Creepy - Downpour

Episode Date: June 12, 2023

I hate the rain...***Written by: EmpyRealInvective***Bonus Episode: "The Cliffs at Battery Pointe" Written by: Rebecca Cuthbert and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea 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.

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Whether these stories truly happened, or I'm simply thought of patience is for you to decide. Stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Downpour Written by Ampireel Invective. I am not drunk. I had only a few drinks to calm myself

to steady my nerves so I could tell you whole story. Without the liquid courage, I'm pretty sure I couldn't get through the more abominable parts of what happened. He must think me crazy for telling you all this. I thought the old Campesino was insane too,

and he told me at first. I should have listened to him. But, of course, I didn't, and now it's too late. He is dead. I am not. Wish I could celebrate this fact. But I know that I will not be alive for much longer.

After you hear my story, you will know why the thought of rain sends chills down my spine and makes my heart pound in my chest. I was working with a non-profit organization in Nicaragua. In the city of a stay, I worked in a clinic with other local doctors. My job was to organize to patients and to provide treatment. that might otherwise be overlooked. The local doctors had the training to diagnose and treat injuries, but they were woefully uneducated about mental illness and coping with trauma. I worked in the Clinica and Estia for one year without problems.

I earned a name for myself as handling the mental cases that doctors saw as being beneath their expertise. It was in one of these cases during early May that I first met the old man. He lived a few miles outside of the city in a rural community, hence the slightly derogatory title of Campesino, a term similar to hillbilly. His daughter literally had to drag him into the clinic by the hand because of his guilt of seeking help. The doctor spent five minutes with him before referring him to me. I sent his daughter out of the room so I could talk with him and see if I couldn't find out what was the problem. He, of course, saw a little reason to tell me the truth. The only thing I managed to learn was that he was anxious about something before he climbed up and left the counseling room.

I figured that I couldn't force him to tell me and went about with my work. I didn't give much thought to the Vuejo until one of his friends visited me a week later. My Spanish wasn't perfect, but I managed to learn from his friend that the old man hadn't been sleeping. and wasn't able to prepare the land for planting in the rainy season, which was only a week or so away. This was something serious, as most Campesinos will work on their land until the day they die. At his friend's behest, I went to the community to visit the old man. I followed his friend into the community on a beat-up school bus

that had been repurposed as a transport option. I spent an hour crammed against other commuters that stared at me like I was the only white person in existence as we slowly made our way. through the hills. We arrived just before lunch and began the hike up to his house. During the winter, some farmers live up in the mountains so they can be close to their crops and protect them. The old man had a shack up in the mountains.

The Vallejo was surprised by my visit, but his friend helped to smooth over the awkwardness of the situation. While he calmed him down, I observed the old man. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had bags under his eyes like he hadn't been able to sleep. He seemed agitated as well. But I wasn't sure if that was because I was here, or it was something else entirely. His friend left me with him to talk and find out what was happening. The man was quiet at first, but eventually began his story when it became clear that I wasn't going to leave.

He told me that ten days ago was the first rain. I remember the rain that pelted my apartment roof and it's illivisiously for a few hours before receding. Before the rainy season begins in mid-May, sometimes there are a quick downpour as to last only minutes. He'd been preparing his house up in the mountains when the rain came. He decided to wait out the rain before heading down into the community. The rain lasted longer than he had hoped and he found himself sitting under his roof, watching the sun sink behind the mountains. It was there that he became aware that he wasn't alone. He told me that he could have sworn he felt something watching him.

He reasoned that it had been other farmers that had been caught in the rain like him. They didn't respond to his call. But he said that sometimes men are hesitant to be caught on other people's property. When the rain died down, he grabbed his machete and went down the mountain. He didn't expect anything more of the occurrence were it not for the dreams. He told me that a day later he dreamt he was in the woods. He could see the trees around him and the rain falling off the leaves and cooling the air around him. The woods were dark, but he wasn't afraid.

He said that it wasn't until he woke up that he realized this dream was different from the others. He whispered that in his dreams he was usually a third person. But in this dream he was looking around the forest and first person. He told as the daughter of his experience. and she being superstitious took him into the clinic, thinking it would be the work of a brouha, which I sympathized with him, knowing that holding local beliefs and superstition sometimes brought out the ridicule of others who considered the myths to be tales only for country bumpkins. He noted that the dreams of being in the woods didn't stop.

In fact, it became more frequent as winter approached. He dreamt of moving through. the woods stalking something. He noted that he only had these dreams when it was raining. He whispered that there was something about the way he moved that unsettled him. His gait was more like a lumbering plod. The dream culminated a few days ago when he came across a pig in his nightly fray. He watched his pig squealed when he brought his big, meaty fist down on its head.

He said in terror That the fist was almost as big as its head And it reduced the skull to a pulp Similar to a rotten watermelon It twitched spasmodically on the wet ground in death throes He confided that he now knew That it wasn't him in the dream But something else

It was something that was hunting in the forest Whatever it was he killed the pig In a single blow with a heavy her suit fist. He said that he hadn't been able to sleep after that dream. He was afraid of what he would see next. I told him the only thing that I could think of, that his dreams were just dreams. I didn't take him seriously, but decided to leave the clinic number with him in case the dreams got worse. I could tell he was disappointed that I didn't believe him. But I had thought, Who could believe a story like that?

You'd have to be insane to take dreams for reality. Right now, I can tell that you don't believe me. I'm not angry. Seriously, I'm not. I hope that by the end, you will understand that what I am telling you is true. I hope to God that I will not share the fate of the old man, but I now think otherwise. I returned to Estella with a story to tell all my coworkers.

There's no such thing as Dr. Patient Confidentiality and gossip brain supreme. I thought nothing of the man's tale. It was something brought about after a night of binge drinking or horror movies. He was over-imaginative and nothing more. He'd probably never call an event. Eventually the dreams would go away. I continued with this line of thinking for a few days until one of the nurses told me that I had a message.

It was, of course, from the old man. I went into the back room and played the message. You have one unheard message. After listening to it, I played it again. Then again. Each time my heart beat faster and my stomach dropped lower. This was as best as I could translate it. Forgive me if the translation seems a little garbled.

He wasn't necessarily talking clearly or concise when he made the call. It went. Last night, oh Christ's blood, I looked through that thing's eyes again. That creature is out there in the woods. I saw what I saw. Jesus Christo, I saw my cabin. It was so close. It's coming for me.

It's hunting me. I don't know what to do. For God's sake, help me. I called in the nurse to ask when the call was made. She informed me that it was only a few days old. I played the message for her, and she blanched. She realized the urgency of the message. I asked if she had received any more calls from him, but she had not.

I broke one of the rules of the clinic and used myself on. to call the number. There was no answer. I called again and a third time, but met with the same results. He clearly needed medical or mental assistance. I felt like I was responsible for what had happened. I reasoned that he had lost his marbles

and was not too frightened to go outside. His dreams had gotten worse. I searched the pharmacy in the clinic and couldn't find what I needed. So I went to an outside source I knew and picked up a few Valium. I'm no saint. I have my vices too. I decided that I was going to go to the community and find the old man.

I'd comb him down with some Valium and then convince him to seek some serious psychiatric help. What a fool I was. I arrived in the community at 10 in the morning and began to ask around for the old man's whereabouts. Most people's interest was piqued that a gringo was visiting, and after a few misleading conversations in which I was directed to a young girl's house in a vain attempt to play matchmaker, I managed to run into his daughter. She recognized me from the clinic and asked why I was visiting. I lied and said that it was procedure to check up on people that came in and I needed to speak to

the Viojo. She believed my story. and told me that he had gone up to his house in the mountain to be closer to his crops, so he could protect them from deer and less scrupulous farmers who would steal his beans and corn. She told me that the Villajo went up into the mountains at the start of winter, and wouldn't come down until harvest. At one o'clock, I decided to go up to the old man's shack and try to help him. I did my best to remember the path I had taken with his friend,

but I must have gotten turned around somewhere because I arrived a few hours later around 3 o'clock. The sky had gone from gray to black. Thunder rolled in the distance. I just wanted to find the old man and get him off the mountain and try to calm him down. With luck, we would avoid most of the rain.

I reached his house just as the first droplets began to fall. The door was open. I wasn't worried yet. It was common for people to leave their doors open in the temple. Most spend their time in front of their houses, or in the back with their door open to welcome in guests. I called out to the old man, but didn't get a response. I called louder and approached the small house.

Something didn't feel right, but I shut away the thought. The old man was probably in the woods nearby cutting wood to good. his dinner or something. I told myself this as I approached the cabin. I stood in the doorway, and it was there that I knew that my cut instinct had been right. The words, Oye, Viejo, died on my lips,

as I looked over the ravaged room. While little was in the room had been scattered about like there had been a micro-hurricane localized inside. His wooden table was flipped over And the plastic chairs had been hurtled across the room The hammock had been torn from the support beam and laid on the ground The support beam was cracked and it looked like it could fall any second The room was Spartan at best

But it looked like nothing was left untouched in the struggle The most disturbing thing in that room was the machete that was buried into the wooden one-winterested into the wooden wall. It took three pulls to remove it from the wall. It had bit deep, and whoever had swung it was definitely panicked about something. I didn't have much experience, but I knew that whoever had ravaged the house was dangerous, and I didn't want to meet them without something in my hand. The sound of rain pounding the tin roof pulled my attention away from the disheveled room. I looked out the door and saw the rain coming down in sheets.

Winter was here, and I had no intention of letting up. I could barely see a few feet in front of me in the heavy downpour. I wouldn't be able to find the path back to the community. I would be stuck up here until the rain passed. I passed the time looking around the one-room building. He used the hammock as a bit of a bit of a room. bed, and there were a few stones on the floor with two metal pieces across the top, and ashes beneath that he had used as a makeshift stove. Like many of the houses in the community, he had

dirt floors. On closer examination, I found that the dirt had been clawed and displaced its spots. I followed the path as it started in the middle of the room and worked its way to the door. It was in the doorway that I found something that made me want to run screaming into the night. In the doorway, buried in the wood, were three human nails. These nails had to belong to the old man. Something had come into his cabin and they struggled. In the process, they did all the damage that I surveyed. The old man had been knocked down and dragged through the door.

He had dug his nails into the doorpost and vain attempt to keep himself grounded. But whoever was pulling him was too strong. He had broken his fingernails off in the door. I remember shouting, fuck this, as I went out into the rain. There was no way I was going to stay in that small house a minute longer than necessary. The rain had lightened up, and my visibility in the rain had drastically improved. I could now see about 100 feet in front of me. Through the pounding rain, I looked up at the trail, which was now swamped with water.

Rivers of rain poured down the mountain and washed downward. There was no way I would be able to make it down the mountain without slipping and probably breaking my neck. I had to stay until the torrential downpour lesson. The rain continued as night fell. I killed time by toying with the machete. It was one of the types specifically designed for cutting firewood. But the carved top had snapped, and it seemed more like a foot-long knife. I left the machete by the door and sat down in the hammock.

I lost myself listening to the sound of rain pouring on the tin. I began to entertain the thought that I would be stuck up in these mountains until morning. I wouldn't have any problem sleeping in the hammock, but I preferred my bed to a hammock, and my room took preference over a cabin in which an old man had been drug out by force. I got out of the hammock for the fifth time to look out at the rain and see if my streak of bad luck would end any time soon. It only got worse. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I could have sworn I saw something in the shadows of the woods.

It didn't move. but it didn't mix in with the uniformity of the trees. My breath caught in my throat as I began to entertain thoughts that the old man had been right all along. I stood frozen in the doorway, watching the thing in the woods as if breaking eye contact would cause it to move. In the darkness, it just looked like a man standing in the woods. I couldn't even tell if he was facing my cabin or away from it.

A peal of lightning confirmed my worst fears. I caught only a glimpse of it, but a glimpse was all I needed to let out a scream. It was tall. It had to have been eight feet tall. Its arms sank down to its knees, and it was completely covered in matted hair. Its teeth were bared in something that looked to be

between a grimace of pain and the knife-slice-smile of a sadistic man. The brief flash of light died, but that image would be burned into my memory until the day of my death. Coincidentally, I may not have to wait long until then. I stood paralyzed in the doorway. A thought occurred to me as I stood there. I realized that if I made the slightest movement as if to run away, it would attack. I remained there watching it and watching me.

Seconds passed like minutes and minutes passed like hours. The ache set in after a few minutes of remaining completely motionless, but I buried it and soldiered on. The machete was inches away from my hand. I glanced at it, wondering if I could get it in my hand without attracting the ire of the beast. There was another peal of thunder, and when I looked back, it was gone. I thought that seeing it was bad enough, but when it was gone, I couldn't help but imagine it breathing down my neck. Not knowing where it was now was a hundred times worse.

I scanned the shadows and the downpour, but could find no shadowy figure watching me. I knew it was still nearby, and it was very focused on me, but I couldn't pinpoint its exact location. The sound of a stick breaking behind me alerted me to the position. It was behind the house now. How did it move so quickly? It had stood stone still for minutes. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was behind the house. I said a silent prayer to the God I never acknowledged up until this point.

I prayed that I would leave this rundown shack alive. There was nothing else I could do but pray. There was only one door into the house. It was searching for other entrances. Another stick snapped a few feet to the left, the last noise, and I knew it was moving. It was circling around to the front. I had to keep it out if I didn't want to suffer the same fate as the old man. I slammed the door shut and slid the bolt across.

The bolt was held in by a few nails in the rotten wood. It was not the sturdiest of barricades. I could hear the creature breathing just inches away from the door. My heart was close to exploding out of my chest. The rain was weakening. I waited for it to try and enter the rundown shack. But the longer I waited with my breath dying in my chest, the more I realized that it probably wasn't going to try.

The creature struck the door, and by sheer luck, the door held. The impacts and waves of recoil energy resonating through my now bruised shoulder. One hinge popped out of the wood and the bolt bent, but held fast. The rain now was just a patter on the roof. The creature gave a low, inhuman groan

and began to walk away. I couldn't figure out why until I recalled the old man's words. He said that he only dreamt of the creature when it was raining. He only saw it in the first rain. The creature had some connection to the rain. Did it only hunt in the rain? I waited in the silence and listened to the sound of water dripping off the roof into the soaked ground. I decided then and there that I would go down the mountain in the dark, because if the rain picked up again, it would return for me. I fled into that dark

night tripping and falling and didn't stop until I reached the village. I was taken in by a concerned villager, but no matter how hard he pressed the topic, he couldn't get me to talk. They say that they found a dent on the door bearing no mark of a human hand. He wanted to hear about how the old man was doing, but I knew to open up about that would break the floodgates open, and it would drive me insane. I was awake. The entire night and caught the first bus into Estelle in the morning. You're probably wondering, why am I so terrified? I escaped, and now it should be only a matter of avoiding the mountain.

No, nothing. You wanted to learn why I get so panic-stricken at the first sight of dark clouds? That night, as I listened to the rain, I drifted off. I was always unable to resist the sound of rain hitting a zinc roof. I dreamt. The things I dreamt! I saw something moving through the woods. It grabbed a tree, and I saw its hairy fingers wrap completely around the tree trunk.

It scaled the tree with ease. The thick tree creaked under its weight, but stayed upright. It crested the tree and looked out over its domain. There were woods all around it. The creature looked northward, and through its eyes I saw Estelle. The creature dropped down to the ground and began to head in that direction. It was heading towards me. The old man was right.

It was stalking him in his dreams. It was now stalking me. It would find me eventually. I could run. but it would always find me. The rain. It only moved in the rain. It wouldn't stop until it found me

and did to me what it did to the Vueho. You wanted to know why dark clouds make me tremble and the thought of rain makes me want to piss my pants? It's because I know that the next rain it will draw closer and closer to me. And today, it looks like the heaviest rain yet. For bonus episode, creepy presents the cliffs at Battery Point, written by Rebecca Cuthbert, and narrated by Heather Thomas. Now, what happened? Happened a long time ago.

And I'm only telling you now because your mom's told me she knows you played near the cliffs last weekend. I told her to keep you away. I said it's because the terrain isn't stable, that the plant life there has shallow roots, and you're liable to tumble right off with nothing to grip onto if you slip near the edge. The same things I told her when she was a girl, when I wouldn't let her play near them. I said I'd tan her hide if I found out she was playing there, and good things she believed me, because I'd had the switch ready. And you'd better not think I wouldn't really. raise a hand to you because you're my only grandson. I do it because you're my only grandson.

And all that stuff about the shifting ground and shallow root plants is true. But it's not the only reason you've got to keep away from there. Are you listening to me? Put that damn phone down. I didn't tell your mom this part. Keep it a secret. She already wants to put me in a home. never mind that I'd still do just fine, even with her grandpa gone. But she wants to, and if she heard this story, she'd have me packed up and sent off before the weekend. So I didn't tell her because she was a good girl who listened, but I'm telling you, because you're a brash, stupid boy. There used to be an animal shelter in town.

It was where Kate's kennels and grooming is now. You know the place. Well, I volunteered there. I was much younger then, and stronger, too. I could walk the big dogs, and I didn't mind the cleaning. I quit, though, after that nightmare night. What happened back then? It's the reason I'm missing half my pinky on this hand here.

Look at it, how the skin is puckered and scarred. Look! This is why I don't want you near the cliffs at Battery Point. You don't need to end up with missing parts, too. Well, that night, 40 years ago, give or take. The animal shelter was a madhouse. Cats coming in, dogs going out, an officer's meeting, and volunteers do-and-supply inventory, too.

A real shit show. Too many people running this way and that. Something was bound to happen. Something bad. See? There was a rule at the shelter. You opened the door, you shut it behind you. You opened a gate.

You shut it behind you. Everywhere, every time. But that night they weren't careful. I don't know who did it. No one ever confessed. Probably it was more than one person, everyone assuming someone else would pick up the slack. The dog's name was Diablo. I know you think I'm making that part up, but I'm not. Diablo was a yorky mix, a little dust mop of a thing.

Got surrendered for, I don't know why. Well, probably for something that got him his name. He was a little terror. I remember that. Or was before that night. Well, like that. I said. The volunteers weren't careful. Someone tried to take Diablo for a walk. Whoever it was, had him leashed up, leaving the kennel area, when they bent down to adjust his collar and bang. Diablo knit. The person dropped the leash and off Diablo ran. The door to the kennels had been left open. The door to the hallway had been left open. And, and, you know, the door to the hallway had been left open. And not one but both front doors were propped open, too, folks carrying cats in with both hands. It's hard not to blame the cat people for this. Who leaves both sets of doors propped open

at an animal shelter? Anyway, Diablo ran right out into the night, dragging his leash. It was red. Your mom thinks I'm getting pokey, but she's wrong. I'll always remember that leash was red. It was the middle of winter then, too. And that only made things worse. The manager raised the alarm, called all around to ask volunteers to go looking for him. Temperatures were down in the teens. You know how it gets this time of year. Just like it is now. Freezing and bleak and bitter. And Diablo, remember, he was so little. The size of a rabbit, it, really. And besides freezing, he could be hit by a car or taken by a stranger or snapped up by a fox or coyote or even a hawk. We used to have more wild animals back then. So I showed up to help, in a winter

coat but no mittens. I'd left the house in a rush, thinking only of that poor tiny dog in the elements. But I did wear boots, and that's what probably saved my toes that night. We split split up, the volunteers. We went in different directions to cover more ground. We spread out. They asked me to head out to battery point. So, that's what I did. And I'll always be partly glad and partly regretful that they gave the cliffs to me that night. Lord, how the wind howled, blew right through my coat and my sweater and my shirt. But I kept going. Trudged. Tudged. past Otter Street, past where the billboard stood, and passed where the deer trails cut in. Your grandpa was at work. He didn't even know I was out in that weather. Didn't find out till he

came home later and saw the note I'd left him. Not long after I got out there, the storm really hit. Snow fell in flat, wide flakes, and it was wet, a wet snow, a heavy snow. I remember how it waited everything down. Me and the trees and anything else unlucky enough to be out that night. Well, my face went numb inside 15 minutes. My hair was longer then, so dark it was almost black,

and it whipped around my head like tentacles. I remember wishing I'd tied it back. And with wet hair in my eyes and freezing wind in my face, I called for that little dog, walking the deer paths, soon losing sight of any body. buildings or lights, winding deeper and deeper into the woods, knowing the cliffs were somewhere

close. I knew because the waves crashed so loud against the rocks, I couldn't hear my own voice. It was snatched away from me as soon as I opened my mouth. There was all that working against me, and then bare branches and twigs caught at me too, making my progress slower. I tried to keep my hands in my pockets, but I was no skinny deer. I had to push the brush and the brush had to move through it, and I fell more than once, tripping on roots I couldn't see, putting my hands out to break my fall. Soon my palms were cut and scraped, but I only knew because I saw my own bloody handprints in the snow. I couldn't feel anything. Nothing hurt. I kept going, but I don't know how far. I still don't know how far. Those woods are bigger than they look,

and when you're inside of them, they just get bigger. Then an hour in, maybe two. I was lost, and I knew it. But I had no way of calling for help. The other volunteers were far away, searching other areas, other neighborhoods. Still and like a fool, I didn't worry for myself. The closer I got to the cliff edge,

the more I fretted for that dog, My worst fear was that he'd gone over the side. He wouldn't have known where the ground fell away. I didn't either. When I came out from the brush, I found myself less than a foot from the edge with the earth shifting and breaking under my feet. I threw myself backward.

I grabbed up brown stalks that snapped off in my hands, kicked out, scrambled. Stones clattered over the edge, and I thought about how just as easily It could have been me, or Diablo. And if he did fall, and the rocks didn't kill him, his battered little body would have been drowned by the icy waters of Lake Erie, and picturing him like that, and ending I tried to stop and couldn't,

made my insides feel hollow. Well, I lay there for a long time like that, letting the worry wash over me. When I sat up, I saw that I'd torn my coat, and my pants were smeared with cold mud. I put a hand to my face and found my cheek was bleeding too. I was a sad, sorry mess, and I had no dog to show for my troubles. I stood, careful of the cliff edge, and that's when I saw Diablo's tiny footprints leading under a bush, not yet filled in by the snow that kept on coming.

I followed the prints, of course, leaving even the deer pass behind as I pushed through briars and branches and long, whip-like reeds. I moved parallel to the cliff. It was just six or eight feet to my left. The waves crashed and crashed, one rolling over the other, and it was like the way my heartbeat in my chest. Hope washing over worry, washing over fear, washing over more worry. Finally, I broke through heavy brush and came upon a little clearing,

maybe ten feet across, with saplings and branches bending. toward its center, like a domed ceiling. The noise of the cliffs quieted, like everything outside of that secret little circle didn't exist anymore. And then I saw him. Them, at first I thought he was caught up in a prickerbush. There was another one of my worries.

With him dragging his leash, he could get stuck somewhere, trapped. And I said, Diablo! And I took a step forward. and then I saw the branches tighten around him, lift him off the ground. I stopped. Something was holding on to him. I didn't understand what I was looking at, and then I saw its eyes, yellow-green like dyeing grass, and somehow I knew mean, angry.

At me. I learned then it had a mrs. mouth because it snarled. I was torn. I wanted to run. I was terrified, but I couldn't leave Diablo, and even if I wanted to, I don't think I could have moved. I just stood and stared, wondering how any of it could be real. That thing, whatever it was, had limbs like twisted sticks, the color of grain bone, fared in places with some kind of hanging moss, are lacking. Its body was pitted and dark, cragged like a rotten log I could only half-see. I'd have never told it apart from the trees and brush around it if it hadn't been holding Diablo.

If it hadn't looked at me with those bright, horrible eyes, I held my breath. I might have held it forever, or at least until I passed out, but then Diablo wind. He wasn't pain. The thing was squeezing him. That broke the spell. Please, I said, it was a whisper. And that quiet clearing, though, the thing heard it. I said it again, louder, pushing the words through numb lips. But who knew if it spoke English?

If it spoke at all, its eyes narrowed into slits and there was a low rumble, like a growl. Diablo whined again. It ended in a high-pitched shriek. I took a step forward. The thing was hurting that poor dog, and I had to get him. He's not yours, I said. My voice was shaking. It didn't sound like mine.

But I was trying to make whatever it was, understand. You're hurting him. Please. I didn't know why it wanted Diablo to be. begin with. Did it eat small animals? Hurt them for fun? But the reason didn't matter. If I couldn't get him back, he'd be dead soon enough. My mind raced. I felt so alone, so helpless. Then it moved. It backed away, glaring, testing me. It moved again, toward a gap in the brush behind it. I was going to lose track of it of Diablo too, so I lunged.

There was nothing else to do. I had no weapon, so I had to fight it with my bare hands. That red leash was like a flag in the weak moonlight. I reached for it with one hand while punching out with the other. I thought if I could knock the thing back and get Diablo's leash, I could grab him and make a break for it. Try to outrun the thing, but it didn't work. out like I hoped. Most things in life don't. You'll learn that. The creature jerked Diablo back and

away. My fist landed close to its mouth, and it bit down. I heard a yelp, mine or the dogs, and felt bright hot pain, even through the numbness. Those eyes green-like, like the sky before a tornado hits. Not human or animal. Something else, and too close to mine. Burning. Angry. I kicked it then. Once or more. It's hard to remember. It still had my hand in its teeth. It wouldn't let go. Nothing in my life had ever hurt so much. With my good hand, I held Diablo's leash and yanked, but the creature only bit down harder. I screamed. I think that set Diablo off because he bit down on the thing holding him and it screamed too. Or I think it did. The sound was like wind tearing through a canyon. It released us both. But something sharp raked at my face. It's claws, I guess, or I don't know what. I barely felt it because all the pain my body could feel was in my hand. And I saw the stump of my finger and things got. I got hazy from there. I must have pulled Diablo close to my chest. We were both shaking.

That I remember. That I can almost still feel. And I put him in my bloody hand inside my jacket because I didn't know what else to do. I think we were both in shock. They found us in the morning, still in that clearing, propped up against the base of a little tree. It was your Grandpa who got to us first. He told me later that, when hours had passed and I didn't come back to the shelter with the rest of the volunteers, the search changed. They called him, and then everyone went out looking for me. Before they found me, Grandpa and the others had the same worries about the cliffs, about the rocks and water below. They saw a few prints in the snow.

They saw the blood. They panicked, and they feared the worst. And when Grandpa found me, he sobbed. But I don't remember that. I don't remember anything until I was in a hospital bed. My hand all wrapped up, bandages taped tied across the ugliest of the cuts and scrapes. I'd gotten the night before. I'd been hypothermic, Grandpa said.

Bleeding and unresponsive. Half my pinky gone. The stump, ragged. Diablo was still in my arms, though, safe and warm enough. I had saved him, just like I meant to. Of course, they asked me what attacked us, what had bitten me. But what could I say? Not the truth.

So I said it was too dark. I didn't see it. Grandpa guessed coyote, and I let him believe it. I kept Diablo. I insisted on it. Had that dog eight more years, and he never left my side. He had nightmares, though, I could tell. His little legs kicking, growling in his sleep.

I'd pet him and tell him he was safe, but I had my own nightmares too. Afterward, even years later, I'd wonder, was it even real? Did I imagine that thing? All sticks and sharpness, strange eyes and black hole mouth? Was it just a delusion prompted by shock and hypothermia? Maybe. But I don't think so. The parts I do remember? They're not fuzzy at the edges, the way dreams are. They're crisp and they're clear, and then for a patch they're gone. And then I was in the hospital. How well I can still see all of it.

That's how I know I didn't make it up. That and the other missing pets. Mostly cats, but small dogs too. All in that neighborhood. Coyotes, they said. But I knew better. And so did Diablo. And now?

So do you. So that's it. That's my story. Your mom will be home any minute. Do you understand now? Why I don't want you near the cliffs at battery point? Not in the woods, not on the deer paths. Because that thing might be there still.

And it might not be the only one. Promise me you'll stay away. Swear it. Promise me. 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 Commons Sherrillite licensing,

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