Creepy - Dibs

Episode Date: May 13, 2024

There are rules...***Written by: Cyndi Gradel***Bonus Episode: "Malafon" written by: J Anthony Hartley and written by: Owen McCuen***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.

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 Dibs

Written by Cindy Gradle. My car idle double parked while I finished clearing the snow that accumulated overnight. The mess of snot and tears paced my scarf to my face. My palms were numb inside my ski gloves,

despite the hand-wormer packets. It took me 30 minutes to finish clearing out my spot. I double-stacked milk crates to block it off before leaving for work. Some people like to use folding chairs or lawn furniture, but I prefer to use crates. My neighbor Sylvia glared at me when I sprinkled a few handfuls of rock salt in the space. She was watching me from her doorway. Her scrappy dog sat behind her with a ratty old toy in its mouth.

I could tell she was dying to give me another lecture about the salt burning her dogs pause and how I should consider purchasing a pet-friendly alternative. She acted like the dog with some kind of pure bread. I love animals, but her dog didn't seem like anything special. It was an ordinary mutt that was always scratched up and dirty. The only reason that stood out was that it was missing one of its legs and had a huge scar. I fought through eight tedious hours of my co-workers bitching about broken snowthrowers, salt prices and varying opinions on how to handle black ice.

I dune most of it out. I've heard every story there is about winters in Chicago. The commute home took twice as long as usual. Messy, unplowed side streets forced more drivers onto the main roads. My grip on the steering wheel relaxed when I finally turned out of my block and approached my spot. I hit the brakes harder and I intended and skidded several feet, slopping right next to a road. stopping right next to a red Camry. My milk crates were tossed carelessly on the sidewalk beside it, as if they were trash.

I idled until another car came up behind me and started honking. The windows on the camry were covered in snow and I couldn't see inside. The driver behind me beeped again. I threw my hands up at him and pressed the gas. I circled the block, pulled up to my spot and got out to inspect the camera. was parked in an angle with the front end sticking out into the street. Not only did this guy steal my spot, but he also didn't even know it a parallel park. An old coffee was in the cup holder and some fast food wrappers were balled up on the passenger seat.

I took a picture of the license plate and the city sticker. I looked up and down the block, but too much snow had fallen for any footprints to be visible. I drove around until I found an open spot. two blocks away. My feet were numb by the time I got back to my house. I climbed my front steps and stomped the snow off my boots. Warm pine-scented air overtook the cold that followed me into the entryway. I peeled off my gloves and pushed my hands against a radiator.

Tiny pins and needles brought the feeling back to my fingers. I squeezed them tight into a fist and thought about the audacity it takes to park and someone else's spot. Everyone knows that if you shovel out of space, it's yours. Dinner sat like a boulder in my stomach. I kept walking back and forth to the living room to check the street. The camera hadn't moved since I got home. It was covered in a flaky blanket of fresh snow and I checked just after seven.

I pulled my gloves and boots back on and went back outside. I went my arm against passenger side. window giving me a glimpse of the front seat. The fast food trash was still there, balled up and tossed on the seats. The car seemed even dirtier inside. I felt my rage boiling at the thought of how much work I had done to clear away the snow.

I couldn't let this person go the whole night in my spot. It belonged to me. I worked my way down the block, peering into living rooms to spot someone guilty. Crunchy mix of snow. and salt collected on the bottom of my boots and lifted me above the ground like a skater. Twinkling displays a holiday scene, line the windows and doors in my neighbor's houses.

Plastic snowmen and deer decorated tiny front yards. I paced the block two more times and even thought about knocking on doors. It occurred to me that I knew only a handful of names and that most of the people on the block wouldn't know who I was. I've been there eight years and never really bothered to get to know any of them. I usually just offer a quick nod and hand wave and keep it moving. I wasn't interested in their lives and didn't want them asking about mine. I stopped to inspect the camera one more time before going back inside.

Fresh layer of snow covered the window that I had cleared with my sleeve earlier. On the way to my steps I spotted Sylvia peeking out past the Noel sign hanging in her window. She stepped back into the darkness of her living room. Her dog tilted its head at me and nestled into her elbow. The sign in her window went dark and the porch light went out. I stared angrily at the car one more time and then one inside. I dozed off a few times, but I kept waking up to walk to the little. living room and check on the car.

I finally moved my pillow and blanket to the sofa so I could sleep there and keep watching out the window. Midnight, I went outside again to see if the snow on the car had been disturbed. Temperature dropped quite a bit and the air felt thin. The block was quiet. Most of the Christmas lights had gone dark. I spotted a young man walking towards me, carrying a thermos. His bright orange coat stood out against the snowy street.

He slowed down as he approached the Camry, fumbling in his pocket. I started cussing him out immediately. I kicked the crates and told him that this is Chicago. You know you're not supposed to park in a space that's already been cleared out. Everyone knows you don't move placeholders and you never take someone else a spot. Cold air burned my throat. But I kept screaming at him to make my point. I finally paused for breath and dared him to say something.

He stood silent for a moment, and then an arrogant grin spread across his face. He started laughing. He even pointed at me as if I had just told the funniest joke. Every single cell in my body ignited. The houses around me started spinning in circles, and I could feel me. my heart accelerating. He made a move to walk past me, still laughing and shaking his head. I stepped in front of him, aimed at his face, and swung.

His thermos hit the icy sidewalk, and the sound exploded through the quiet street. I bent forward and ruined the fresh snow with an ugly spray of blood. Didn't remember picking up the hammer. Must have had it with me the whole evening. This time with the claw and... I came away with one of his eyes and some stringy pieces attached to it. A tiny cloud of steam floated off the eye, then evaporated in the cold air. I swung the hammer again and it grew too slick with blood for me to keep my grip.

The man fell forward in the snow, writhing in pain and holding onto his face. His body left a chaotic snow angel along the parkway, streaked with dark fluids and teeth. My fish throwing a keys out of his bloody palm and pressed a button on the key fob, the standard double beep of a car alarm ring out. Headlights blink twice on a Ford F-150, parked just two spaces away from the Camry. The truck had a thick layer of snow on it. It had clearly been parked there for a while. My stomach pulled tight.

at the man. He'd been walking towards the Camry. It had to be his. I pressed the button again, aiming it at the Camry, willing it to somehow change the outcome. The Ford Truck released the same sound and blinked its lights to confirm. I messed up bad, and I began to panic. I didn't even realize my neighbor was there until I heard her gasp. By the time I turned around, her. The dog had already struggled its way out of her arms and was bounding down the steps into the snow. It stopped at the body with its tail and ears raised in excitement. The dog ignored Sylvia's commands come back inside the house and instead of started sniffing around the man on the ground. Picked up something from the bloody mess.

Then ran back up the steps and inside the house. My neighbor's phone was pointed at me. A white light beamed in my direction, letting me. me know that she was recording. Both my arms were raised. The right one still held the bloody hammer with a few unidentifiable scrap stinging from the claw. The dog scurried behind her with its prize,

clamped safely in its jaws. The white light disappeared when my neighbor lowered her phone and moved back into the doorframe. I moved quicker than I should have, losing traction briefly on unsalted steps. My boots made crunching noises with each step until I reached the landing and then the door. She tried to slam it, but I already had my shoulder and leg inside the storm door.

Get out of here, she shouted. I ignored her and slammed the front door behind me. I lunged at her and forced her into her tiny living room. She fell against the wooden coffee table, which caused the cluster of ceramic figures to slide down to the floor, a pile of broken Christmas angels lay scattered and her. to Sylvia. She looked up at me and her expression changed from surprise to anger. I was the second too late reacting when her hand reached into the pocket of her robe. She hit me with a blast of pepper spray that was so painful that it took me to my knees. I struggled to balance myself and she was

already scrambling to her feet by the time I recovered. My eyes burned as if they were engulfed in flames. The blurred Christmas lights made the pain seem worse. I squeezed my lids together, desperate to clear the fiery liquid out of my eyes. She said something to me, but it was lost in the sound of my screams and the noise I made banging against the walls and furniture. I felt my way along the floor. Shards of ruined holiday figurines left painful gashes in my palms. The temperature changed when I got closer to the front door. The cold air was a relief to my burning face. I gripped the front door knob, and I heard footsteps behind me.

The knob clipped when I turned it to the right, and then everything went black. I woke up to a throbbing pain on the side of my head. I could almost envision the size of the knot. My eyes burned, and every time I blink it felt like pieces of glass were stuck to my eyelids. She must have hit me with something heavy, but I couldn't remember anything. A bitter film coated the roof of my mouth. Remnants of the pepper spray still lingered on my tongue. My throat was raw, and I erupted in a huge coughing fit when I tried to swallow.

I wanted to reach from my face, but my hands were tied up behind me. The room I was in was dark. All I could see were shadows and outlined. of furniture. A sliver of bright light bled through the space at the bottom of the door. I knew that I wasn't in a living room anymore. Be quiet, a man's voice whispered. I jumped from the surprise and twisted my restraints to look around the room. A silhouette finally appeared where my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. He was leaning against the opposite wall, slump begins to radiate.

like someone sleeping off a bender. Quiet, or she'll come back in here. He had the growly voice of an old man, but his words quivered like a child in fear of an abusive parent. Who the hell are you? I said. What is this? What the fuck is she doing?

He didn't respond, but I could hear him fighting to catch his breath. I listened for any sounds coming from behind the door. Maybe there was an... another person in the house was Sylvia, someone who I hadn't seen before. The door burst open and I was blinded by the sudden infusion of white light into the dark room. Sylvia was already standing over me by the time my pupils adjusted. I struggled to sit up, pushing against the wall with my hands positioned behind me. I didn't have full control of myself and my knees buckled when I tried to stand. My neighbor was a menacing figure within the bright light coming from the

kitchen behind her. Her hand went toward my face with something metal and shiny. She moved so quickly that I couldn't react to what she was doing. She sawed through the tissue that connected my left ear to my head until it was nearly detached. She gripped the ear and pulled it until the last that flesh gave way. I screamed so loud that I was sure the whole block would hear me. She shoved me and I fell down under the hardwood floor. I hit the surface with a thud and re-injured the knot that was already there. Blood streamed down the side of my face, into my eyes and mouth. I fought against whatever was keeping my wrists together.

Desperate to press my hand against the gushing wound where my ear had been severed. Sylvia closed the door behind her without saying a word. I shouted and cursed at her, but she ignored me. My screams died out, and I slump backward against the wall. A warm patch of liquid spread across my pants, and I realized that the odor of urine was coming from me. I pleaded with the old man to help me, but he just kept telling me to shut up and stay quiet. He said she would do much worse if I didn't stop making noise. It seemed like an hour passed before she opened the door again.

I shouted at her, demanding to know what the hell is. she was doing. She kicked me in the ribs and stomped past me. She stood next to the old man and held a knife up to his neck. The light coming from the kitchen highlighted his face. He was an older man with gray hair and a scruffy beard. I gasped when she lifted the knife up to one of his eyes. The old man begged her and thrashed about, pulling at what looked like bungee cords that were attached. to the radiator next to him. She sank the knife into the corner of his eye, forcing it all the way up at the handle. Yowled and then made awful choking noises. I was horrified, but I couldn't look away. I was afraid she was coming from me next. She plunged the knife up and down as if she

were carving a design in a pumpkin. The wet, squishy noise made me sad. sick and I spit bile from my mouth. She scooped the eye into her hand and stood up. The old man fell forward, gagging and twitching in shock. I turned away when Sylvie walked past me toward the door, hoping she would ignore me this time. She paused in front of me for a moment, then kept going. My bladder let go the remaining urine at how as soon as she closed the door. the old man eventually stopped sobbing.

I hoped that he passed out from the pain, but feared he might actually be dead. I scoured the room, looking for anything in the shadows that would help me escape. There was a tiny rectangle of light down the wall. There was sunlight, peeking in through a window that had been covered with a black fabric. I tried to clear the haziness from my mind to focus on an escape.

If I could get close enough to kick the window, I'd be able to draw attention. Our block is busy during the day. Someone would hear me. Then I remembered the mess I left when I attacked the man by the Camry. If you were still out there, someone would call the cops. They'd knock on doors and question people. All I'd have to do is make noise. That also meant they would find me and know that it was me who heard.

him. What if he was dead? I'd have to make them believe that he attacked me first, but Sylvia had recorded it all. I took a deep breath in and slipped my body up against the wall until I was in a standing position. I kept my eyes focused on the window to keep from getting dizzy. I took one wobbly step, then another. I swayed side to side but managed to hold my balance. It took seven steps until I made it to the window. My hands were still tied behind me, so I grabbed the fabric between my teeth and pulled it as hard as I could. Sunlight poured into the room, and I had to look down briefly while my eyes adjusted. The other man was curled up on the floor where the woman had left him.

A pool of partially dried blood surrounded his face. The only sign of life was the faint weasing coming from his open mouth. The wall to my left had wood shelves all the way up to the ceiling. The other three walls were covered in old photographs. Some of them were framed and the rest appeared to be stuck to the wall with glue or tape. Pictures were all different sizes in both color and black and white. Most of them were portraits of a family on a farm. I could tell by the clothing that they were taken during the 60s and 70s.

I looked at one that was taken inside of a barn. Two women stood next to three young children near the open barn door. An older man stood behind him wearing a butcher's apron with a dark smear across the front. I assumed it was animal blood, but I couldn't tell because the photo was in black and white. It looked like it was posed, so it didn't make sense that he wouldn't take off the soiled apron before taking the picture. I moved closer and focused on the children in the photo. The oldest child was missing a limb. The sleeve of her dress hung loosely around the area where her arm should have been.

All the children stared vacantly at the camera, could sense fear in their eyes. I moved on to another photo of the same family a few years older. The girl with the missing arm was pale, was staring away from the camera. One of the other children, a young boy, had a patch over his eye and a scar that ran down the side of his face. The man with the apron stood behind him with his massive hand resting on the boy's shoulder. The children were emaciated, their clothes hung like rags from their bodies. I moved to the next wall where there was a larger photo in color taken outside of the barn.

The children were in their teens and I recognized. The youngest one as my neighbor, Sylvia. The man wasn't in the photo. It was just the children and a woman I assumed was their mother. I moved close and examined my neighbor as a teen. There was something off about her face. Something besides her expressionless gaze. I moved my head to allow the light from the window onto the picture.

My stomach dropped when I noticed one of the details. Sylvia's ear was gone. A dark patch of scar tissue stood out just above her right cheek. It was obvious from the scar that the ear had been removed violently and had not been allowed to heal properly. I felt sick. What kind of weird shit was this? Light and heat rushed into the room when Sylvia pushed the door open. I thought for a moment that the room had caught on fire.

I was bigger than her, but... Somehow it felt as if she towered over me. She knocked me against the wall. I fell hard to the floor, bringing several of the frame photos crashing down with me. She stuck me with a needle before I could react. I felt the warmth of a sedative almost instantly. She looked at the wall and scowled at me, as if she was angry that I was seeing this part of her life.

What do you know about family? She has to do nothing but selfish and greedy. She moved her face close to mine and her voice grew more sinister. I know about sacrifice. And we all have to sacrifice for the greater good. We have to give to the least among us. And they give back to us. I looked past her and saw that several burners on the gas stove were lit up.

beneath heavy frying pans. The smell of fatty things sizzling and their juices wafted into the room. My stomach rolled and disgust when I made sense of what I was seen. The room started to close in around me. The F-150 guy in the bright orange jacket was crumpled up beneath the kitchen table.

He was worse than the way I left him in the snow. His other eye was gone along with most of his face. She said, Smokey loves eyes the most. She said, my mind shifted through the fogginess until I realized that Smokey must have been the name of her pitiful dog. Dog was sitting next to the counter, waiting patiently for whatever gruesome things she was frying up on the stove. He likes these too? She said, while pinching my remaining ear between her fingers, I unleashed an incoherent string of words. I unleashed an incoherent string of words at her.

My mind was spinning from pain and whatever drugs she'd given me. I could hear the old man weeping in the corner as if he knew that my anger was only going to bring us both pain. Sylvia looked him over. The ugly scar on the side of her face became visible in the light. I'd never noticed it before. I was wondering if she kept it hidden or had I'd just never bothered to look at her. at her closely. She must have decided that the man was already done in because she just shook her head at him and then left the room without closing the door. The light and the smell from the kitchen

combined with the drugs forced my body into violent retching. I spit on the floor beside me next of the scatter pile of photographs. The older man stirred and I felt a sudden rush of anger at him for not helping me fight her. Hey! Why don't you fucking help me? I should, shouted at him. Between the two of us, we can... I stopped when I got a glimpse of his face and was reminded of what already happened to him. A gaping cavity where his eye should have been. He moaned and pulled his legs up to his chest into the fetal position.

It coughed out some words that sounded like prayers and... Then said something about parking in front of her house, helping her with the snow. Wait, what? My body shot upright despite the drugs that were beginning to numb my limbs. You're the motherfucker who parked in my spot? What are you talking about? He said.

My spot. You're the Red Camry. You took my spot, you asshole. This is all your fucking fault. I tried to kick him, but my legs were heavy. and I could barely lift them off the ground. My whole body felt like lead, and I was forced to lay down and rest my head against the floor. I fought the effects of the drug as hard as I could, turning my head from side to side and inhaling deeply, but there was no use.

A heavy wave of euphoria rolled through me, pulling me into a chemical trance. Sylvia's voice faded in from the kitchen. She said something to her dog that was followed by the sound of his jaws snapping something out of the air. I squinted through heavy eyelids at a photo on top of the pile next to me. The children on the farm were all gathered in a field next to a big tree. They were smiling and their faces all had a look of relief. A little dog was sitting next to one of the children. It looked similar to Sylvia's dog and like smoky.

it was missing one of its legs. I fought the overwhelming urge to sleep and squeezed my eyelids into a tiny sliver. I narrowed my focus onto the little dog in the photo. There was something in its mouth, but I couldn't quite make it out. The drugs were taking over, and I was fading in and out.

My ring of darkness began to bleed around the photo until the dog was the only thing left that was visiting. I used every bit of strength I had left to force my eyes into focus. The object finally became visible, and I realized what it was. Clamped between the jaws at the dog's scruffy face was a bloody, freshly severed human ear. I screamed until my voice was gone. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. Malathon, written by J. Anthony Hartley, and narrated by Owen McCune.

Tobias Malathon teetered on the precipice of his indecision, cataloging the litany of broken promises he had made to himself. But then, life was like that. You wandered through it, imagining, dreaming of the things that you would or might do. Relationships, jobs, friends were all the same. name. No matter how much you clung to an ideal of what you expected or what you wanted, it always fell a little short. After the initial perspiring glow that gave it that special sheen had evaporated from your perceptions. To take the plunge or not to, that was the question. To be

or to become. It was always the question. Expectation was a drug, and the come down was an inventory of dreams imagined, but unfulfilled. Malifon, for so he referred to himself, he hated the name Tobias, dragged his attention from digging a piece of lint from his navel as he mused, and lifted his gaze to stare out the window with a sigh. Creamy shadows painted the borders of the glass, reflecting the crisp chill of the outside day. Curling leaves skittered across the roadway, scraping browned edges along the rough-graveled tar. They stopped, resting for a second, vaguely rocking, and then scattered as another gust caught them.

Malifon wondered for a moment where they had come from. Spontaneous generation? Virtually none of the trees had any leaves left by now, just bare branches and spindly twigs scratching at the sky. This autumn, like many others, had developed at first blustery and wet, but now the chill was creeping into the dampness. Down below, a woman clutched her scarf and pulled her dark wool coat about herself, armor against the conditions as she walked, head down into the irregular wind.

Malifon watched her until she disappeared up the road and out of sight. He rubbed his hand along his jaw, considering, realizing that he needed to shave, but then deciding that it too could wait, along with so much else. Toby, come here! His mother's voice reverberating in memory. He was not a Toby. He was not a jug with ruddy cheeks and a too big nose. He was Malifon.

Never Toby, nor Tobias. That was just stupid. Though Malifon itself was edged with the strangeness of its own, He preferred to think of it as interesting and unusual. Much better that way. Regardless, it was a hell of a lot more palatable than Toby could ever be. There was a kind of old-school acceptability to being referred to by your last name. It was distant and yet matey at the same time,

a paradox of social conditioning that he rather enjoyed. His mother, God bless her, was far away, and in reality, God bless the fact that she was. Toby, indeed. He turned back to his computer with a snort. He'd not yet invested one of those tablet-ed-device things. It all looked like too much hard work to him. Greasy fingers and that expansion of thumb and forefinger sliding across the screen. No, far better to do his surfing fixed in place just like he was.

In fact, that could almost have been a life statement in and of itself. His friends, the few he had, occasional pub meets and similar, told him that he needed to get out more. Perhaps he did. He stared out the window again for a pause, considering. He watched a few of the leaves as they skittered across the street's blackness, pushed first one way, then the other, then swirling around on the spot before falling back to the uneven surface, just to start the dance again a few moments later. A metaphor for his existence. Just as well could be.

Malifon was not much interested in local events. Not that there were many events locally to be interested in. The other day, he had been wandering down near the seafront, having meandered down the long, winding road to the bay, reveling in the salt and seaweed tang washing up from the water. He had stopped for a coffee and a browse of the local rag at the small tea house, set at one end of the promenade, overlooking the small inlet. Through the line of large pines, their branches stirring in the gusting

wind, the sky's leaden gray painting the water in steel hues marked by foaming white caps, as the wind-blown chop rolled into the long wooden jetty and swirled around the aging wooden pilings. He'd not thought to find anything interesting in the amateurish collection of advertisements and notices for bake sales. But an item had caught his eye. Something about local van, vandalism being on the rise. Apparently, one of the local houses, an old crumbling eyesore if he remembered which place it was, had been virtually gutted and defaced on the inside, full of graffiti and detritus and smashed walls and windows. The paper put it down to local youth or a biker gang. Certainly could not have been druggies. Malifon wondered, perhaps a little cynically,

if there were any youth actually left in Markham's Inlet. The owner, they mentioned her by name, had been moved to a nursing home some months before, and the house had been left fallow, awaiting the inevitable before it could be partialed off into some portion of the estate that would be left behind. He doubted if it would have any intrinsic value anyway, except maybe for the land upon which it sat. But Markham's inlet was not the sort of town to attract any aspiring developers either, so even that much was doubtful.

So why had that place been? been targeted, and not the aging hulk that sat at the top of his own street, overlooking the cliffs and the narrow inlet that served as their harbor. He would have thought that was a far more likely venue for late-night partying by the local dissolute youth. He tucked away the thought in the back of his mind, and, like many such things, it slipped from view. He had mentally strolled back to that playground of missed expectations and the directionless road that formed the promises of his future, a future that his mother had been sure to inform him was,

cast in gold, my son. How can you lose, Toby? You are so bright, so talented. The world is your oyster, my boy. Don't squander what you have. You are filled with your own power, my boy, and one day it will come to fruition. You have been touched, Toby.

Remember that. Her words echoed as he pursed his lips, looked up from his spreading belly, and back out of the window to the chill dampness outside. A curly black dog trotted along on the other side of the street and paused to look up at his window, the wind pushing at its ears and the hair around its face. Then, as if dismissing him, it trotted on, intent on its mission, whatever that might be.

Life conspired. No matter what his mother had told him when growing up, you were no more than the victim of circumstance, of the things that existence threw at you. Or so he had come to believe. Life ended up vandalizing your plans, no matter how carefully you constructed them and how cautious you were protecting them.

The thought brought him back to the recent news article and the house at the top of the street. Already it was late afternoon. The weekend and the outside conditions were less than inviting. But Malifon needed something to do to drag him away from his current, miserable self-examination, the poking at his spreading pale belly, the discomfort under his left arm as if something was pushing to get out. The house at the top of the street, the empty, creaking,

derelict would, this afternoon, provide that opportunity. As he reached for his coat and scarf, he realized that he had no idea about the place, no stories, no rumors, nothing, though he had lived in Markham's Inlet for more than a year now. To be honest, his move to the town, had been sort of an escape, a retreat from life, and it served very well, that hermitage in the remote wind-slet location. In summer, the small bay was idyllic, picturesque, the stuff of postcards. But now that the season had turned, the few visitors driving along the coast and stopping off had dwindled, and only the locals were left, uninterrupted in their aging lives. That and the swirling wind and dampened leaves, the gray scudding clasped,

mirrored in the gray surging sea. Perhaps there were local tales, local legends about the place, but he'd just never heard them. The residents kept pretty much to themselves, as did he, so maybe it wasn't so unusual after all. From time to time, he wondered what had drawn him to Markham's inlet in the first place. Here, of all places.

As he pulled the door shut behind him and stamped his feet on the doorstep to settle his boots, He looked up to the end of the street where the tree obscured Hulk of the old house stood. He wondered if, as it seemed, the house had stood unoccupied, derelict for so long, why nobody had bothered tearing it down, and why nobody seemed to pay any attention at all. Perhaps that was just the way of small remote towns.

Pulling his coat tighter around him and bunching into its thickness, he headed up the street. Well, one way or another, he was, was going to find the answer. Though it was nowhere near dusk, the light appeared dimmer, darkened by the burgeoning clouds that, for some reason, seemed to have thickened since Malifon had taken his decision to investigate the place. It was almost as if they knew, as if the autumnal spirits drew close, wrapping his intent with their sodden limbs. He shook the thoughts away. It was a seaside town. That's how the weather went this time of year. His unease was a ease.

irrational and he diverted it into his stride as he headed up the hill. It was not long before the demi-denuded trees revealed the large, twin-gabled wooden structure that stood atop the hill. The shapes of its outline grew firmer, despite what seemed to be a damp mist that had started rising from the water below. Here and there, wooden boards hung down, angled against the walls where they were still held in place at one end by rotting nails. A verandum of a verand, or ran around the front, also of aging, darkened wood, stained by damp. Eyeless windows stared blankly onto the road from the upper story, and Malifon took a few moments, simply standing in the roadway, staring back at them,

wondering what dreams stirred within. Did a house dream like a human, filled with memories walking the empty and forgotten space of its rooms? He rocked back and forth on his heels, considering. But there was no going back now. Now. He was drawn to this house, drawn to this very spot, just as he had been drawn to Markham's inlet in the first place. His unease grew. He swallowed it back. There was no rhyme or reason for him feeling that way. He'd made his decision, and damned if he wasn't going to stick to it. Step by labored step, he approached the front stairs. Leaves stirred across the short path

leading from the front gate. The iron fence was brown and rusted, clung. lumps of oxidation growing like cancerous lumps along the bars, and here and there a pole had rusted through. The gate hung at an angle, open, waiting. He stepped onto that pathway, pushing through the accumulated brown carpet, hearing the crunch of twigs and a damp squelching beneath his boots. One by one he took the steps up to the front porch, feeling the creek of aging wood beneath his feet. The door stood before him, blank, impassive. He took a deep breath and glanced from one window to the other. Behind smudged glass panes browned with deposited dirt, he could see ratty net curtains, obscuring any clear view to the darkness inside. He crouched down a little to see if he could get a

better view, but nothing revealed itself beyond, and he straightened and took a deep breath. "'Get a grip, Malafon. You're acting like a kid.' He blew the breath out between his lips. At that same moment, he looked along the length of the veranda and frowned. Over to one side, a little beyond the right-hand window, lay something semi-propped against the front wall. He paired through the gloom trying to make out the shape without having to go over there and investigate it.

But it soon became clear what it was. It was a skateboard. Now, that was a bit unusual. He wouldn't expect some kid to go abandoning his precious skateboard unless he was nearby. Perhaps he was right after all, and the house hadn't escaped attention. He took a careful step forward, closer to the door, and spent a few moments listening. Inside, there was nothing. No, wait, was that a creek?

A footfall upon old floorboards? He leaned closer, quellable. the urge to call out and alert them. Local citizen foils vandalism by local youths. The headline rose in his mind's eye, and he snorted despite himself, then quickly fell still again, listening. There again.

Was that the noise of a footstep? It definitely sounded like wood creaking. Maybe it was nothing at all, nothing more than the wind shifting the decaying structure. Old houses made noise, didn't they? Now nervous, he reached for the door handle, fully expecting it to be locked, and that he would either have to abandon his quest or seek some other means of ingress. The handle turned easily, the protesting of old metal springs coming from inside the mechanism,

and the door swung open into darkness. Maliphons stood there listening. Could he actually do this? No more creeks came, and summoning his resolve, he took a step, forward and then another. His hand rested against the doorframe as he stepped inside, and he pulled it back quickly. It was damp, gave a little, had a slight slimyness to it. He shook his hand quickly in disgust and stepped away from it, further into what turned out to be a dim entrance hall. He was inside. He looked over his shoulder, but nothing had changed.

Should he shut the door in case anyone was to see him from outside? No, he felt better with it open, and anyway, the likelihood of anyone wandering past was slim. The house was at the end of the street, and the road dead-ended before the cliffs. He couldn't remember ever having seen anyone up here at all. He turned his attention back to the hallway in front of him. His heart rate had increased, and he could feel it in his chest. The discomfort beneath his arm was more apparent, and for some reason, it seemed to have been joined by a similar feeling on the other side as well.

It had to be nerves. That's all it was. On the other side, wallpaper covered the hallway, stained and mottled, and looking like slick trails of moisture ran down it. It glistened in the half-light, and he wrinkled his lips in reaction.

A vague, musty, fungal smell floated around him, reminding him of dampness, rotting wood, decay. But there was something else, like the salt, sharp taste of seaweed mixed in. Gingerly, he took some further steps down the corridor,

bypassing a door to either side, probably the rooms belonging to the front windows, and in toward the house's rear. A narrow staircase led upward to the upper floors. But even in the semi-darkness, Malifon didn't think that he wanted to trust its stability. It could just as easily give way beneath him as he was halfway up, leaving him to lie in this moldy hulk with broken legs or worse.

He got to the end of the corridor, and angling forward a little, ducked his head around the corner, first one way, then the other. But all he glimpsed was stillness. No errant shapes, no movement, simply darkened and half-defined rooms draped in shadow. He risked a longer look, but merely with the same results. There was no one here. Nothing moved. He stepped around the corner to the left, a wide long room, what looked like

a mildewed portrait hanging at an angle above an old, rubbish-filled stone fireplace. Some rotting furniture, a lounge, chairs, stained black across what looked like faded green upholstery. The floor felt damp beneath his feet. All around swam the scent of rot and decay. No one had been here for years. That's how it felt. Turning the other way, he found what had once been a dining room, or so it looked. A long table ran the length of the room with chairs still around it, though their seats had in turn partially rotted away. A central chandelier, not large, simple, had fallen to lie at an angle on the table's center, trails of moss or mold or something else, hanging from its branches.

Well, if there was nothing here, and he wasn't going to venture the stairs to above, then there was only the rear of the place yet to explore. He was more interested in the back anyway, because it was from that angle that the former occupants of the house would have had an uninterrupted view of the cliffs and the sheltered inlet below. He turned away from the dining room and headed towards the rear.

He was where he thought he should have found the doorway to a kitchen or a pantry or something similar in an old place like this, but instead there was a broad stairway leading down. Maybe it was older than he thought. Perhaps there had been servants' quarters, all the domestic activities taking place in the basement. They used to design houses like that. Despite the sense of corruption all around him,

Malifon took a deep breath before braving the descent. Here the smell of seawater were things of the sea. was stronger. By now his heartbeat had slowed, his sense of dread under control. Instead, it was almost as if there was a feeling of anticipation. He took a step forward and down, and then another. A few more steps than Malafon was surprised to find wood turning to stone. Without any apparent transition, the wooden staircase had evolved into broad stone slabs, slick with dampness. He knew it should be darker here. descending into the depths of the house, and the descent seemed to be going on far further than it should.

The walls seemed to provide some sort of faint illumination, a vague greenish phosphorescence issuing from the mold. He shook his head. This wasn't right. Somehow he felt drawn, compelled to take the next step and the next. His belly felt distended. The discomfort beneath his arms now. growing as a pressure rather than a pain.

The smell of the sea grew within his nostrils. And then he heard the voice. Welcome, Malafon. Come to us. We have been waiting. It came from all around him, from within him, from above, and from below him. Still, the steps continued, spiraling further downwards, and still he took them, the compulsion drawing him like a leash.

Come to us, Malifan. Come now. Not much further. It was a voice. It was words. It was sound, but it was not. It echoed within him and outside of him. Finally, the steps came to an end.

A large cave stood before him. its walls slick and glowing with the same green phosphorescence. Dark water lapped at the opposite edge of the cave. A group of figures stood at the water's edge, facing away from him. Welcome, Malafon, one of them said. Slowly it turned to face him. It had no mouth. Your time is upon you, said another, turning.

There was no mouth either. Its skin was pale, translucent, reflecting the greenness from the walls. You have been touched, and your weight is over. The other two turned to face him. You are filled with your own power, my boy, and one day it will come to fruition.

You have been touched, Toby. Remember that. His mother's voice, he remembered it. But as he felt the pressure at his sides grow to a tearing, a growth, an extension of the extra-plyable limbs, as he felt the expansion of his abdomen to flesh out the trueness of what he was, and he felt the knowledge grow. He knew then. It was not he who had been touched so long ago, but she, his mother,

when he had been a little more than a wisp inside her. Welcome, Malafon. They all said together. And it was, as it should be. 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 done so through creative comments 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.