Creepy - Folklore & Anti-Easter

Episode Date: February 16, 2023

Folklore***Written by: David Farrow and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Anti-Easter***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warnings: animal death, animal abuse, body horror***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. 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 biocations. Silence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

He presents folklore, written by David Farrow, and narrated by Michelle Kane. We called it the skulker. It lived in the trees in the dense forest on the margins of town, where the trails were overgrown with vines and moss and leafy shadows darkened the dirt below. No one had seen it directly, but we knew it was out there. The reports were all too similar. Sloped shoulders like a hunchback, eyes as wide and bright as headlights, lanky limbs bristling the patches with faint brown hair. If spotted, it would dip into the tree line, vanishing behind the thin birch trunks. Jesse Henderson, the cashier down at the trading post, swore he'd almost run the thing over. It had loped in front of his car, he said.

Its gangly arms dragging on the pavement, its hair damp and matted. He'd barely had time to slam the brakes. The beast had lurched away and vanished into the cover of the trees. Martha Perkins claimed to have seen it out the church window. She had been dusting a shelf of old Bibles when she glimpsed it through the glass, standing in the open field, eyes, discs of reflective yellow, just staring at her. She stood there, paralyzed, until the creature turned around and bounded away on all fours. Martha crossed herself with trembling hands every time she told us the story.

And then there were the Jensen twins, Nick and Halley, who'd plunged into the woods with cameras and flashlights to capture evidence of the entity. Stupid kids! They'd have died of dehydration and hypothermia if we hadn't formed a search party, to bring them home. The twins were livid, saying they'd gotten so close and showed us blurry photos of trees and rivers that didn't prove anything. Their parents gave them hell, and the sheriff made it clear to any other kids in town that monster hunting would not be tolerated. Still, we all knew it was out there, skulking and creeping through the trees. It was our town's own little cryptid. We had a little cryptid. We

didn't think it meant us any harm, but the fact that it existed at all disturbed us and plenty of folks kept a gun in their homes. It wasn't rare to see the paranoid ones out at night, swaying on their porch swings and cradling a shotgun in their laps. We tried to keep it a secret, but someone blabbed, of course, and then our town was on all the paranormal sites and TV shows. People came with film crews and bloggers and the occasional conspiracy nuts. And sure, it was good for business, but it stripped us of whatever privacy we'd had. We all waited for the hype to die down. We waited for the visitors to leave, disappointed, their time was wasted, and their footage worthless.

All we wanted was to go back to the way things were, us and our skulker, existing in an uneasped. unspoken piece. Then a visitor's kid went missing. The mother's name was Linda Chen, and she was part of the film crew for one of those travel channel documentary shows. She had taken her five-year-old son Simon to her workshoots, letting him pull out clumps of grass and run around the fields with his action figures and toy airplanes. Irresponsible. We'd all muttered to each other, to leave a child that young to wander, and it turned out we were right. Simon Chen disappeared one rainy morning. His toy plane was found on the edge of the forest, its painted red surface marred by thin claw marks.

Linda was, understandably, distraught. The crew stopped filming and came to the sheriff's office, asking him to track down the missing boy. No one would say it, but we all knew. the skulker had taken him. It had finally broken the piece. The sheriff put together a search party immediately, and a few of the blogger folks joined us, although we grumbled about this privately. No doubt they cared more about capturing their precious evidence than actually finding the boy. Linda, weepy and upset, stayed behind with Martha to pray for her son's return. The only visitor to take the search seriously was this jock type from one of those parents.

paranormal shows. Lance Graves, he called himself, or something equally ridiculous. He wore those tight black shirts that showed off his muscles and bossed the rest of us around like we were members of his film crew. Lance carried again, too, this hokey pistol with a polished barrel and silver grip, like he was expecting to be hunting werewolves. This made us nervous for obvious reasons, and it reminded us that our little rescue mission could turn ugly if we weren't careful. That dinky pistol of his opened the door for the rest of us. The front porch folks joined the party next, rifles in hand, and so did mothers, fathers, and teenagers from around town,

each one carrying their own weapon, axes and fireplace pokers and baseball bats, all these objects of casual violence. We were ready. We had to be. There were outsiders in our group, sure, but in the end, this was our crypted. Our hunt. Our responsibility. We'd entered the woods that rainy afternoon, boots sinking into the sludge of mud and wet leaves.

The sheriff led the charge. We fanned out in a V formation like earthbound geese, shouting Simon's name and shining flashlights through the mist. Visibility was terrible. If you squinted, you could make out the murky shapes of the people on either side of you, but they were like ghosts. Like smears of shadow, you couldn't quite trust their existence. We ventured on deep into the heart of the trees, deeper even than the Jensen twins had gone.

Camera shutters clicked around us, the useless attempts of the film crews to document anything at all in this fog. Lance was the first to find the footprints. He hollered for the rest of us, showing us the pairs of tracks imprinted on the muddy ground, one small like a child's sneakers, and the other large and round as a bear paw. Simon, it seemed, had gone with the creature willingly. This only heightened our unease. We thought of sirens, anglerfish, beings who put on kindly faces and lured the innocent, the naive.

The bloggers chatted among themselves. and snapped photos of the footprints, but we were already moving on, following the trail into the gloom. The leaves and soil gave way to rocky slopes, rain slicked and covered with lichen. Little nooks and caves came into view, cracks in the rock face that could barely fit more

than a fox or a couple of rabbits. Too small for the skulker, whose slouched figure had been reported as a good six feet or so, but we poked our head in the caves all the same. Nature thrived out here. Browns and greens, beds of moss and pink lady slippers, all muted in the mist, but unmistakably alive. The bloggers didn't bother snapping photos of the wildlife, saving their film for the big finale, we figured. The sheriff heard childish laughter before the others. He was the first to find the deep groove in the rock where Simon sat alone, drawing shapes in the dirt with his fingers.

The rest of us hovered and watched him. Someone called his name, but when he looked up and saw the guns in our hands, the pokers and bats and everything else, he scrambled away and began to cry. We followed him into the cave, shouting after him, but stopped, when our flashlight beams fell unhulking shape. It was the skulker, tall, hunched, larger than life. It's impassive eyes staring at us in bright,

yellow circles. It didn't react to our presence. Little Simon ran to it and hugged its hairy leg, burying his face in its fur and stifled his terrified sobs. We waited. No one dared approach the creature to drag Simon away. He latched onto the cryptid the same way a child clings to his mother, like letting go was the most terrifying thing in the world. The skulker reached down and stroked the mop of hair with one meaty hand. The tenderness, the gentle care, it surprised us. The creature cooed a low, pleasant sound to the boy that might have passed for a lullaby. Get away from him! A voice barked from behind us. Lance pushed his way through the crowd. Pistol raised, rainwater dripping from his sod and hair. Someone let out a shot of warning.

The skulker placed a protective hand around the the boy who'd started whimpering at the sight of the gun. Lance stopped a few feet away, casting the rest of us a scathing look and aimed his pistol at the creature's head. "'Bunch of cowards,' he muttered. The bang echoed like cannon fire off the walls of the cave. We all flinched and Simon let out a wail that could shatter glass. Lance's lifeless body slumped and crashed against the stone.

his pulpy mess of a head, leaving a splash of blood on the wall. The sheriff stood over him, flat eyes thinly drawn mouth, his own gun smoking from the discharge. The bloggers and the film crew, who'd gathered around the entrance, panicked and shouted and tried to run. Their cameras had captured the whole scene. We moved as one, not hesitating, not stopping to think, spilling out of the cave to chase the fleeing shapes through the forest,

fog. We smashed their equipment and threw it into the trees. We sank axes into backs and bashed in skulls and wrapped our fingers around screaming throats, squeezing until the thrashing stopped. It was mindless, automatic. We couldn't have stopped ourselves even if we wanted to. The forest, heavy with its new bloody secret, fell into silence. We left the corpses strewn across the ground. Then we returned one by one to the cave in the rock. Simon was a mess of sobs and hot blotchy tears, but the Skulkar watched us with those same blank eyes its lullaby ended. We wondered if it understood what we had done for it, how far we'd gone to maintain our peace. It stared for a minute or two, unblinking, before lifting its arms and letting go of

the little boy. We told the media it was an animal attack. They'd disturbed a den of feral bears, we said. It was such a tragedy, such a tremendous loss. We'd barely gotten the child out of there in time. Simon, for his part, never breathed a word of the truth. The trauma from the incident had left him mute. His poor mother left town with him the next day, and the stragglers who hadn't joined the search party left with her, too afraid to venture into the woods for one last chance at their precious footage. And just like that, we were alone again, us and our crypted. There are still conspiracy theorists, of course. They spread rumors about the skulker, how the sheriff covered up its true violent nature, how it murdered all the outsiders and still wanders those trees today, looking to slake

its bloodlust. We don't do much to discourage these rumors. Some thrill seekers still show up looking for the creature, but they're rare. Most people stay away these days. They watch from afar, building up the lore, telling stories of the horror stalking our little community. But here in town, we tell stories of a gentler kind. Creepy Presents. Anti-Easter written by known of consequence and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I wake in a frantic haze, throwing the sheets off of me because I'm lost and don't want to be touched. It's pitch black, like a cave,

and it's a startling contrast from the white I just came from. It had been so frightening, a true horror show. I take comfort from the dark, feeling far safer here. There was so much blood and the feathers. So many damn feathers. Taking a deep breath to calm my fast-beating heart, I immediately regret it. My lungs are on fire, and it's so hard to breathe.

Everything hurts. My entire body aches. My wrists and feet feel the worst, along with a spot just below my ribs on the right side, and all around my head. I'm thirsty like never before, as if I haven't had water in days. What the hell is happening to me?

Despite my body's objections, I get out of bed. Any other time I'd head to the kitchen for water, but right now the bathroom sink feels like it holds the elixir of life. The taste of old pipes is evident, but I couldn't care less. The cold liquid soothes my aching throat, and I feel instantly better, even if I am drinking straight from the tap. There's a cup I use to rinse my mouth out after brushing,

but it's not a necessary step. I must be feeling like absolute dog shit if I'm acting like such a savage. Wiping my mouth off with the back of my hand, I turn on the lights and shriek at the creature in the mirror. She looks just like me, but instead of my usual tan, there's ghostly pale skin, not to mention the dried blood coming from my hairline.

There's more on my wrists, feet, and that spot that hurts just under my ribs. I come from a devoted religious family. I know what this means. A stigmata. And on Easter Sunday. That's got to be something big. checking my phone, the first thing I notice is the date, and it's not the 21st.

I missed it by three days. It's Thursday the 24th. My phone buzzes, and it surprises me so much that I drop my phone. It's a reminder from my calendar. My father's annual barbecue, which is always the Thursday after Easter. I've been asleep for three days, yet I woke up in time for this. Traditionally, all members of the family take the week after Easter off, and everyone is in attendance. At least, they better be, or they'll suffer the wrath of father, something no one dares to risk.

I shower quickly, cleaning the dry blood but finding no wounds. There are lots of other things I don't understand about our religion, but my father will have answers. I only need to find the right time to ask. and I don't want to ruin the gathering. I dress in my black slacks, but hesitate when I reach for my gray shirt. After the morning I'm having, I decide on a crimson blouse. Silk probably isn't the best thing to wear to a barbecue, but I never get to wear it. I work in a lab, one where we do research about various diseases and influenza,

definitely not the atmosphere for silk. Maybe on a date, but those are few and far between. My beauty draws men in quickly, but my brain scares them off even faster. The strangeness of my day is only beginning. Fully dressed and ready to go, I open my bedroom door, but it won't budge. There's no lock on the door, and I live alone, so what gives? I push and push, but it's like trying to move a boulder. After a while, I managed to get the damn thing open enough just for me to squeeze right through it.

The door closes once I'm through, but there's nothing on the other side. The living room is, as it always is, and there's nothing near my bedroom door that accounts for my struggle to push it open. My door doesn't swing that way. On this side it pushes open and now it does so with ease. There's nothing amiss with it, not broken or damaged. Between the hinges and frame, there's no physical way for the door to open the way I just did. Again, I ask,

What the hell is happening to me? The outside world even looks different to me, as if there's a slight tinge to the colors. I can't put my finger on it and it's probably just my imagination. I was asleep for three days after all. Maybe that's why. Father's house is only eight blocks from my apartment, and the fresh crisp bear will do me good. So I walk. I wrap my black, long sweater around me, feeling the slight chill in the air. Mrs. Catrachis is an elderly woman that lives in my building, and she can often be seen walking her Rottweiler, Jamie.

She's a sweet old lady. Doesn't seem all there mentally, and she spends her time alone. I've helped her carry groceries from time to time. Usually have a chat with her when I'm coming or going, but today is different. She's calling out for Jamie. But I don't see any sign of him.

Apparently he caught sight of a squirrel and took off. The big brute was too much for her to hold on to, so he broke free and hasn't been seen for at least 15 minutes. Father's wrath for tardiness isn't as severe as it is for absence, but good reasons can excuse it. Helping Mrs. Katrakis find her best friend definitely qualifies as a good reason, and besides, I like that big, dumb animal. Even when I'm in a bad mood,

Jamie will jump up onto his hind legs, plant his front paws on my shoulders, look me square in the eyes and lick my face. He doesn't do that to anyone else. And I get the impression when he looks me in the eyes. He's actually asking permission. I round the back of the apartment building, about to call out for Jamie.

But I stopped dead in my tracks. My heart sinks as I see what I wish wasn't true. In the street, just off the sidewalk, is a large mass of black and brown fur. The familiar face looks forward with dead eyes, big tongue hanging out of his mouth, completely motionless. His midsection is crushed in,

heavily dented from where the tires ran him over. Tears well up in my eyes as I kneel next to the body of what I consider my best four-legged friend. I couldn't be sad or angry with this handsome face, looking at me, his soft fur under my friendly hands. Jamie may have been Mrs. Catrachus' dog, but the loss I feel in my heart is deeply personal. This is so unfair.

A tragedy in a world so cold, full of undeserving people that have less of a right to be here than this dead prince before me. My sorrow is mixed with rape. and I want whoever is responsible to suffer dearly, to burn an eternal damnation. Tears fall as I place my hands on his handsome face and wish for nothing more than to feel him live. Tragic death should be earned by a person's deeds, not doled out by a fucking asshole in a car that was probably texting instead of watching the goddamn road.

I'm startled as something moves under my hands, removing them quickly. I then lean back as Jamie picks his head up and looks at me, clearly in pain. Oh God, I think. Did I do this? Did I will him back to life?

Jamie whimpers as he tries to breathe, but the damage to his midsection is still there, unable to sustain life. Without thinking too much about it, I lay my hands on the dentist, part of his body. I remember how his solid mass felt when I would pet him, or when I hugged him when he plants his big paws in my shoulders and licks me. More tears fall upon him as the damaged insides repair and fill him back out. I can feel it. The miracle as he becomes whole again.

It's the most amazing experience I've ever felt, but it's not done. There's a small mass in his stomach. A little thing that shouldn't be there. I can't tell what it is. Only that it'll be harmful if it stays. Concentrating on this oddity, I feel it dissolve into nothingness. Not digested,

but removed from existence. Jamie stands up and shakes himself out. Not a spot of blood, no hair out of place. He is whole. back to his full glory. His chocolate brown eyes look into mine, and he does something he's never done before. Jamie stretches his front paws out

and bows his head to me. Once he writes himself, I hug him and promise that whoever hurt him will pay dearly. He licks my face, and I take him by the leash back to Mrs. Catrachus. Thankfully, the rest of the world, walk to my father's house is uneventful. For the first time since waking up, I feel good.

I was having trouble with all that's happened, but resurrecting Jamie is a sign that good things are happening. I'm greeted by happy faces when I knock at the front door. Mom has her hands full with grandchildren calling out, Auntie Christine to me, closing the door behind me. Mother tisks me for being late. I'm at the kitchen sink washing off the little bit of Jamie's blood that got on me when father comes in.

I decide not to tell him about the resurrection until later, so I just tell him I was held up trying to find my neighbor's dog. He excuses my tardiness, and I'm sure the blood doesn't go unnoticed, but he leaves it alone. Instead, he asks me to join him outside so the celebration can begin. The temperature has risen enough that I no longer need the sweater, so I put it over the back of the chair my father motions for me to take, the one next to him.

There are a few murmurs among the family, and it dawns on me. When I dressed, I completely forgot it's a faux pot to wear red to this gathering. With all the strangeness from this morning, I saw the shirt and made excuses as to why I wanted to wear it, not considering that I shouldn't. Every year it seems there's always,

always one woman in the family that invariably forgets this tidbit, and she ends up getting grill duty. I never thought I'd be the one to do it, but I've been prepared. Father taught me early on how to properly grill all meats. There are over 40 members of our family, and they're all here, so I'm going to be grilling for a long time. As I light the charcoal, thankful someone prepped it with lighter fluid. Father hands me a bottle of water. With the day I've been having, I could use something stronger. I tell him this, making sure to add a joking lilt to my voice, and take a big drink. That had been a mistake.

I spit the mouthful out all over the grill, and as the liquid hits, the flames flash. That hadn't been water. It was pure vodka. I had wanted a beer or a glass of wine, not hard. heart liquor. I tell this to Father, and he tests the contents of my bottle. He apologizes and hands me a beer instead. I'm ready to start cooking the burgers and hot dogs, but that's not what we're having. Father says that he could feel this year's celebration would be truly special. Instead of the typical cheap options of the past, he procured thick T-bone steaks fresh from the butcher.

and ribs for the children. Everyone boomed with joy at hearing this, but I'm astonished. My parents aren't rich people by any means, and that much meat comes with one hell of a bill. I'm doing well for myself, so I quietly tell father that I can help cover the cost. He just smiles and hands me a plate,

saying, I'm already helping. The plate is big enough to fit four of the bills, big steaks comfortably. I get it loaded, sprinkle seasoning over the meat, slap them on the grill, and season the other side. I repeat the process on the next four just as I was taught growing up. It's important to only take so much raw meat out at one time. Do it in small groups to control exposure, keep the cooler lid closed between grabs in order to minimize the chance of insects getting on the raw meat. Once they're on the grill, I can work on the next batch. The bugs can't get to the meat while it's cooking. By the time I've got the third batch of four on the grill,

father has the largest smile on his face I have ever seen. He hands me another beer, telling me that I am a very special woman. It's nothing he hasn't said before. I grew up hearing these words. But there's something different about how he's saying it. There's conviction behind his words that I only now realize wasn't there before. It's not that he didn't believe it when he used to say I was special. He said it with the devotion of a loving father. This new tone. It's how he speaks when he talks about his faith. As a matter of fact, not opinion. The next few hours go well, until the world turns upside down. I cook enough food for everyone, we eat and drink in celebration, and father makes his speech.

It's not the one he's given before, but one that calls for recognition, that our long-awaited prophecy is coming to fruition. For longer than any of us have been alive, our people have waited for the chosen to be born and to come of age. The chosen will bear the signs, to show us the time is near, and actions shall be taken. The current world will soon undergo changes. Many of the unbelievers will perish, and our people will rise. This prophecy has been a long time coming, but I don't want to believe him. The weight of that is too much for one person to bear,

and I wish you would stop, but I can't deny it, as much as I want to. The evidence is there for me to see. The end of a true stigmata is the death of one who's suffering through it. I died on the very day Christ was to rise from the dead after his crucifixion, and I rose three days later. My bedroom door was as difficult to open as it was rolling a stone away from the cave where his body had been laid to rest. I brought a dead body back to life.

Even if it was a dog, it still counts. I turned water into vodka, and what I failed to realize at the time, there were only ever four stakes in the cooler, yet I produced enough to feed more than 40 people. My miracles aren't the exact same as Christ, but what do you expect? I'm not him, and this isn't the second coming. After a long day, I make my way back home. My head is reeling with the realization of what's happened.

My dream, the white place covered in blood and feathers, wasn't a dream. I died a death of one absolutely devout, and I was granted entrance to the kingdom. Call it a Trojan horse, a wolf and sheep's clothing, whatever the phrase, it results in the pillage of the kingdom. I'm not upset about it anymore. It just took me the day to process everything. I feel lighter now that the truth is out, and my family is delighted. They are eager to know my plans for the world, and to know their part in the coming storm. There are so many options, but where to begin?

This is the question running through my mind when the elevator door opens to my floor. I'm not in the least bit surprised to see Jamie Pacea. patiently sitting in front of my door, waiting for me. Normally I'd see him outside with Mrs. Catrachus when I get home, but they had been absent. With the blood on his muzzle, I know I won't be seeing the old woman again. That small mass that had been in his stomach when I healed him was a rat poison pellet, the strongest one on the market. He could feel it in his belly, feel the wrong of it as it began to kill him. That's why he broke free of the old woman.

He went into traffic to end it quickly. I promised him, whoever heard him, would pay dearly. And I know she's burning in hell now. It doesn't matter that she wasn't all there in the head anymore. She killed this prince and deserves what she gets. Jamie is my dog now. And it's time that the world gets what it deserves too. Jamie and I get situated in my home office.

I have a cup of coffee, and he chews on a bone that's already been stripped of meat. Care to guess where the femur came from? For weeks, I've been bringing research files home to review in the off hours. And now I know exactly why. I think this age deserves to have an innocuous disease become supercharged and wreak havoc. Looking over the files, the most recent notation is dated 412, 2019. Just two weeks ago, I believe I can make something happen with this coronavirus

and produce something before the end of the year. If I'm right, 2020 is going to mark a new era for my religion. And this disease will only be the beginning. Maybe after that, I'll do something with politics. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for all consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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