Creepy - Four Seasons

Episode Date: August 25, 2025

Four Seasons***Written by: Cyndi Gradel***The Darker Side of Sunlight***Written by: Dan Mindo and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***You Have 15 Minutes***Written by: Naomi Simone Borwein and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Dark Riter Podcast: https://open.spotify.com/show/6y8DflHCNCfegfJlZgpOic***Michael Burt Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Michael-Burt/author/B09Z732CK1?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true&ccs_id=5dfcf7e5-409e-42a9-9210-301f62a28a11***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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We've completely filled the docket for October, and we have a lot of stories I can't wait for you all to hear. And a quick shout out to our longtime contributor known of consequence, aka Michael Burt, aka aka Derek Ryder, who actually has his own podcast as well, and I'll share the link in the show notes. His novel Z-Wolf, as well as his anthologies of short stories, are all available on Amazon. If you've been a fan of his stories in the past,

I highly recommend you check out what else he has available. Check out the show notes to a link through his Amazon page as well. Any help you can provide the writers is greatly appreciated. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, a trip to an abandoned amusement park, turns into a nightmare as three would-be trespassers find themselves stuck on a ride more terrifying than anything the park had when it was still open. Creepy Presents Four Seasons Written by Cindy Gradle. I didn't ask where we were going that day. I just squeezed into the backseat of the Camaro and put on my sunglasses.

I loved one of my sister Carlo taking places, even though it meant putting up with shitty boyfriend James. Carla wasn't my real sister. We both lived in the same foster home. I was 13, scrawny and awkward. I never really had many friends. She was five years older than me, and she was so confident and outgoing. James didn't want me with him that day, but Carla insisted.

The cloud of smoke drifted into the back seat while White Snake blasted through scratchy speakers. James said something about getting a new wire to fix them, but Carlo was clearly bored by the subject. I coughed and waved my hand through the smoke and James scald at me in the rearview mirror. He lit up another Marlboro red and rev the engine. We drove for miles, accompanied by songs from Cinderella, Poison, and Metallica. I tried a few times to say something, but he just turned the music louder every time. Finally! James said.

The Camaro rolled past the ice. exit sign for Bollingbrook. At the end of the ramp, there was a broken sign for the Old Chicago Amusement Park. The word closed was spray painted across the sign in bright white paint. I went to Old Chicago a few times before it closed. Our school took us there for field trips every year. Their commercials bragged of being the largest indoor theme park in America and their year-round family-friendly entertainment.

It was really popular for a while. and after six flags opened, nobody wanted to go to Old Chicago anymore. The new park was way bigger, and they had better rides. Old Chicago lasted a few more years before they shut down. The building was shuttered while the owners sold off the rides and other fixtures inside. The building and surrounding parking lot went unused while they decided what to do with the space. The property was only occasionally monitored by the Wallingbrook Police, and there were stories about kids breaking in and using as a place to drank and get high.

Evidence of trespassing was obvious as soon as we pulled up to the front. Broken windows and graffiti greeted us when we walked to the remains of the entrance. Don't say shit if anyone catches you, James warned. Don't get separated. I'm not going to be looking for you two when it's time to leave. I cupped my hands over my eyes and peered through the dirty window near the entrance. What if someone's hiding, like someone bad? Maybe we shouldn't be here.

James snapped at me, then pointed his hand with a lit cigarette at Carla. He went off about how they shouldn't have brought me and that I was going to be too slow if the cops showed up. Faster than you, I said. He moved towards me and raised his hand, but Carla stepped between us and grabbed his arm. She stared at him until he lowered his hand and went quiet. Carla had big, beautiful eyes that people noticed right away. James always commented on how pretty they were. She took a drag off a cigarette while he held it in his fingers.

That made him back off, and he left me alone after that. James always acted tough, but I knew there were things that scared him. I heard him telling Carla about how Gacy gave him nightmares. He said it made him sick to think about being buried under the floor and forgotten. Everyone in the neighborhood was still worried about Gacy, even though they caught him and he was in jail. There were rumors that he had a partner who was still out there somewhere. and whenever teenagers hung out in Illinois, they told stories about missing kids who were probably victims of the unknown accomplice.

The park was surprisingly undamaged. Other than a few empty spaces where rides used to be, it looked like it could still be open. Light poured in from the giant glass domed ceiling, and it lit up the atrium in the center of the building. The gift shop shelves still held toys and T-shirts. Carved out logs, rested inside, dried up water channels at the bottom of a giant slide. huge metal brackets were still attached to the floor. They were the remains of the old roller coaster

that probably got sold for scrap as soon as park closed. We passed an area that I remembered used to be a souvenir photo stand. The cart and equipment were no longer there. It was an empty space with some black wire and couple boxes on the ground. James sifted through the items, then told us to start looking for electrical stuff.

We moved on to the corner where we found the entrance to a ride called four seasons. The ticket stand was still there, and the train cars were lined up and looked ready to swing into life. I remember this ride, Carla said. Well, was it? James asked. He picked up a bundle of rope, then tossed it aside like trash. I remembered being on the ride, although it was never my favorite.

The ride was just like it sounded, all four seasons. You sat in a train of cars on a track, like a tunnel of love or a haunted house ride. The cars rolled through every season and showed you stuff from each one, like a snowman for winter, flowers and butterflies in the spring. There were creepy scarecrows that jumped out in front of the cars. Sometimes the straw from their arms would brush up against my face. Carla laughed when I told her that. She said they weren't scarecrows.

They were supposed to be farmers planting crops. I argued that I remembered them well. They were scarecrows, the ugly kind. They had no faces, just dirty burlap, with holes in it. I opened the gate and walked down the ramp to the cars. The ticket stand had a clipboard with a schedule on it. The last ride was at 5.30 p.m. on a Saturday. It didn't say the date.

Whatever, James said. He stood in front of the panel on the ticket stand and flipped the switches on it. "'So stupid as hell to me. "'Why'd you ever go on this ride?' He slammed his hand onto the green button in the center of the panel, and a motor from somewhere inside the ride groaned to life. The train of cars made a grinding noise and then pulled forward up to the ticket stand. Carlos smiled at me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into the first car.

She called out for James to come with us, and convinced him by telling him there was probably a ton of wire inside the ride. He sat down behind us and grabbed the safety bar on the side of the car. Somewhere inside the ride, a motor reluctantly came to life and propelled the cars into motion. The lead car slammed the swinging doors and rolled into the first section of the ride. The speaker on the dashboard crackled the life with a recording that welcomed us to the four seasons ride. The first season was autumn. I thought about the faceless scarecrows and I squeezed Carla's hand tight.

The temperature dropped to a moment. mild October evening. Carla looked back at James and asked how the air could still be controlled like that. He shrugged it off and she turned back around. A speaker on the wall buzzed out a strange humming sound. I guess it would probably use to play music, but the abandoned audio system was no longer functional. The ride stopped in front of a replica of a suburban porch on Halloween night.

The front yard was decorated with giant spiders, jack-o-lanterns, and a big scarecrow. James hopped off the ride and started walking through the display. He ripped the spiders off their mechanical arms and inspected the wires and motors they were attached to. He grumbled that it was all junk and tossed the displays to the ground. He moved on to the scarecrow and grabbed it by the arm. The face turned towards him, the green dots blinking behind the decaying burlap. The thing groaned and then let out a string of words broken up by static. James jumped back and released the arm.

The scarecrow turned its head from side to side while the speaker blared jumbled words. James was startled by the display's movements. He glared at me when I giggled at him. Power ain't supposed to be on anymore, James said. We've got to find the main electrical room. There should be a ton of shit in there. What is that? Carla asked, pointing to the front door of the house facade.

The door was open, and someone was standing in the shadows just beyond the frame. I couldn't tell what it was from the distance until it stepped out onto the porch. It moved like a human, not a mechanical display. After a few seconds, it became obvious to all of us what it was. It stood at least seven feet tall, dressed in a brightly colored clown costume. The makeup on its face was smeared into a messy red and white, swirl. Even from far away, I could see a mouthful of hideous teeth that seemed too big for its head. James let out a gas before quickly recovering and straightening himself up. He was only a few feet

away from the clown, and he stared at it, confused. It was like he was trying to figure out if the clown was real or not. He reached out a hand but quickly pulled it back when the clown turned its head. James cursed and stepped backwards. This time, I didn't laugh at him. The clown was so creepy, and it didn't match the rest of the display. Everything else was a watered-down version of Halloween decorations. Even the fake scarecrows were not sinister looking like the clown. Something snapped in the air above us, and then dozens of strips of fabric dropped down from the ceiling.

Clouds of dirt and dust exploded into the air, filling the space with the air. thick gray fog. Carla and I both screamed and swiped at the dirty material that was intended to look like spider webs. They swirled all around us and dropped down to the floor. None of it seemed right for what was supposed to be a kid's ride. It was way too dangerous for a so-called family-friendly amusement park. I pulled the fake webbing off of me and swatted at all the bugs that flew out of it.

James shouted for Carla to come help me. He was snarled inside the dirty fabric and it was coiled around his arm. Carla got off the ride and moved towards him. The fabric brushed against her and she struggled to get through it. James grew impatient and yelled louder for her to get it off of him. She started telling him to calm down but stopped him in sentence and froze. The clown wasn't in the doorway anymore. He was standing next to James.

More spider webs dropped from the ceiling. There were different colors and made of all kinds of fabric. Black velvet ropes and thick hemp cords slammed against the floor. Plastic bats and spiders flitted all around Carla. I stood up in the ride and tried to keep track of her, but I could barely see her through the chaos. James kept shouting and asking if we could see him. Carla told him to hold on while she pushed towards him. Don't you see him?

James shouted. It's Casey. He swiped the air in front of him. The clown stood silently, just inches away. James kept shouting about Gacy, and he struggled against the layers of cloth that were twisted around his arms. Carla begged him to stop moving and to wait until she got to him. Her words were muted by the fabric maze.

I didn't think James could hear her. He stumbled under the fake porch, coughing and spitting while gasping for air. The clown followed him. It moved like a real person, not a machine. My stomach dropped when it became obvious that Carlo wasn't going to get to him in time. The clown towered over him by more than a foot. It pulled James to its chest and dragged a gnarled hand along his neck. Jagged fingernails punched through James' skin and tore into the soft flesh and veins inside his neck.

The nails left deep trenches that filled. filled up with blood and bits of skin, dripping down and painting his t-shirt with a gruesome mess. James' screams were muddled by a mouth full of blood. The clown lashed out again, tearing away a flap of skin that slid off and fell to the floor. Carlos screamed for him to tell her what was happening. James pushed out a weak cry, followed by a wet cough. He made a few more frail attempts to strike the clown before going limp in his attacker's arms.

The clown's face appeared to grow larger, and the giant red nose stretched into an oval. He wore a gold suit with red pom-poms on the front, and his shoes were shiny and oversized. He looked like an old wax museum display that was melted down and reformed into a warped version of what it used to be. James raged at the clown with what was left of his voice. He demanded to know how the fucker got out of jail. The clown gripped him with massive hands and lifted him off the ground. He swung James around like a toy and then slammed his body against the floor. A revolting crack resounded in the air when James' collarbone splintered through his skin.

The clown laughed and lifted James again with ease. I jumped off the ride and ran after Carla through the jungle of spiderwebs. We followed the horrible sounds that James was making until we finally made it to the porch. Carla stood over James's broken body. A pool of blood widened around them. A trail of giant footprints led away from the porch. A whistle of air leaked out through a hole inside the mess beneath James's skin. Carla whimpered and tried to cover the open wound with her hands.

James stopped moving and I knew that we weren't going to be able to help him. I put my hand on Carla's shoulder, unsure what to say. My whole body was shaking, and all I wanted was to run back to the empty parking lot and into the backseat of the Camaro. A loud thud came out of the darkness where the footprints led. Another followed, and I realized that there were footsteps moving towards us. I grabbed Carla's arm pleading with her that we had to leave. She squeezed James' hand and then kissed him on the cheek. She came away with a streak of blood on her face.

and what looked like a smear of white grease paint. We locked arms and clawed through the spiderwebs back to the train of cars. We followed the tracks which led us into the next section of the ride. A burst of frigid air hit me. I started coughing from the shock of cold that filled my lungs. This is winter? I whispered. My breath left a cloud in the air in front of me.

Carlo looked behind us to see if the clown had followed us. I turned around in a circle, colors and lights bled together until I was dizzy. The room was a festive holiday display with trees and tinsel and present boxes. Five different Santa displays were placed around the room, all dressed in different types of suits. Some were bright red and fluffy. Others were dull and dingy hanging off of Santa and tattered rag. Carla pointed to another set of doors that was next to a giant wooden snowman. She squeezed my hand tight and pulled me close to her.

We waved our way through the first three Santas, keeping our eyes on the doors. When we made it to the swinging doors, one of the Santas was blocking us. It must be on a track or something, Carla said. That's how they move them around. Don't look at it. I stared at the disheveled Santa. He was wearing a traditional red and white Santa suit, but it was old and smelled of mold and cigars. He didn't look cheerful or jolly.

I said, don't look at it! Carla snapped. Come on! Her voice sounded like someone who just finished weeping, but I sensed an urgency that seemed more determined than defeated. I moved closer and placed a hand on Carla's back, so I wouldn't lose her. She put both her hands on Santa's chest and shoved him. The figure stayed put as if it were bolted to the ground. She raised her hands again and moved toward the display.

Santa grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her toward him. He shook her violently until her arms swung beside her like ribbons. Her body went limp like a rag doll and she wasn't fighting back at all. I heard cracking sounds that I knew were her bones. snapping like twigs. When I tried to reach out to somehow stop the assault, Santa swung Carla's body around in a circle and caught me in the side. My head smacked against the wooden crate that was painted to look like a block of ice. I fell to the floor and couldn't move. Santa knelt over Carla's body, holding something up to her face. I tried to get up, but my head

was cloudy and my limbs were numb. Santa plunged the object and the flesh below Carla's right eye and pressed down until it was as deep as the orb. Blood pooled up around her eyeball and leaked down the sides of her face. The sound she made was so horrible that my stomach began to heave. A quick jerk of his hand separated the eye, and he scooped it out like a chunk of avocado on a chip. Carla pressed her hands against the hole in her face and howled. Santa lifted her off the ground and pulled her toward him.

She scratched and clotted his face until he opened his mouth and chomped down on her fingers. He shook viciously from side to side and chewed off two fingers from her right hand. They poked out of his blood-stained lips like grisly cigars. He spit them to the ground and then laughed from deep in his belly. I couldn't stop myself from screaming and I cupped my hand over my mouth to try to hide the sound. Carla called out to me and told me to run. A broken voice was like a siren fading away in the distance. Santa dropped her to the ground like a duffel bag,

a spray of blood sputtered out of her mouth, and her chest heaved desperate gasps of air. I'm taking that one too, he said, pointing the yellowed fingernail at her remaining eye. His voice was a sinister growl layered with a sarcastic, jolly, hone. Carla clawed the ground and dragged herself forward a few inches. I winced at the side of the gaping hole where her eye used to be. I wanted to get up and run, but my body wouldn't move. Santa laughed and taunted us, repeating lines from holiday songs. I prayed that somehow James

could still be alive and that he'd come bursting into the room to save us. When Santa moved toward her again with a razor in his hand, I knew they'd be able to be able to be able to be able to be able to It was over for us both. Carla only managed a soft whimper before Santa took her other eye. My stomach emptied and I fought the dizziness that was crawling through my head. I rolled onto my side and felt along the ground. The powdery substance that looked like snow wasn't cold to the touch. And I remembered that I was still in the winter section of the ride.

The whole room was dusted with a layer of flakes made to look like fresh snow. I patted the ground until my hands touched the metal tracks. I couldn't see Carla anymore, but I called out for one last time before crawling away. I followed the tracks all the way to the doors that opened the next section of the ride, but another sandpit was standing in front of me. His suit had a layer of sip on top of it, as if he just crawled out of an old chimney. His face was shiny plastic with spray-painted pink spots on the cheeks. Tiny black dots moved around in his beard like fleas.

He smelled like something pulled from a dumpster and I pinched my nose to avoid the smell. I crept carefully past him, trying not to look into the giant blue buttons that were supposed to be his eyes. He turned his face towards me and shouted, Ho! Ho! Ho! His mechanical mouth opened and closed with each word. I slammed my body into the doors and forced them open. My feet caught the tracks and I stumbled in the next section of the ride. The air was thick with the sun of flowers and rain.

Bright, cheerful music poured in through the flower-shaped speakers on the walls. I caught my balance by leaning onto a giant mushroom-shaped sign with an arrow pointing towards a chair. I recognized the tall vinyl-covered chair from the dentist's office I'd been to many times. My foster mother took me and Carla there once a year. We spent hours in the waiting room trying to match which children belong to which parents by studying their features. Carla used to quiz me, and I knew she was doing it to keep me from being scared. A scarecrow was standing next to the chair. He waved his arm for me to come forward.

You shouldn't be here, I said. This is spring. The scarecrow nodded, then pointed at the chair. A foul, odor leaked. from his burlap face and floated over to me. He slammed his hand down onto the chair and directed me to come and sit. You're not a dentist? I said. No, I'm a scarecrow.

His voice dissolved into a demonic roar. I turned and ran back the way I came, but the scarecrow moved faster than any human could. He overtook me in seconds and dragged me to the chair. A tray beside us held a myriad of shiny, stainless steel tools. Sharp edges and pointy picks still had blood and skin on them, left over from a previous victim. He lifted an instrument with a gleaming blade at the end and raised it toward my cheek. I recoiled when he leaned in close to me.

He laughed and hissed, telling me he was going to take away my face. Bits of straw and dirt fell out of a hole in the burlap. A cloud of air lingered around him that smelled of mold and dead plants. I struggled against the straps that bound me to the chair. He put the blade next to my chin and made a nasty gash. I bit into his gloved hand and clamped down as hard as I could. I tasted mud and straw and squiggly bits that I did not want to know. Tiny things crawled out of the glove and into my mouth.

I spit them onto the ground beside me and watched them slither away. The scarecrow moved away from me and read. roared. He spewed out a dark liquid swimming with worms and it splashed against my shirt. My hands tingled and numbness crept in both my arms. Rotting vines coiled around my forearms and bound me to the chair. They tightened until they cut right through my skin and sliced into my flesh. I cried out the sound was lost in the roar of the scarecrow's laughter. It howled and danced while taunting me with its grisly tools. I felt the feet creeping into my heart and began to cry.

The scarecrow laughed and held up a rusty blade that didn't look like a dentist's tool at all. The straight razor was cold when it first landed on the side of my face, but the sensation quickly faded into a burning pain. The blade opened a deep wound across my cheek that stung like acid. A stream of warm blood rolled down my chest. face and soaked into the collar in my shirt, he made a dozen more cuts. And each time I had to listen to the horrific sound of my skin being opened up. I used the last of my strength to push my knees against the straps.

I heard a pop and the restraints released their hold on my legs. I curled my knees in and pushed my feet as hard as I could, connecting with the scarecrow's body. A shock of pain ripped through me when my feet landed on his chest. The blow knocked him backwards and he dropped the bloody razor to the floor. He made a strange sound before releasing a burst of straw and dirt. He paused for a moment and began to straighten himself. He shook his arms and legs in an almost comical way, then fixed the buttons on his vest.

He nodded at me as if he was conceding the fight. I curled my legs up and prepared to strike again, But there was no need. The chair jerked forward. It rolled on the tracks and slammed to the doors into a cloud of thick humidity. A pair of birds flitted past me, swooping down close enough for the buzz of their wings to linger in my ears. The aroma of freshly cut grass overtook the taste of dead things that was left in my mouth from biting the scarecrow. A speaker somewhere in the room blurted out a welcome to the season of summer.

The room was fiery orange, so bright that I'd as squint my eyes. I knew the light wasn't natural, but it felt like the real sun. My skin drank in the warmth, tingling across my arms and down to my toes. I could feel it right through my clothes and my shoes. Even my feet were soothed and warm. The rest of the restraints slipped away, and I could move my arms again. I brought my hands up to my face and touched my skin. The stinging gashes from the scarecrow's blade closed up beneath my fingertips.

A train of cars burst into the room and Carlo was sitting in the first seat. Her face was beautiful. Nothing like the frightening image that she was when I last saw her. She smiled at me and her beautiful eyes shed tears of happiness. I ran to her and touched her arm to see if she was real. A sweet lavender scent filled my nose, and I closed my eyes to savor the smell. I sat next to her and grabbed her arm as tight as I could. I was afraid that if I let go, she wouldn't be real.

The ride stirred back to life, and I rolled past theraphome trees with the leaves made from fuzzy green felt. A course of birds, bees, and splashing water flowed from the brightly colored speakers. I gripped the side of the car and felt the vibration of the wheels, beginning to roll. I prayed that this time it would be different. This time we would make it through summer and out to the ramp in the ticket booth. James would be waiting there, grumbling about how we were wasting his time. I wouldn't care how much he yelled at us. I would be so happy to run back to the smoke-filled back seat of his car. We didn't make it to the front. The train of cars slammed through the swinging doors, whipped around a curve, and came to a stop in front of the

same autumn display that we started in. We were sitting in front of the Halloween decorations where James Carla and I first began our nightmare so many years ago. I watched my sister run to her boyfriend to try and save him from a monster dressed up as a clown. I knew she wouldn't make it and James would die again as he did over and over. I begged my sister. I begged my sister. or run a different way, to somehow avoid the horrible death that I knew was coming. It didn't matter which way we went. Every path led us straight to the room full of santa's where Carlo would meet the same brutal death that she did the first time this nightmare began, was forced to relive it again,

unable to move, unable to save her. My heart broke every time I watched her die until there was nothing but numbness and acceptance that I would never be able to stop him. I tried so many times to change the outcome by running different ways or trying to hide, but the scarecrow found me every time and used as awful tools on me. Brain made up the part about me getting away. I think it helped me cope with my death. I knew that many years had passed and that people stopped looking for us a long time ago.

I knew the Four Seasons ride no longer existed and the building was probably long gone too. None of that matter, though, because the pain was still real. Every time the scarecrow moved towards me, I knew that I would die. My fate was sealed a long time ago, and there was nothing I could do except wait for the season to change. For our second story this evening, a young boy uncovers two monstrous secrets. What begins as childhood trauma soon spirals into something far darker. Some evils wear skin. Others wear time.

Creepy presents, the darker side of sunlight, written by Dan Mindo, and narrated by Megan McDuffie. The strange and harrowing events of that time have never left me. They stalk my waking hours and invade my dreams. To this day, I don't know why I was able to witness what I did, but whatever the reason, it was only the beginning. It certainly would not be the last time I experienced the darkness that I soon found envelopes us all. In 1963, my mother underwent surgery, followed by a long and difficult recovery. My father, an avid gambler, and, let's be honest, more than a little irresponsible,

wasn't exactly cut out for holding down a job, raising two kids, and chasing an inside straight. So my brother and I landed in foster care. For a child, it's a shattering experience. One minute you're living your best life and the next, you're thrust into someone else's world, where everything familiar is gone. Childhood has a way of quietly etching itself into us. I think of those moments as little cuts, not too painful. on their own, but when stacked on top of each other, over time, they can be lethal.

Every one of those cuts helped shape who I became. A well-adjusted mess, if such a thing exists. Even Freud might have been stymied for a successful treatment. The foster home was located in South Orange, New Jersey, a notably more affluent area than the neighboring city of Orange. It was a spacious, Tudor-style brick house near the southern edge of Orange Park, boasting half a dozen bedrooms. The neighborhood's streets were lined with manicured lawns, towering old trees, and vintage-style gas lamps. Stately homes of all styles dotted the blocks, a tutor here, a white colonial there, and right next door, a sky-blue Victorian mansion. For someone coming from the slums of Orange, the whole scene felt both surreal and a little

overwhelming. The Lenders, our foster family, took in five or six other kids on top of their own three, so the house often felt like barely contained chaos. There were plenty of board games scattered around, and fortunately for me, a good number of books. My older brother Ralph stood out, not just because he was tall for his age with dark, curly brown hair, but because he carried a calm, reflective presence, I lacked. He was gentle, slow to anger, and steady in a way I never quite managed. In short, he was everything I wasn't. Ralph and I had a bedroom to ourselves, a small sanctuary I returned to often, a place to escape the noise, the other kids, and sometimes even myself. The room was bare, two twin beds, a battered dresser, and a nightstand.

The furniture looked like it had come from a second-hand store, scratched, chipped, and marred by cigarette burns like old wounds. On the nightstand, I kept a ceramic elephant my father had won for me at one of the boardwalk carnival games on the Jersey Shore a month earlier. Like a child clinging to a doll or a stuffed bear, I would sometimes carry it with me whenever I felt insecure or vulnerable. There were no pictures on the walls. the lone exception being a cheap print of a small boat amid rough seas. I could relate. They perfectly summed up my life at that point in time. Both of us cast adrift.

The Linder House had a dimly lit finished basement with a TV, our designated, playroom. Cheap wood paneling covered the walls, and the linoleum floor was always cold. Essentially, we were all thrown down there to fend for ourselves. think Lord of the Flies with couches. I remember a blonde-haired kid with rosy cheeks around my age, maybe six or seven, who would sit in a chair rocking back and forth, endlessly repeating, Mommy, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy. This would go on for what felt like an eternity.

Eventually I'd get fed up and tell him to shut up. I knew he missed his parents, just like we all did, but the constant Mommy-Daddy loop was fucking. Unbearable. A few weeks after we arrived, another draftee showed up. Patty. She could have been 16 or 26. I really couldn't tell.

And she wasn't what anyone would call pretty. Her skin was pale and blotchy with a rash that looked like it might leap off her face and onto yours. Her short hair was always messy, as if deliberately styled to make people uncomfortable. But it was her eyes that unsettled me most. There was something lurking there, something old, something dangerous. I went out of my way to steer clear of her. Privately, I started referring to her as Patsy Patti. Never to her face, of course.

You never knew when that rash might decide to attack. The first sign that something was off with Patsy Patty came one afternoon in the grimy Lord of the Flies lair. Four of us were down there. me, Bobby, Peter, and Patty. Bobby and I were tossing a rubber ball back and forth when Peter suddenly lunged in trying to intercept it. He missed, but managed to knock the ball straight into Patty's face, smack right into that pale, blotchy mess. If the others noticed what I did, they didn't show it, but what I saw chilled me to the bone. For the briefest moment, Patty's face changed. Not her,

mood or expression, but her actual fucking face. It morphed into something ancient and malevolent, something not human. Her pale skin turned ashen gray, deep creases etched into her forehead, and her teeth stretched into long, sharp points. It was over in a flash, gone before I could process it, but the image stuck. I tried to ride it off as a trick of the mind, a flicker of imagination. I couldn't. From that moment on, I watched her more carefully. Something wasn't right with her. Whenever I encountered her after that, a voice whispered in my ear, beware, beware, beware. The Lenders had a daughter named Amelia, about six or seven years old, with long brown hair and hazel eyes. Her face was pleasant, framed by high cheekbones, and her giggle always had a way of making me laugh.

were close in age, so we quickly became friends, though her parents didn't seem to approve, probably because of the transitory nature of foster children. Amelia and I would often race through the house, hunting for the next adventure, or simply playing tag. In late July, a distant cousin of the lenders came to visit from Texas. His name was Ben, a big guy with rounded shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He wore glasses and was in his mid-to-late 20s. The smile was wide, and his voice had a slow Texas drawl. Ben was familiar and a trusted family member, given free reign of the house. He seemed to take a special interest in playing with all the kids, spending time with us as though it was the most natural thing for an adult to do.

Even at six years old, I thought it was a bit strange. But it wasn't until three days after his arrival that I really saw him, saw who he truly was. That moment has stayed with me ever since. Burned into my memory, a dark reminder of the danger people can pose, and why trust should never be given too easily. I had gone looking for Amelia, and then I heard her giggle. I found her in the sunroom, a small window-filled room on the south side of the house. Neither of them was aware of my presence. I remember how the sunlight gave her an angelic glow. I thought then how beautiful she was, with the light playing on the side of her face. Then the awareness that something wasn't quite right

started to seep into my six-year-old consciousness. As I stood, quietly in the hall, looking into the sunroom, this scene played out before me. Amelia stood there, gazing out the window, and Ben was seated in a chair behind her, brushing her hair with a hairbrush. He dragged the brush through her long brown hair,

but as he reached the end, he would run his fingers along her bottom. Then he would set the brush down and tickle her, and as she giggled, he would rub his hands all over her body. Then he would pick up the brush and the sequence would start all over. I stood there, silent, watching the scene unfold. Amelia, I don't think, grasped what was really happening, but after a moment, I did.

The realization hit me, and for a second I was paralyzed. Then in a voice barely above a whisper, I uttered, Stop! He heard me then, but he didn't stop what he was doing. He ran his fingers over her buttocks again, but he was looking at me, smiling, a smile that said, What are you going to do? You all can't do shit.

But then, I'd found my voice in a little courage. Stop! I yelled, this time in a harsh voice that surprised even me. Amelia turned around sharply, noticing me for the first time, not quite understanding. The smile on Ben's face quickly morphed into a grimace, and his face flushed. He stopped immediately. His eyes were cold and angry. Then I think it clicked for Amelia. She ran from the room, suddenly crying as she passed me.

Ben shot to his feet, closing the gap between us in an instant. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt, his face. face twisted with anger. Pulling me in close, I could feel the spittle from his lips as he quietly spat out the words through gritted teeth. One word, and you're dead. His Texas straw dripped with menace. The moment he let go, I scrambled out of the room, my heart racing. I ran to my bedroom where I found Ralphie. The flood of tears had turned into a steady stream, and Ralph, three years older than me, wrapped me in a hug, and asked me what happened. I was too scared to say anything. All I could picture was the look on Ben's face, the fury, the hostility that had filled me with

pure terror. I wanted to tell Ralph, but the fear of what Ben might do if I revealed his secret kept me silent. So I lied. I told Ralph I'd been playing with Ben and just fell. I had never lied to my brother before. Okay, that's a fucking lie. In those days, I lied to him all the time. In fact, I considered myself an excellent liar. I used to make shit up just to see if I could actually get him to believe me. It was just a silly game I played. But on that day, at that moment, I actually felt terrible about lying to him about what I had seen. I would avoid Ben after that. If I walked into a room and he was there, I would turn around and head to my room. If I was playing with the other kids and he entered the room, I would leave immediately. I never allowed myself to be alone with him.

I got to tell you, between avoiding Patty and avoiding Ben, I was wearing myself out, dashing from one room to another, or shadowing my brother. After that day in the sunroom, Amelia was noticeably absent. She seemed to be hiding out in her room. And although, she eventually reappeared, her giggle no longer echoed through the house, and her steps were quiet, as she seemed to tiptoe through the rooms. One afternoon, I found her alone in the sunroom, staring out the window. The sky was overcast except for a single streak of sunlight, and she stood in the dim light, half hidden in shadow. Her face was tight with emotion, as if holding back tears. She looked at me, that now familiar sad Amelia look, the look that had replaced the cheerful

Amelia with some mournful doppelganger. We didn't say a word. I just walked over and pressed my ceramic elephant into her hands. She wrapped her fingers around it, gave me a small nod, and then turned and hurried out of the room. Meanwhile, Ben carried on as if nothing had happened, which told me Amelia must have kept quiet too. We were both too scared to speak. That's how it is with children, unready for the wickedness life can throw at them. As for Patsy-Patty, I still don't know what she really was, some kind of demon, I suppose, but the day came when she showed her true face, unleashed, a force of pure terror. It was a sweltering summer afternoon, and we'd been running wild in the yard, laughter echoing through the heat,

but I broke away, drawn by the thought of a quiet moment in front of the basement TV, alone. The house was still as I opened the door and stepped onto the cool stairwell. Halfway down I froze. Ben and Patty were already there. Patty was draped over the back of a couch, her posture strange, unnatural.

Her skirt hiked up above her waist. Ben stood behind her, motionless for it. beat, then moving with a steady, deliberate rhythm. His jeans were tangled around his ankles. I stopped cold on the stairs, breath locked in my throat, every muscle tense with dread. Ben made low, muffled sounds, but it was Patty's voice that rooted me in place. It didn't sound like her, not like a girl, not like anyone I knew. The noises were raw, guttural, rising in pitch until they filled the basement with something wild and unrecognizable, something that didn't belong in the world I knew.

The sound grew louder, an eerie crescendo that clawed at the edges of reason. Ben raised a trembling hand to hush her, but Patty didn't even flinch. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to him. And just like before, her face began to shift. Skin ripple, bones cracked. Her features contorted.

it into that same inhuman mask I'd seen weeks ago, only now it was more clear, more vivid, as if the monster inside had grown stronger. The demon locked eyes with Ben, cold, unblinking, burning with a hatred so ancient it seemed to rot the air around us. Ben reeled back, lips parted in silent terror, the color draining from his face like water from a broken dam. His knees gave out. He hit the floor hard, sobbing, trying to form words, anything, but all that escaped was a strangled whimper, raw and broken, like an animal in its final moments. He scrambled backward, tripped on his own pants, and collapsed again. That's when I saw her hands. They weren't hands anymore. The soft fingers of a girl had vanished, replaced by thick, blackened claws, each ending in a

Cruel, hooked talon. A guttural growl rolled from her chest, deep and wet like something choking on blood. Then she lunged. I sensed Amelia before I saw her, a ripple in the air, a presence at my side. Then she was there, ghost quiet, slipping her fingers into mine. We stood frozen on the stairs, our hands clasped, staring into the nightmare below. Patty had pounced on Ben. He writhed beneath her, mouth open in a silent scream. The sound trapped somewhere deep inside him. We didn't move. We didn't speak.

We just watched. She tore into him like an animal savoring the first bite, her teeth darting in quick, vicious snaps, flaying skin from bone. Blood smeared her mouth, her hands. She was gorging. enjoying it. Then without warning, Ben's eyes went flat, vacant, like someone had cut the power and left nothing behind. Patty didn't even flinch. She kept devouring Ben like he was a perfectly cooked roast,

her low, groaning moans echoing through the room. Sounds of pleasure so deep, so obscene, they made the air feel heavier. She was literally eating him right there in front of the world. of us. Amelia let out a strangled gasp. That's when Patty's eyes finally flicked towards us. She paused, lips glistening, meat still clutched in her mouth. Her stare locked on ours. A grunt escaped her throat, low and bestial. But she didn't rise. She just went back to feeding. My hand found Amelia's and I yanked. She met my eyes, gave a quick, terrified nod. and we bolted, racing up the stairs, out the door, lungs burning. We didn't dare stop, not until we were far from that house, breathless and trembling beneath

the open sky of Orange Park. Amid families playing and laughing, we stood there frozen, two kids clinging to each other, silent and sobbing, unable to speak, unable to unsee what we'd seen. We got back, just as dinner was being served. Mrs. Linder was livid. She tore into Amelia and I in front of everyone, her voice sharp and cracking like a whip. We sat in silence, heads bowed, while she demanded to know where Ben and Patty were. No one had seen them since early afternoon, and Amelia and I, of course, said nothing. After dinner, Mrs. Linder ordered all the children to the basement.

Amelia and I hesitated at the top of the stairs, our feet frozen. but Mrs. Linder, still seething, gave us a look that said, Do not fuck with me. And down we went. Each step creaked beneath us like a warning. My breath caught as we reached to the bottom. I braced for blood, for bones, for Ben's mangled body sprawled across the floor. But the basement was clean, too clean. Amelia and I locked eyes.

There was no sign of a struggle, no trace of what we knew had happened. and my mind spiraled into horror. Patty crouched over Ben's body, devouring him piece by piece, then licking the floor until it gleamed. The image burnt into my skull. By morning, when neither of them had come back, Mrs. Linder called the police. They took their time, asked a few half-hearted questions, and scribbled things down without much interest. To them, it was simple. Two troubled kids had run off together. Case closed, but Amelia and I knew better. Over the next few weeks, the detectives came by a few more times. They spoke with the lenders and questioned us kids about Ben and Patty, but none of us had anything to offer. Amelia and I kept quiet, each of us sticking to a simple, haven't seen them,

and leaving it at that. We didn't talk much about that day. When we were alone, Amelia and I sometimes shared our fears that Patty might come back, but even those moments were rare. Life carried on, more or less, though a heavy, shadowy weight had settled inside us. Ralph and I stayed with the lenders for roughly six months, but the memory has stayed with me for life. A dark, terrifying chapter I wouldn't wish on anyone. Well, that's not exactly true. There are plenty of miserable pricks I've met over the years I'd gladly gift that nightmare too. Then, one day, my father showed up with big news. Our mother would be getting out of the hospital soon, and he'd found us a new apartment. In just a few weeks, we'd be a family again. We were ecstatic. I couldn't wait. I even started

packing that very night, even though the move was still weeks away. Remember, I was six. Years have passed, but there are still days when I can't shake the feeling. that Patty might be out there waiting for me. Could that figure lurking in the shadows be her? Sometimes in my dreams I sense that she's feeding on me. I also can't help but think of Amelia and the other kids. What happened to them? Did the mommy daddy kid finally return to his parents? Did Amelia find happiness? I want to believe she did. As I look back on that dark, perilous chapter of my life, something strikes me now that never occurred to me. It's strange that I never saw it before,

but the ceramic elephant I used to cling to, my quiet symbol of security, never really left me. Even after I gave it to Amelia, it stayed buried deep within me, tucked into the corners of my subconscious. Years later, I found myself buying elephant figurines for the women I dated,

and for both of the women I married. What would Freud make of them? That, mommy, daddy, indeed. For our final story this evening, an unnamed observer reveals the grotesque truth. The person they once knew is no longer human. Creepy Presents, You Have 15 Minutes, written by Naomi Simone Borwain, and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. You have 15 minutes. I am waiting.

The voice is delicate. The floor is churning with discarded wrappers, boxes piled on boxes, and the couch has become a shelf for you to sit on. Day and night the screens on the wall, the ones in your lap, I stopped questioning your motivations. Stop trying to rationalize behaviors that only began to make sense when I realized you are not human. But you did not know, I know. You believe the illusion has held.

not a crack in the veneer, not a fault line. I remind myself, no truth holds nothing to say. Emotions are a foreign language. Empathy is a foreign language, a source of food. Nothing holds sway, no reality, save for the one you have crafted. And there is no point. So much makes sense now that I know what you really are. But the others, have they figured it out yet?

No, no, I don't think so. It is unwise to keep friends too close. To share too much, you muse. That is the patina, the face you form, the security in decorated silence, indecorated neglect. It is spilling out onto the surfaces in the room. And I look now at your face,

which I avoided until this very moment. The sheer dark tar of your solace now, seeping out towards me like a wave on the abyss. And I know, the moment I raise my eyes and look and stop feeling your thick, welting presence. The black alien eyes searching angry rods and cones structures of an insect. The craggy-pitted skin opposing layers too pale against the red welting sores on your nose. That weep.

To be with you. Weeping what looks like pus. The skin you wear, this flesh, this poor excuse for a body you took all those years ago is starting to. to wear, down at the edges, to the outside world. It can be explained away, the body at 45. The building smells of sewage just beneath the cafeteria, and it has for years, and people are sitting there eating their lunches and talking in southern draws. Can't they smell it? I walk through the concrete building, up exterior stairs, poured concrete, following the slick, almost invisible residue. It sticks to my fingers and burns. In the office, a corridor or tiny

rooms voices carry. The smell of mildew is insufferable in the early summer. The room. Your filthy office, den. You don't know that I know. That I figured it out. The scaffolding of rules, the programming. If A, then B. C, if D. You are staring at your screens. There are five of them open flowing. And while, ooh, I feel nauseated, I am dizzy, waves and spells. You explain it away as a side effect of medication. No, no, no, an anti-rejection medication. When you venture outside, I am watching you. But you don't realize it, with the silence infers. What I am capable of? The blue tint of your lenses hides your black bug eyes as you drive to Sugar World. And the facility where they try to salvage your body

to maintain the host until they can find a suitable replacement. There are other options, they say. You say, to shift the supply, to find new bodies, and how you center yourself, re-center yourself. I understand now it is a necessity

in order to maintain this form in order to continue as this person. In this reality, all your energy is piped into this body into this world. At the facility, there is a hall filled with chambers, and you walk down that hall, the silvery light soft from the ceiling,

which is whirled and scalped, the faint imprint of an image, a scene, like an unpainted fresco, geometric colored glass windows shifting stars and rhombuses, blue and red and orange glass, filtering the light into each room saturated the blue room, and inside that room the limp, soft figure of a woman on a stretcher, and a tiny chart by the door.

The green room and a gorgeous Spanish man. I cannot read the chart from where I am, but you still don't know I am watching. I am with you. Bounds. Wounds that spin like shadows. You peer into the red room, inhale and tut, shuffle along. At the end of the hall there is a door with a star on it.

The glass is merry gold and teal, and I tilt your head, scanning the room. before pressing your palm to the plate glass. It throws itself open. The top of your short peppered head, the rolls on the back of your neck are swirls of teal and yellow. You are glowing.

The door snaps shut behind you and a moan ripples from the room. The image flickers. When the door opens again, I don't know how long. The time pulls. It flows backwards and forwards around me. I could never grasp onto time.

Your five minutes is my time. lifetime. We run on different clocks. You leave the room and in your arms as a body, the thin limbs and the white linen shift, and hair falling like willow branches. It is draped over your arms as you walk slowly, a faltering shuffle of steps from two small feet, and hands that do not match the girth of your short plump loner body. The head that houses you seems swollen too. You nod to a camera and the doors open into a room. I had not noticed. Maybe it wasn't even there before.

Maybe it isn't really there now. You lay the body down on a hard white bed and strip yourself before yanking the linen shift off of the body. You are hungry looking now, like a haunted house filled with vengeful ghosts. Like a woman in estrus. But this is transactional. It only takes a few minutes. The mechanical pumping against this vessel, before you are absorbed, absorbing you. Like a distal simulation of sex with no arousal.

The body starts to animate, fingers twitch, the neck rolls, the head and eyes pop. Open like insects. Its tongue like a proboscis. And arms with hidden flanges, the wings fold back under brachy muscles. And you both stand, swiping your hands against your bodies like a timed choreography. You exhale, and so does it. There is time. You have 15 minutes.

My eyes shift, my mind pulls back, the inner lids of my eyes viscous transparent shields against this. But I know, I know now, and there are no expectations. In this reality, in your form. And it is a relief because you, are not human. 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 share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.