, but not the droplets falling. Class 3 is a free-flowing leak and requires the truck

to be tanned out for service. It always sucks when a truck goes down, but a leaky hose is usually an easy fix. The hardest part is getting the hose, not installing it. However, that sort of thing doesn't fall on the operator. That's the mechanics area. Once the inspection is done, we climb into the cab. I show him how to fill out the EMS sheet and point out that not everything on the checklist pertains to the haul truck. Every piece of mobile equipment requires one of these sheets, and the list encompasses all of the important areas across all equipment, negating the need for different versions of the form. Out of 40-some items, seven of the items don't pertain to the hall truck. After that's done, we wait for the loader to roll out before leaving the line. I could have left a long time ago, but the loader operator is the only one who knows where we're pulling material from.

Letting him go first just makes sense. The quarry looks a lot different in the dark. We're far enough out that the only lights in the area are from the processing plant. On a clear morning, you can see a lot more stars in the sky than you can in the city, Granted, we don't stop moving long enough to really appreciate that, but when the plant is down, you can. Typically, when the plant has an issue during our shift, we'll sit at the crusher waiting for them to get things back up and running. If it's an all-day thing, management either finds something for us to do or sends us home. More times than not, we'll either strip black dirt from ground level, or stockpile-finished products from where they pile under the conveyor belts.

I'm explaining all this to Jonathan as we drive to the new pit. Over the radio, I hear the ground crew and plant operator are trying to figure out why the primary side of the plant isn't working. While they do that, we get to run base material. From the crusher to where the loader is, the drive is roughly a mile one way. In order to get to the new pit, we have to take the hall road that runs along the back wall of the old pit

on base level, and pass over a creek before reaching the new pit. Not only is the distance longer, running base is a much slower process. It involves a lot of sitting at the crusher waiting to dump. What was that? Jonathan asked as we drive to the new pit. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, so I asked him to be specific. Right there. He points to something in the old pit, but we go up the ramp at the back to reach the new one. I hadn't seen anything.

No, it wasn't in the pit. It was in the air above it. I tried to tell him it was nothing, that he just wasn't used to the environment yet. This almost works, but after we get loaded and leave the new pit, Jonathan spots it again. There, right there, what the hell is that?

I look over, and sure enough, I see movement well above the open space of the pit. I've been working here long enough that what he's seeing is an old occurrence to me, and I kind of forgot it was even there. I was hoping to ease Jonathan into this, but he was too observant. Strange things happen at the rock quarry. Things that are hard for people to believe. If you ask some of the older employees, they'll tell you it's all bullshit,

that overactive imaginations like to make up stories. That's the company line, and they've been here long enough to know better than to rock the boat. Admittedly, I tow the company line too, all in the name of self-preservation. You don't last at a place when you talk to reporters and investigators looking for boogeyman and the like. What Jonathan is seeing are ghosts. Hauntings are generally subjected to a structure and the land it sits on. However, we're in the business of harvesting rocks under the land. I wasn't ever that much into the supernatural once I graduated high school.

Back then, I was more open-minded and dabbling in the occult seemed fun. I learned enough to have a decent knowledge base and somehow managed to not forget it all. The same can't be said for all the other things I learned at school, but there's a reason I'm a haul truck driver and not an engineer. When I first started at the quarry, there was only the one pit, and it was half the size it is now. Starting on the night shift, most of the time we pulled material from the pit. It was base level we were running. In order to get to the good material, where most of the money comes from, the base needs to be run first, so the lower levels can be accessed.

Back then, there were structures that are now only open air. Ever wonder what happens to a haunting when you take away the building? Even if a new building is put up in the old place, you'll generally still have spectres and other ghostly phenomenon. It never occurred to me what happens when you not only take away the structure, but the ground it once sat on. You know how ghosts can walk through walls and doors like they weren't there? Well, it turns out they don't pay attention to gravity either.

Even though the structure and the ground are gone, the ghosts continue to do what they do. A lot of time, they'll continue doing their thing when people aren't around. Not having the ground stand on doesn't change that. Those doomed spirits are acting out their spectral drama in mid-air, completely exposed to anyone that happens to notice. I've seen them enough times that it no longer phases me,

and I'll go long stretches forgetting it even exists. You're telling me that those, Those are ghosts. Jonathan spends a few loads trying to wrap his head around that. At one point, he pulls out his cell phone to try and get a picture or record it, but I tell him to put it away. I know our boss told him to leave his phone in his assigned locker, but these young guys try to get it away with whatever they want.

I tell him, if he wants to keep his phone on him, don't let anyone see it. The other employees won't rat him out, but if management sees it, he'll be fired on the spot. They're very serious about that sort of thing. Telling Jonathan, to put it away, isn't just about keeping him out of trouble. Sometimes, spectral entities will completely ignore you, whether you're trying to communicate with them or not. Take these mid-air ghosts, for example, when I first learned of their existence, I snuck into the old building on my break one night. There were a few offices at the front, but the back end was a large warehouse.

It had a bunch of these big-ass shelves, kind of like the warehouse stores where you buy them in bulk. There had been a lot of old dusty things on the shelves, but nothing of importance. I mean, it couldn't have been, otherwise it wouldn't still be there. It was around 2 a.m., and they weren't hard to find. There were these two that were stuck in a sort of loop,

reenacting one of their final moments while still alive. I saw a boy begging to be left alone, that he was sorry he upset his mother. She was furious for whatever he'd done and beat the shit out of him. They were hard to make out, but it looked like they wore clothes from the late 1800s. The building we were in was dated back to the 70s, so obviously this wasn't the building they'd been in. I watched as the mother whipped the boy with a belt or something, being completely ignored. It wasn't until I pulled out my smartphone to take pictures that they took notice of me. The boy was the first to leap at me, enraged that I dare try to photograph them. His mother came after me

too, and I ran with two angry ghosts chasing me. I managed to get back to the hall truck, but they'd stop pursuing me. Looking back to the building, I saw them standing at the open doorway, staring at me. The mother had her hand on the boy's shoulder in a loving, protective gesture that was the exact opposite of what had been doing on when I pulled my phone out. I thought that was really odd. About a month later, I decided to go back. The building was scheduled for destruction a week later, so I knew it was my last chance. A boulder got stuck in the crusher around 4 a.m., and since that essentially ends the rest of the shift, I took the opportunity. When I went back inside, I didn't find the mother beating on her son. Instead, an adult male

ghost was chasing her around as she screamed, much as the boy had done. I made sure not to take my phone out that time. The man chased her into what I assume had been the kitchen and started hitting her. He kept going on about how she beat their hands. He kept going on about how she beat their son to death, and he was going to do the same to her. I watched as he pinned her to the floor and choked her to death. She didn't go down without a fight, and used a kitchen knife to slash at him. The man may have succeeded in crushing her windpipe, but she'd cut him badly enough that he'd bled out next to her. Thinking I was safe to do it at that point, I took my phone out and snapped a couple quick pictures of their ghostly forms laying on the floor. That had been a mistake. That had been a

estate. They both got up and chased me out of the building, screaming like banshees. I could hear the knife the woman wielded slicing through the air behind me. When I was back at the hall truck, I looked back again. They stood together. The man with a hand on the woman's shoulder, just like she'd stood with the boy. He was covered in blood, slash marks all over his face, neck and arms. Her eyes were bulging, and her neck looked like it had caved in. It wasn't until I got back to my personal vehicle that I discovered the back of my flannel shirt was cut to tatters.

That crazy bitch nearly killed me with a ghost knife. I never went back after that, not when it was dark out. On a number of occasions, I tried to talk to some of the older employees about the ghosts, but they towed the company line and said it was my imagination. I decided to follow suit.

Eventually, the day crew stripped away the dirt layer, and a drill crew put holes in the rock about 30 feet down. I know I wasn't the only one to encounter those ghosts. The drillers are outside contractors, and because they're paid per job instead of hourly, they sometimes work throughout the night. Typically, when they do this, there's only one guy on the drill overnight.

One of them hadn't been as lucky as I was when he encountered the ghost. He showed up at the shop in hysterics with a giant cut on his arm. The incident was written up as a workplace accident and wasn't spoken of again. From there, a blasting crew came in and made new raw base material for us to haul to the crusher. Blasters are another outsourced contractor and only work during the day, so they never encountered the ghost. In the six months we ate away enough at the base level to be underneath where the structure had been. The ghosts continued to act out their drama above us, and we ignored it as best we could. After my first year, I transferred to the day shift and rarely saw those ghostly images.

Like most ghosts, they don't come out during the day. Jonathan asks, Did you ever find out who they were? It bothered me for a while, and I did end up doing some digging. Took a long time for me to find anything, and what I did discover wasn't much. In 1892, a family lived on this property and farmed the land. Jonas and Martha Clayton, along with their son, Jonas Jr., had been found dead in their home, but there were no details as to what happened.

From what I'd seen, Martha had either lost her damn mind, or drew impatient with Jonas Jr. for whatever reason, and disciplined the boy to death. Back then, having a son to carry on the family name was very important. When Jonas discovered what his wife had done to their only child, he lost his shit and went after her with murderous intent. Beyond that, I've got nothing. That's some pretty fucked up shit. That's just the tip of the iceberg for this rock quarry. Wait until you see some of the really weird stuff.

I'm talking things that'll turn your hair white. Luckily, I don't scare easy. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are just. done so through Creative Commons share-a-like 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 story's author.