Creepy - Epidermiss

Episode Date: May 25, 2026

Epidermiss (starts at 1:52)***Written by: Rosie Shrike and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Content warning: bullying, suicide ideation***Feeding (starts at 25:16)***Written by: Joseph Yenkavitch and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***A Bright Blue Flash (starts at 48:03)***Written by: JT Johnson***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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, much simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Quick apology to anyone listening

on a local AM radio right now. I know that the broadcast is getting a little bit of a late start, but for some reason, all the settings at the station have been adjusted. Not sure why, and there's no one around to ask, but it took me some trial and error to get things back on track.

And speaking of back on track, let's do better about staying up to date with new patrons by welcoming and thanking J.R. Olivia Barron Sammy, Player and Sam Harley Hellheim, Che, Deacon Tea,

and Pickled Raven. To see how you can support the show and get all kinds of rewards, please check out the reward tiers at patreon.com slash creepy pod. Okay, on with the show before things start to get weird again. First up, after a devastating breakup, a deeply insecure woman tries a viral beauty product

that promises flawless skin. only to discover that her desperate pursuit of beauty may have unleashed something horrifying beneath the surface. From writer Rosie Shrike and narrated by Nicole Goodnight, creepy presents epidermis. I would have done anything to be pretty. I started plucking and popping as a teenager. Razor burn, the tinkle of bleach on my scalp,

the sudden uprooting of hair follicles with hot wax. Little rituals learned from my mom, who was grief-stricken that I had inherited her looks. painful, yes, but nothing compared to the constantly gnawing void of my own ugliness. A person could go crazy if they look into that void too long. I did. It'd been a few weeks since Megan dumped me. The apartment felt like a funeral home without shitty pop music bouncing off the walls.

The breakup was inevitable. Honestly, she was painfully out of my league. She was a beautiful go-getter. I was a lumpy sack of depressed shit. I missed her more than anything. Her thousand-watt smile, her boldness, the way her button nose would crinkle when she laughed, and how she would snort if I made her crack up hard enough.

Scrolling on the apps was the only activity mine-numbing enough to distract me. The only way I found that could feel the silence that she left behind. It was one of those masochistic TikTok doom scrolls that I saw the ad that almost killed me. It was for a face mask. A gorgeous woman with glossy blonde hair and sparkling eyes address the camera with a chirpy, aggressive friendliness. When I say I saw differences after just one use, I mean it, girl.

She cooed, cutting from footage of her applying the minty green paste to her standing profoundly with fresh-washed skin. She was flawless. My pores haven't been the same since. I wasn't naive. Everyone uses filters. That's not even getting into strategic lighting, perfectly placed contour, the million other tricks seasoned beauty influencers have. This wasn't like that. She wasn't hiding behind filters or good lighting. Frankly, she looked like she was in a warehouse with harsh overhead fluorescence laying her bare. Yet her skin was smooth as glass.

When she zoomed in to pan over her cheek and the bridge of her nose, I couldn't see a single pore. I looked up from my phone to that old disappointment in my mirror. My eyes were drab and lifeless. My nose with its wide, flaring nostrils like a squashed fruit on the center of my greasy face. My thin lips chapped and clotted. I ran my finger along the same route she took. I felt the awful topography of acne scars, the roughshod terrain of my oil-clogged pores,

the swath of blackheads that covered my huge nose and puffy cheeks, the years of bullying, the loneliness, the shame. I know you feel insecure. I do too. Her smile turned gentle, blue eyes brimming with the kind of compassion usually seen in sainthood. Don't you deserve a change?

Don't you want to feel beautiful? Let me give you that. Quick, go to my TikTok shop link and enjoy 75% off the best self-care secret you'll ever get. Get an extra 20% off if you order in the next half hour. I ordered a bottle immediately. Even at the time, I knew it was a stupid idea. Again, I wasn't naive, but I was desperate. I would have done anything to be pretty.

I'd almost forgotten about the mask when it arrived a month later, postmarked from some fulfillment warehouse I didn't recognize, and covered with warnings to not freeze the contents. It was a clean little squeeze bottle, soft pink with girlish text and blazoned over an image of a fairy calling the product, Nymph. Nymph had very specific instructions. Once a day I had to expose my face to steam for 10 minutes exactly,

scrub the mask thoroughly into my skin to let the exfoliating beads really clean out my pores, let it sit for 15 minutes, they say, exactly again here, rinse it off gently with cool water. A little odd, but I'd seen weirder online. At least I didn't have to tape my mouth shut. I followed the instructions to the letter with my nightly routine. Wiping steam from the mirror, I looked into the smeary reflection once, twice, half bent over my counter and disbelief, practically crawling against the mirror to make sure I was seeing this correctly. The greasy black model of my pores was completely changed. Tan, toned, tight. Even more than that, I looked good, dewy and supple. My face felt smoother, softer, tolerable. It's so embarrassing to say,

looking back on it, but I cried. I felt this awful weight lift off of me like I could start living, like I could finally, finally be beautiful. The itching, started three days afterwards. It was mild at first, like an allergic reaction. Irritating, but the kind of thing I could mostly ignore. The day after, though, it had gone from a whispering annoyance to the only thing I could focus on. It was like something microscopic was chewing on the inside of my pores. It was unbearable. The second I stopped itching the horrible sensation came back ten times worse. My coworkers gossiped as I dug my nails into my flesh, gawking at the blood under my fingernails.

I stopped using the mask, of course. I switched to sensitive skin cleaners and changed my washcloths constantly. I started taking Benadryl, even though it made me not off at work. I made plea after plea to my traitorous skin. But it never let up. My face radiated heat, raw and painfully sensitive from my obsessive clawing. When I ran my hands along my irritated skin, I felt bumps forming just under the surface.

Over the next few days, they grew hard with like tiny plastic beads nestled in my pores. I tried to tell my co-workers of my few close friends that I'd been camping and gotten bit by mosquitoes. But they were clearly unconvinced. It was only after they doubled in size that I realized the depth of my mistake. Maybe it's cystic acne, I thought bitterly, halfway through my nightly routine. I was pushing down on a particularly pernicious bump on my jaw, as if that could flatten the surface. As if I couldn't get any uglier. It pushed back.

It was quick. A split-second twitch. But clear as day, I felt a tiny, something squirm under my fingertip. I flinched back and honest-to-god yelped. I gathered up my courage and pressed a fingertip to my jaw once again. The bump was fever-warm, churning and nodding like a microscopic menstrual cramp. It could have been my pulse. I tried to rationalize a trick of my mind.

But I knew it was more than that. I knew how my pulse felt, and this wasn't it. Fuck this, I thought to myself. Any dermatologist or beauty guru worth their salt knows that popping your pimples is risky. You might introduce bacteria from your hands into the open wound you create. But anyone who's actually struggled with bad skin knows having them gone is worth any temporary grossness, especially those who couldn't look any worse, like myself. With the scrutiny of a surgeon, I appreciate.

pinch the twitching bump between my fingers. My reflection stared back mutely. Puffy eyes narrowed and thin mouth pressed into an ugly line. Twitch. Twitch. I pushed out the itching of the other growths, honing on this one, pushing harder, harder, the bump giving way than suddenly rigid again, growing, defending itself. God damn it, come on! I grunted, pushing back harder until the pustule burst with a painful wet squelch. sending vile, chunky fluid from my pore. It hit the sink basin, and I immediately started to wash it down the drain, disgusted at myself. As the glob of fluid spun around the drain and vanished inside, I caught a brief glimpse of something that turned my stomach.

A soft, translucent shape, bristling with little spines. Insect legs. I'm sorry, ma'am, the dermatology centers receptionists said with a rehearsed pity that conveyed the exact opposite, I understand you're experiencing some skin concerns, but Dr. Kemper is at a symposium until next Monday. Even then, with our limited availability, I'm better off going to urgent care? I cut her off. She was the tenth receptionist to tell me the same thing, and I was tired of hearing it. My voice rose into a desperate, cracking yell. I went to urgent care. They told me to see a dermatologist, and I called nine other fucking offices to completely shut me down, and now I'm here about to get turned away again when my face is covered.

in these tiny tumors and you won't just let me see a fucking dermatologist? There was a lengthy pause. I felt a throbbing growth push up from the epidermis of my cheek, one of too many. There were the size of marbles at this point, nearly tripling since the incident the night before. There's something wrong with me. I choked out, trying my best not to let on that I was starting to cry. I failed miserably. She sighed, either out of annoyance or pity.

I heard her long, manicured nails tap, tap, tapping on her keyboard for a moment before she finally said, Dr. Kemper is getting in late next Monday, but he lives near the office. I can tell him about your... Pressing concerns, and he can see you after clothes. 7.30. I accepted immediately. So overcome with relief, I didn't even thank her. It was only after the call that the grim reality set in.

I'd have to wait eight days for an answer. My already flaccid social life withered and died. I spent each day leading up to the appointment obsessing over everything dermatology, almost losing my job one day when my boss caught me looking at scabies instead of spreadsheets. I found articles on allergies and contact dermatitis, on oil clogs and hives. All things that could cause itching and lesions. Yes, but nothing as rapidly growing as what I had. I tried searching up the brand nymph

and only found pictures of storybook fairies and articles. I scrolled for hours and never found that account again. Soon I didn't have to look over my shoulder anymore. My skin had gotten so bad that I was practically forced to take sick time so my open-air office mates wouldn't have to look at the oozing buds pulsing all along the bridge of my nose. I told my friends I needed some time to myself and ignored their messages of sympathy.

I didn't want them to see me deteriorate. The little pinprick blackheads I used to torture myself over were dwarfed by these massive, painful grape-sized knots. The tan I'd mistaken for skin turned to a larval off white. Globes of maggot meat pushed greedily against the walls of my epidermis, like they were testing the limits, seeing how far I could be molded, how big they could grow. In my dreams, I woke up in a deep, dark cave. It was so dim that I could barely make out the shape of its walls with my straining eyes. It was humid. The kind of muggy heat that you drink more than breathe?

I felt every clammy spot of my body. Felt beads of sweat and rank cave condensation drip down the back of my elongated spine. Miraculously, I couldn't feel the bumps or their painful itch anymore. I tried to grope my face, so happy to be free of my pain. But I couldn't reach to touch. I couldn't move at all. Panic gripped me. I tried to break free undulating from side to side, but it was no good.

I was tangled in myself. Encazed in some sort of membranous hole, I craned my neck trying uselessly to see what could be holding me and felt a fresh horror when I pressed my digits against the greasy walls of my prison. It was breathing. I shrieked with foreign lungs, and the echo shook the pulsing sacks walls, sending more rank liquid on my face and into my open mouth.

Puss. This was no cave. It was a coffin. And I would die if I couldn't escape. I gagged, spluttering and choking on the disgusting fluid. I was like a prey animal desperately moving in any way I could to escape my confines. Flailing my limbs against the thin material, feeling it's starting to give to shred. Yes, yes, let me out!

The air was growing thin, the smell of my own body repulsive. The sound of my scratching like a thousand insect legs. I kept slipping on oil and pus, but I dug against the walls, began chewing with all my strength, swallowing chunks of bitter, rubbery lining. My vision growing blurry with the lack of off. oxygen, but freedom so close, nearly something I could identify until I was jolting upright in bed. I tried to catch my panicked breath, tried to forget the whole thing and get as much sleep as my painful bumps would allow. Even in the cold, sweat, stark truth of my room, I swore I could still

hear my desperate scratching, somewhere distant, but steadily growing closer. So, Lindsay, I heard you've been suffering from some unpleasant dermatitis. Dr. Kemper was a short, bald little man whose shiny head looked like a hard-boiled egg on a little serving cup. His nasally voice sounded like a bad pastage of Kermit the Frog, but it was music to my ears. I'd made it eight days somehow. He gave me a pitying smile as he saw how covered up I was, a cloth face mask and beanie, leaving only a little exposed skin for me to perch sunglasses on. The soft fabric of the mask was like broken glass against my weeping skin. I opened my mouth to respond, but my face pulsated indignantly. Clearly the bumps wanted to do.

speak for themselves, so I took off my face coverings without a word. Doctors, in my experience, are good at keeping their cool. They're taught how to be compassionate and collected. To keep the severity of the situation away from their worried patient, Dr. Kemper's wide-eyed stare betrayed that facade. Well, he gopped. I'm glad you came to see us. I told him everything in halting bursts. The ad, the mask, how my complexion had gone from mildly. the irritated to colonized within two weeks, he didn't recognize the skincare brand either, let alone the kind of allergic reaction it was giving my skin. After that, I gave him the squeeze bottle of that damn mask and let him pull a little fluid from my face. Even with the size of my

growths, I felt every millimeter of the cold needle plunging in, felt myself grow just a little lighter without some of my contents. I'd suffered for eight days straight only to be sent back out in less than 30 minutes with some prescription cream and a promise that they would run tests on the mask and sample as soon as their technician could manage. Every bump on the uneasy ride to the pharmacy brought on a fresh wave of squirming. I hid my face as best I could, calculating how to get my medicine and leave in the least amount of steps. None of that would matter. Lindsay? Shit, I knew that voice instantly. I'd heard it so often, singing along off-key to terrible pop music, joking about shitty bosses, giving me the

It's not you, it's me speech. Megan was across the aisle grabbing vitamins. Even in running clothes, she was gorgeous. Face a glow with a faint sheen of exertion. Sun-kissed complexion still dewy in the harsh drugstore lighting. She approached me like a compassionate zookeeper

approaches a frightened animal. Slowly, with a gentle smile and apologetic eyes. My warm breath was fogging up my sunglasses. The heat of my skin permeated my mask. My sweat stung the swollen nodules that crowded the corners of my vision, like tumorous walnuts pressing insistently against each other.

Why was she here? Why now? I'm sick, was all I could blurt out, taking a step away from her. One wrong move, one twitch of a pustule, and she would know. She would see the monster I turned into. See just how right she was to dump me. Mercifully, she stopped. We stood three shelves apart like a standoff from a terrible spaghetti western.

"'That sucks?' she said with a sympathetic wince. "'I'm—' "'Look, I'm sorry I bothered you. "'I know it's shitty to try and do this here, "'but I just don't love how things went when—' "'Her lips kept moving, but I couldn't hear a word. "'Megan's voice, the canned music on the shop speakers, "'the ambient noise of shoppers,

"'was all drowned out by a cacophony of muffled wriggling. "'Something I felt more than heard, "'like the sound of fluid and bronchial lungs. millions of microscopic legs crawling on my bone marrow. Insistent, getting louder by the second. My stomach lurched in nausea as the awful tumors on my face quivered, so heavy and obvious that I could no longer mistake them for anything other than independently living things that were now awake and writhing deep inside of my epidermis.

Dozens of masses, both ticklish and torturous as their contents writhed, pushed and pressed against me, testing the limits of their little confines. and desperate to get out. Each spasm was a railroad spike of blinding pain straight through my frontal lobe. Each part of my face, my bloated cheeks, my squashed tomato nose, the papery skin under my dull eyes was alight with a sea of ebbing and flowing agony, as the bumps that blanketed my face began to split and crack, weeping foul, clear fluid that seeped through my face mask.

And so my therapist was saying that maybe... Jesus, Linz, are you okay? Fuck off! I cried out. Each sound my mouth shaped out, agitating the shuddering masses more and cracking my abused skin. Fresh blood mixing with spoiled pus, a rank serum dribbling into my mouth. I was sprinting out before she could say anything more, shoving past shoppers and workers, hands clamping my sodden face mask down tight, hoping that the dribbling liquid could form a sort of plaster and keep the inevitable from happening. I know you feel insecure. Two blocks from my condo.

I had to survive two more blocks. I didn't have the medicine, but it couldn't do anything for me now. Nothing could. I do, too. I ran not caring about traffic or who I had to shove aside to get home, lungs burning, skin burning, brain burning, everything on fire with all-consuming pain and fear. Oh, God, get out of my way. Don't look at me. Don't you deserve a change?

My ankle caught on the curb and I stumbled, barely catching myself and sending my hand slamming into my chin in the process. My vision went white with pain. A postule opened in an explosion of suicide. squelching fluid and I felt the awful relief of its weight spilling onto the ground below me. Don't you deserve to feel beautiful? A passerby screams. I don't stay to see what fell out of me.

I'm almost home. The red stucco roof of the condo two houses over. Just one last push and I'll be away from all these people. They're prying eyes, their disgusted stairs. I can give you that. I turned the key in the door staggering into the dim living room with a ragged cry of triumph. Half ran, half limp to the sink, leaving a trail of chunky blood clots and fluid in my wake.

My face revolting escaping itself. When I say I saw a difference after just one use, I mean it, girl. I was terrified to take off the mask. Even as the squirming noise became a deafening drone, even as the postules broke further and further open, even as I knew what I would find, my pores haven't been the same since. I didn't even need to peel the mask off.

They did it for me. One right after the eye. Together, hundreds of frantic pinchers and insect legs shredded their egg casings and burst from every pore on my face, chitness bodies snaking out from my flesh. Every covering I'd put on my face was pushed aside by the weight of a hundred giant centipedes, hatching from my soft tissue. My vision completely obscured by the writhing of long insectoid bodies and greedily scrabbling legs. My eyes swam with tears in the pain of my countless offspring using them for leverage to climb fully out of the eggs. I'd been gestating for weeks now. All I heard was the chattering of carapaces and soft clicking of pinchers on my abused flesh.

All I could feel was the awful, hideous pushing, like fingers forcing their way out. Every sense I once held deer was forfeit. My body wasn't mine anymore. I was nothing more than a host. I tried to focus my eyes against the unbelievable torture, tried to find my nose that I'd hated so much amidst the sea of carnage. I wanted to die. I wanted someone, some merciful bystander to set my condo on fire with me in it.

I wanted every trace of my hideous face burned to ash. With a broken scream, I grabbed a tight handful of the wriggling insects, still half lodged in my face and pulled with all of my might. Blinding pain gave way to nothingness. Lemon-scented sterility. A bright light pierced my vision. A low whistle of wind. Pain.

Unimaginable pain. Awareness came in horrible waves. One sensation crashing into me at a time until I was awake in a hospital room. I gripped the hem of my thin paper gown. That was real. I ran my hands along my hated body, feeling the solid warmth. I was alive. I hovered my shaking fingers over my face.

I couldn't see myself, but I couldn't see the insects either. Slowly, hesitantly, I touched my cheek and felt my fingers. slide easily into the massive holes in my face. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I started freaking in pain, in terror, each cavernous flesh pit quivering with my voice. Each gasping inhale sending air whistling through the perforated sack of screaming meat I had become.

The nurses ran in trying to call me while shouting out codes, bringing an attendant to prick me with a syringe as I jammed my fingers deeper into my ruined epidermis, desperate to tear at the exposed nerves and end it. They had to keep me sedative. for several days. I needed multiple serious skin grafts, stitches, and around-the-clock observation for a week after I woke up to keep me from hurting myself. The doctors didn't believe me at first. They'd never seen someone with their pores carved open like this and thought it was self-inflicted. That changed when the dermatologist came back with those test results. The mask was teeming with

centipede eggs. The careful instructions on use just ensured my face was the perfect hatchery. The authorities got involved and kept telling me they're looking into it. I doubt they'll find anything. I've looked everywhere I could. But I can't find any indication the account I saw ever even existed. When I look in the mirror, I see a patchwork quilt of scar tissue and grafted flesh. I used to dream of the day where I wouldn't recognize my reflection. I would give anything to have my face back every single flaw.

I'm recovering now as best I can. Physical therapy has helped, but I'll never be the same. All I can do now is share my story. I hope it can help someone out there. Please, whatever you do, do not buy skin care from the TikTok shop. You never know what could be living in it. And next. A relaxing sailing trip through tropical waters turns into a waking nightmare

when a group of friends discovers an abandoned boat drifting alone in the open ocean. From writer Joseph Yankovic and narrated by Owen McCune, creepy presents, feeding. I could hear the rest of them telling me to get a move on, but I was more transfixed on the expanse of water beyond the palm edge promontory, the clouds like something you could rest your head on, and the soft, steady, warm breeze. If there was a perfect afternoon for sailing, this was it.

Yes, yes, I yelled. Just savoring what we have ahead of us. I turned and went back to help load the supplies onto the schooner. My wife, Tammy, shook her head, but not angrily. when she carried a cooler below. Our two friends and their son lifted their provisions over the gunwale onto the apt seats.

Tim slapped my back and said he understood and thanked me for inviting them. They boarded while I untied the lines and followed them. We couldn't sail out of the harbor so I started the engine and backed us out of the berth. Once free, we puttered between

anchored boats and out into open water. Just past the promontory, I raised the sails as my wife took wheel. Quickly, the sails filled as she maneuvered the boat until the sails were tightly stretched, pulling us along into the ocean. I took the wheel. Listening to the gentle swish as the hull cut through the water, I put my foot up and called out for a beer. Tammy already had it ready, accustomed to the ritual, and went back below. I did it when she sailed out. I looked back at the island as Tammy puttered below, getting drinks for everyone. We had a

place there for decades, nothing big, and never grew tired of it. Something about tropical islands fed into your sense of adventure, as well as tossing cares away. Tim, Grace, and their son Tyler were friends back home in Cold New England, but this was the first time they were able to join us. I think Grace was a little intimidated being so far from home, but probably more so from the news circulating about the two lost boats and crews. We're probably in the bad part of a cycle. Every so often, tragedies clump together, then there's a stretch of nothing. It happens everywhere, usually nothing more than bad seamanship. Everyone had found spots to sit on the top of the cabin or at the bow. No one said anything,

letting the warm air flow over them as we sailed westward. Tammy returned and handed out drinks. I felt good for them because it was a feeling I never got over, just as I never got over the feeling of just keeping on sailing, going who knew where. Tammy sat beside me. Her hand rested on my knee while she scanned the sky, not looking for anything, more just taking in the blue and the clouds. I think secretly she wished it was just the two of us, but we'd been promising this trip to the others for quite a while. She sipped her drink and leaned back. We were each in the grip of a dream we never wanted to end. The sailing was easy.

It was one of those days when the wind stayed about as steady as it could. We had no real plans and just let the direction of wind carry us along. I barely had to trim the sails. In no time the island we'd left slowly lowered below the horizon until only the open ocean surrounded us. The waves were running around afoot and there was barely any motion on the boat. Two hours out, we had all settled down to relaxes. with intermittent conversations.

It was like a great unwinding. I knew Tim and his family needed it, well with his business problems and all, and Tyler finishing his last grueling year of college. Tammy had moved to a long bench seat, reading a book. What do you say we have some lunch, I said. Your turn this time. She nodded it was a good idea and went below.

Twenty minutes later, she appeared with sandwiches and snacks. Everyone came aft, got their food, and returned to their previous spots. The seas had become a bit choppier, but no one noticed except perhaps Grace. I smiled at her, letting her know everything was going smoothly. I put the tiller pilot on the wheel

to keep us going in the same direction and settled down to eat. Thumbing through a chart as I munched, I confirmed our direction would take us near a large island. That would work out well. We could anchor and spend time on a beach, maybe stay overnight.

Conversations got a bit livelier with a lot of questions about sailing. I mentioned again we had the perfect day and pointed out another sailboat a mile or two to the west. I watched it and felt the comfort of the ordinary. Another group of sailors enjoying themselves using a fair wind to go somewhere special. I sipped my drink, glancing at our sails now and then

to be sure they were correctly trimmed. I unhooked my binoculars to see if I recognize the other boat. That's when I noticed something seemed wrong. The boat was moving erratically, rolling in a beam wind and then straightening. It was hard to know from this distance, but the sails certainly weren't being tended to. It could be people letting the boat meander while they, well, did more interesting things, but I asked Tammy to take a look. That boat out there, I said, doesn't seem to be in control.

I'm wondering if we should go over. She peered through the monoculars, first mentioning the same erotic thought I had, but agreed we should head that way. I figured the wind would be favorable enough to get us there. Otherwise, there was always the engine. We told the others what we were doing. It didn't take long to arrive. I recognized the name Wanderlust. A boat with that name had been lost not long ago.

I called out. No answer. There was no doubt about my first. impression that the boat was untended. The sails flapped, sometimes loudly. I called it again. Sailors, good sailors, don't just let their boat bounce around like this. At least you lower the sails. We pulled alongside and I tied up after lowering my main mast. Halliards and shackles slapped the aluminum masks from both boats, clanking noises I usually associated with carefree sailing, now relaying tension. One more yell.

and I climbed aboard. Nothing seemed a miss. I peeked into the cabin, unsure I wouldn't find a couple below canoodling, but when I went down, I found no one. Everything seemed neat and in order. The front berth looked like a setup in a department store. Back in the cabin, a few foodstuffs lined the stove area,

but no water came out when I turned on the faucet. The head, neat as a pin. I went back on deck. Nothing, I said to the faces lined up watching me. It's like a showroom in there, but no people. Grace let out a sob. As I surveyed the ocean around us, I offered one opinion. I hope these dumbasses didn't jump overboard for a swim and couldn't get back on.

Tammy gave me a look that said I wasn't helping. Better call the Coast Guard, I quickly said. I went below for the radio, but there wasn't one. No way a cell phone worked out here. These people must have really been stupid. A dinghy was tied up to the stern. My opinion of the people went from stupid to imbecilic. You're stuck in the water, so then get into the dinghy at least.

Easy climb from there on board. I began to wonder if this boat ever had any freaking people on it and just broke loose somewhere. I climbed back onto my boat and headed for my radio. On my way, Grace's hand. touched my arm like someone looking for assurance. I patted her shoulder. Tim wrapped his arm around her. The radio made its usual staticky sound as I turned it on. Calling Coast Guard, I spoke. When I got the same noise, I more delicately adjusted the channel and asked again. This time a voice came on, asked the usual questions, and I told them about the wanderlust. I gave them the coordinates,

but the man said it would be about an hour before they got there. Could I wait a way to be. around? I agreed and signed off. For a moment, we both looked at each other unsure about what was going on. Things happened on boats, some inconvenient, some tragic. This situation, however, seemed odd. We each shrugged and knew our carefree day was going to have a little blemish in it. I stepped back, ready to go on deck, when my foot slipped on something and I glanced down. A thin layer of water covered the floor. As I reached for the pump switch and turned it on, Tyler yelled and we rushed on deck. As we got there, he was pointing at something underwater pulling away from the bow.

I didn't have time to take a closer look as I heard gurgling. Looking below, I saw that the thin layer of water had progressed to several inches and was rising. I could see the pump couldn't keep ahead of it, and now the boat began listing. The side of the wanderlust seemed higher. We were sinking. I ordered everyone onto the other boat. By the time I'd hoisted Tamia board, I had to pull myself up with both hands. I looked down at the sinking boat and caught a last glimpse of the shape Tyler had seen receding under the wanderlust.

Within seconds, my boat was gone, the sail, a white raf disappearing into the ocean. We stood on the deck, everyone speechless. I still stared into the water wondering about what Tyler had seen. whatever it was, the connection with the sinking of my boat was something I couldn't ignore. I waited, expecting the same fate for this boat. But nothing happened. I heard nothing. I checked below, and there wasn't a trace of water.

When I returned, Grace had fainted on a seat, Tim comforting her. Even Tammy, always solid in storms and boat mishaps, was visibly shaken. They looked to me for an answer. Let's get this boat underway and head to the island I was heading for, I said instead. We're much closer to that than home. I'll contact the Coast Guard from there and tell them why we left. I needed to get grace among other people and at least a sense of safety. Getting the boat headed into the wind, I could see that to get to the island, at best we'd have a beam-reach wind and decided to also use the motor.

I looked for the starter. It was then that I noticed none of the instruments on the panel were working. Not only that, but they seemed more like something only for show. I turned the wheel. Nothing happened. It just spun lazily like it was attached to nothing.

I kept it from showing on my face, but my thoughts weren't racing to a positive conclusion. A harder look down below was in order. What I expected turned out to be true. Nothing worked there either. And then I noticed for the first time the boat itself was disjointed. Everything was there, to be sure, but edges didn't line up. Pipes in the head were askew, unusable, and portholes weren't aligned with the hull,

like a boat thrown together with your eyes closed. I didn't know what to tell everyone. Tell them we were on a make-believe boat? Hardly. But they were going to notice I wasn't at the helm and we weren't going anywhere. I wish I'd retrieved a flare from my boat before he left it in case we saw another boat. Only one option. I decided to lay it out as it is.

No histrionics, just the facts, and hoped they'd accept, hey, they had to, that we were stuck out here until someone came along. I went on deck and gave them the news. I expected something bad from Grace, but she just sat stunned. Tim and Tyler agreed, stone-faced. Tammy understood without telling her. I tried to alleviate the uncertainty by saying I knew someone would come along. This was a popular place. As for myself, I had the oddest feeling this wasn't only a waiting game.

Tammy had gone below, probably to get food or drink, but I knew how that would end. She returned holding a bag that she turned upside down and nothing came out. She matter-of-factly said it was the same with everything down there. I wasn't surprised. The clacking shankles and the flumping sails were driving me crazy, so I lowered the sails and tied off the halliards. A cool wind had come up. The boat rocked and waves slapped the hull like an impatient hand.

Tim carried Grace below with help from Tyler. I really didn't want them down there. I didn't trust the boat, and not just because it looked like it was built by a mountain. moron, but because, how else to put it, it didn't feel right, in a tactile sense. I didn't tell Tammy, but when I came back on deck, I pulled myself up on the wooden handle. There was a softness to it. I could have sworn my fingers compressed it.

Tammy, always attuned to my mood, asked what was wrong. How could I answer when my own mind was in turmoil? I wanted to tell her to get into the dingy, the others too, but without an explanation, and they'd be floating out there looking back at a more stable place to be. I glanced into the cabin. Everyone huddled at the table. I asked if they were okay. Grace was awake, but hardly coherent.

The others mumbled agreements. Tim stood up and motioned with his finger for me to come down. I could see he was concerned about something. He led me into the front berth. He closed the door behind us. Without saying a word, he pulled back the comfort. and pointed to a spot on the hall.

At first, I didn't see anything, mostly a crumpled sheet and another misshapen seam on the fiberglass. Tim, seeing I wasn't getting it, leaned over the bed and stuck his finger near a sharp object. I looked closer expecting to find a chunk of the boat sticking out. I gasped a, what the hell? And touched it lightly. When I turned to Tim, his face was a hodgepodge of emotion.

I don't get it, I said. How could a bone be stuck in the hall? Tim told me to look closer. I did and instantly saw my mistake. The bone wasn't stuck in the hall as though someone had rammed it in. It was embedded, a part of the hall, as though when the boat was made, they had mixed bones in with it. I shook my head.

What could I tell him? But it did get me to thinking in a way I didn't want to be thinking. We'll figure this out, was all I could say. We went back into the cabin. I knew I couldn't just go on deck and sit there waiting for help. I made the excuse I wanted to make sure the boat was seaworthy, so I'd be checking around. Whether Tim bought that, I don't know, but he didn't say anything.

He sat back down with Grace, who tried to put on a good face, but I could see her fingers kneading the edge of her shorts. As soon as I opened the door to the head, I knew something was amiss beyond the pipes I'd seen earlier. In one corner there was a bulge in the hall. That didn't necessarily mean anything except for its appearance. The subtle lines and the object's shape told me it could only be one thing. That probably wouldn't have registered in my mind if it hadn't been for the bone.

I looked closer. Sure enough, it was the top of a skull. I tried to tell myself it was the defect. But these stabs at denial no longer worked. No doubt what I saw was the top of a skull. No answer formed, but a lot of fear crowded my thoughts. I checked under the sink and found nothing. Inside the closet, I found a brown smear on the wall

with small patterns, stringy patterns in it that I couldn't decipher. I didn't need my imagination to figure out what I saw amidst the shelving on one wall, protruding next to a salt shaker was part of a jawbone with a few teeth looking like someone trying to chew their way into the boat. Uncertain about what to do next, I told everyone to go on deck and wait for me.

The three of them gave me a quizzical look, but I tossed my head in the direction of the stairs, and they got the message. Tim looked back at me as he got ready to step out. I'll be up in a second, I said. One more place to look. That one place was under a hatch in the floor that would have led to pumps and an engine.

But I didn't think for a moment I'd find either of them. I was right. When I pulled the hatch door up, the space was empty, not even bilge water. I lowered myself down and peered inside. Enough light came in to see clearly, but I still poked my head in deeper. I shot backwards, my head slamming against the table. I sat there staring at the opening. More than anything, I wanted to be mistaken, but I'd already seen the bone and the skull top,

which quickly eliminated that possibility. I crept back to the hatchway and looked in again. There it was. A face. Or most of one. The back half of the head was in the hall, but the rest of the face stared up at me, its mouth agape like someone gasping for air,

but this time it wasn't just bone. Decomposing flesh draped the skull. As I knelt trying to gain some equilibrium, my hand pressing on the floor felt strange. I looked down and saw that it had entered the floor a quarter of an inch. I yanked my hand out and jumped to my feet, but they also sank into the pulpy texture. When I reached for the ladder to climb back on deck,

the rubbery steps bent under my grip and sagged to a breaking point as I scrambled up. Everyone was huddled together. Tammy ran to me. She wrapped her arms around me, her pained face pleading for answers as she pointed to her feet sinking into the now slimy fiberglass. I did have one, but to say it made it too real, and I didn't want it to be real.

I wanted it to be all mistakes, a jumble of mistakes that wouldn't end being what I thought. What I wanted, however, no longer mattered as I heard a noise behind us. Grace was the first to scream. I heard Tim call from near the bow. Tyler fell back against the steering wheel and it spun, carrying him to the deck. Tammy looked behind me and simply shoved her face into my chest. I turned and felt myself squeezing Tammy like someone trying to hide her inside my body. I squeezed harder as I saw the mass had become misshapen, no longer stiff aluminum,

but now a waving tentacle. The front of the boat shed its white veneer and had become a riving mass of flesh. Tim started rushing forward, but sank into the throbbing goo. He lay imprisoned, staring at us, his lips moving in words I couldn't hear. Grace fell to her knees, but her body didn't stop at the deck, but kept sinking into the brown flesh that covered her until only her head sat above it. Her mind had fled, and she only stared skyward. Tyler had started to fling himself overboard, but simply ended up flattened across the leathery body that had consumed most of the body. boat. I thought of only one thing, even as I felt my knee being tugged into the slimy body.

The dingy. Using all my strength I had to break free of the enveloping flesh, I pulled on the rope, bringing the dinghy to the stern. I grabbed Tammy's arm and pulled her, trying to get us both at least on the dinghy and away from the changing beast. I managed to get my legs into the dingy, the boat swaying under me. I reached back for Tammy and began pulling her aboard, but she didn't budge from where she was. I yanked harder, perfectly willing to leave her leg behind, if necessary, to have her safe with me. She was held fast, that beautiful face staring at me in a way that drove me to scream and pull and cry. The flesh crawled over her arms, covering her shoulders, leaving only her face staring down at me, crying, whispering something I couldn't hear,

but knew what it was. All I could think of was that I had failed her, but knew she'd want me to escape. I untied the dinghy and the boat floated away from what was no longer wanderlust, but rather a coiling, undulating mass that was slowly taking on the form of some kind of watery creature. As I drifted away, I could see Tammy, Tyler, and Tim attached like barnacles to the creature's body. Tammy's mouth still moved, and I could see Tyler's and Tim's heads jerking. And at that moment, I knew. I knew. I knew. what was being done. The little glimmer of understanding I felt earlier became real. The bone, the skull, and the half-dissolved face, along with assuredly many others, all of them food, slowly ingested,

keeping the beast alive until it needed more, when it would again become a boat, a boat in distress, or something else. Thankfully, I figured they wouldn't be alive for that. It would dive under, suffocate them and roam the depths, drawing them down to bones and discarded. How would I explain it? The dinghy stopped drifting. I reached for an oar, but it became fleshy, and my foot slipped on the now slimy bottom. I started to jump out, but something wrapped itself around my legs. The boat, what little was left of it, began moving toward the creature. As I moved closer, I could see Tammy's face more clearly. She looked at me.

Sad. Maybe this is for the best, I thought. I'm not sure I could have gone on thinking of her this way. We sailed together. We'll go down together. And finally, a curious boy investigates a strange object that crashes into a rural field one night, only to discover that some things from the stars are far more terrifying than anyone could imagine.

From writer J.T. Johnson, creepy presents, a bright blue flash. It had come out of the sky in a bright blue flash, like a firework sort of, at least to Malcolm's eyes. He was never allowed out at night. His mother warned him of the dangers. Bobcats, coyotes, rabid raccoons, and dogs. Malcolm had never broken this rule before. Not until now. Not until now. Not until. until that bright flash of blue in the sky, followed by what sounded like a very big crack that had erupted somewhere from the cowfield. Outside, the world smelled like sulfur and something else, something sharp and electric. The sky had changed from the deep black of midnight to a strange shade of murky gray.

It reminded him of swamp water. The air seemed to radiate a pulsing kind of heat. Malcolm felt something stirr inside him. He wouldn't call it fear. That would mean he was a scaredy cat. Yet. He frowned at the odd shifting sky. I must be close, he thought with a nervous grin.

This is probably what people feel like when they find old dinosaur bones. Or mummies. The grass had turned a sickly shade of yellow. He walked further. Then Sawa looked like. a shallow hole in the ground. The grass around that had been blackened and had little glowing embers still burning all around. They reminded him of glowing red eyes. Here it is, he thought, his chest tight and teeth chattering.

The alien! Indeed, it was lying motionless in the shallow crater, still sizzling with a heat that made the air around it ripple. Malcolm held his breath. Here the smell was awful, like spoiled eggs and rotten milk. It made his stomach turn, and he thought he could possibly throw up. He took another step closer, aware of the heat radiating up into his shoes. It was like a wad of slime that had been rolled through cat hair. It wasn't entirely motionless.

The thing itself seemed to emit a fascinating pale glow. It was vibrating, as if inside its strange and goopy skin something was thrumming. His hand twitched. He realized with a bit of horror and awe he had almost touched it. His fingers tingling. He looked around, feeling foolish for doing so. But he didn't want anyone else to see the thing he had found. The thing that had come from the sky in a flash of blue,

and now lay in the field, looking like a giant piece of hair. gum. Licking his lips, he let his hand do what it wanted. It reached. The closer he came to it, the more it felt like he was reaching into an oven. The thing shifted, the piece closest to his hand lifting, as if it wanted to touch Malcolm. He let his hands caress it just once. A timid sort of touch you might give a baby gator at one of those petting zoos. His breath rushed out of him. It felt wonderful. It was like touching something.

Something. He was petting it now. His fingers wriggling into the surface that was pliable and soft. A sharp pain suddenly erupted in his hand, cutting off that strange euphoric feeling. Malcolm lurched back, a scream poised on the edge of his widening lips. unable to fly out of his open mouth because, because, because it doesn't want me to scream, he thought in horror.

His hand tingling with a growing heat. He pushed at the scream hard, wishing it would fly out of his mouth already because the pain. Oh, the pain. It was like his skin had been filled with fire or something worse. bits and chunks of the thing clung to his skin. No matter how much he shook his hand, the goopy substance would not unlatch. In fact, he could feel it weaving into his flesh, little threads of the blobby goop hardening and digging and digging,

until... Oh, God! The pain! He fell onto his back. Now his arm was on fire. Then his chest. Then his neck. It flooded down his torso while also racing up into his eyes.

His eyes were searing. He was choking on his own scream that now felt like a hot ball of acid on the back of his tongue. He was connected to the thing somehow. He writhed. The thing was in his brain. It was slicing and cutting through his thoughts. It wants more, he thought, was spiraling alarm, understanding that only a little of the blabbish alien had invaded his skin.

And yes, it had invaded because, oh, Lord, this pain, it's in my whole body. I feel it everywhere. The pain flared in a stretch of paralyzing minutes until all at once Malcolm's thoughts went cold. They were too far away from Malcolm to know them. to understand them. His own body felt strange, and whatever he was, well, it was no longer Malcolm. He was just there. A thought that had nowhere to go, but at least there was no pain now,

no searing internal fire that made his organs feel as if they were melting. His body stood. There was something in his head now, nestled deep into the same. the valleys and dips of his brain. More of that goopy alien he knew, weaving and threading itself into his mind. He was walking. No, he was running. The field bounced and jarred beyond the windows he watched through. His eyes, he thought. The boy body, the one that used to be his but now belonged to the thing, was going to the house. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? he thought with despair, but he knew.

He knew because he was still connected to the goopy alien. He knew that just one body was not sufficient for this strange presence. After all, there was so much left of the strange mass in the crater. His mother and father would be next. And of course they would go, because their son would tell them that something had crashed into the field and they needed to come see. And Malcolm knew, with pitiful certainty, that they would go.

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