Creepy - Goddess & Bad Water

Episode Date: June 23, 2022

Goddess***Written by: Colleen Moyne and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warnings: Psychopathy, Male on female violence, inferred necrophilia***Bad Water***Written by: GrandTheftMotto and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.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 creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. Violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy Presents Goddess Written by Colleen Moyne and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. I suppose I was always a loner. I never really felt comfortable around other people and that's why I've lived alone. I go about my life, do my job.

Nothing strange about that. But there's no doubt. denying the fact that I'm a man, and a man has his needs. You know what I mean. Just because I've never had a girl of my own doesn't mean I don't think about what it would be like. I never used to have a problem with it. I prided myself on control. I could always push the feelings way down and force myself to think about something else. I couldn't see myself complicating my life by having a woman around. Women like to be in charge, to run things. You luck them into your life and suddenly, your life is no longer your own. That's how I felt anyway. But all that changed one night,

just after I moved into the new area to be closer to my job, closer to the city where I worked as a store clerk. Not much of a job, really. But then I never really needed much of anything. I like things simple. My new home was a single unit in the backyard of a house owned by this quiet old lady. The only time I ever saw her was on rent day once a month. But anyway, like I said, everything changed. You see, I like to walk. It clears my head and works off the frustration.

That was one of the other things I liked about this. new flat. It was only about two blocks away from my job, and one of those two blocks was a large park, with paths winding off in all direction, colorful flower beds, benches dotted here and there, and even a small lake with paddle bones. I passed by this park almost every day, never tiring of the view, but had never gone very far in. Well, anyway, this one night it was particularly warm, making it difficult to sleep. The flight had no air conditioning and the fan wasn't helping much. I was feeling restless. Outside the moon was full and bright, bathing everything in a silvery glow, a perfect night for walking. I decided it would be a good time to explore the park properly,

figuring that I'd be pretty safe on such a bright night. The street was deserted as I made my way past rows of little houses with darkened windows. There was no traffic, not even distant sounds. As I entered the park through a rusty iron gate flanked on either side by a low, neat hedge, a solitary bird ruffled its feathers in an overhead branch, settling in for sleep. It was a lovely night. I was strolling along, feeling relaxed and breathing deeply, filling my lungs with my lungs with with the rich scent of the night garden.

When I rounded a bend in the path and came to an abrupt halt, for there, ahead of me, stood the most incredibly beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a statue, life-sized and perfect. For a split second, I thought it was a real person. It was the form of an almost naked woman carved in marble, and it glowed with an eerie perlessence in the moonlight. She was magnificent. She stood on a low pedestal,

surrounded by a narrow border of white flowers in the center of a small clearing or the path that I was on across another. There was no plaque, no engraving, nothing to tell me who this exquisite creature was, or who was responsible for her being here. She stood in a due, Mure, self-conscious pose as though trying to cover herself with a rather inadequate rap that she held.

Seemingly unaware that one small round breast remained in full view, and one whole side from her hip down her smooth, rounded thigh, and her leg to her petite foot was exposed for all to see. Her hair was swept up into a loose twist, with what looked like little rosebuds dotted through it, and her neck was long and white, sloping seductively to her elegant bare shoulders. I had never seen anything so erotic. I was inexplicably drawn to her, and so with rapid breath and a pounding heart,

I approached slowly, looking around to make sure no one was watching. They would probably think I was mad. But I had to touch her. I had to know if she was as beautiful up close. The nearer I came, the more my heart hammered. Her beauty was intoxicating, and yet the expression on her delicate, chiseled face was clearly one of loneliness, of vulnerability. I felt the urge to put my arms around her and bold her,

to cover her and protect her from the element. and from the leering eyes of strangers. Maybe I was a little mad after all. I stepped up onto the low pedestal where she stood and reached my hand out. I hesitated. What was I thinking? Would it be wrong of me to be so bold? It was obvious that this was a lady of class and refinement.

It didn't matter she was made of marble. I had my principles. But then I looked into her eyes, her sad, pleading eyes asking for my protection, my reassurance. She had been waiting for someone like me to come along. I knew it. Her eyes told me so. I reached out again. We both knew it was right. I will never forget that first thrill of anticipation.

I had never touched a woman before, not in that way. My fingers brushed her bare shoulder, and the cool hardness sent a charge through me like an electric shop. How can I accurately describe the feeling? How can I convey the rush of desire I felt standing there in the moonlight with this beautiful creature at my fingertips? Her skin's so cold and hard to my touch, yet at the same time, and find out of the same time, and find out of the time, inviting, and responsive. My hand slid tentatively down her body carefully, avoiding the temptation of her exposed breast. As her eyes spoke the words to me that I knew her lips could not. She wanted me, too. Then I did something so impulsive I could hardly believe it. I kissed her.

I pressed my lips to hers and kissed her cold and beautiful mouth with a passion so intense I could scarcely breathe. I ran my tongue over the smooth slope of her alabaster cheeks as my arms encircled her long, sensuous neck. I felt like I was losing control of my senses. All of the feelings and desires I had been pushing down for so long now came flowing to the surface. For the first time, I acknowledged just how lonely I had been for all those years.

Whoever this creature was and however she came to be here, I knew already that I loved her with all my heart. I knew too that with just one touch, my life had been changed forever. I wanted to be able to take this beautiful angel with me away from this place. But it was not possible. I lingered, not wanting to leave, afraid that if I did I might come back and find her gone, or worse, I might not find my way back to her at all. I looked around.

Thankfully, the park was still silent and deserted. I realized that several hours must have gone by while I was lost in the rapture of my newfound love. And so, with a promise to return soon, I reluctantly tore myself a while. away and headed home in a day's. Though how I found my way, I do not recall. I remember very little about the rest of that night. All I knew was waking with a heavy head the next morning and running late for work. My mind was in confusion. I felt sick to think about what I had done the night before and what might have happened if anyone had seen me. What had come over me?

Maybe it was just a symptom of, you know, frustration, or maybe I was just losing my mind. I tried to put the whole sorry incident behind me and get on with a job, but throughout the day, my thoughts kept returning to the memory of her smooth, marble skin, glistening in the moonlight, delicate face, the round, right breast. Several times I had to excuse myself quickly from a customer and hurry to the men. I felt powerless to control what was happening to me, and I already knew that I would return to the park, and to her, as soon as I was able. I had to, if only to convince myself that my infatuation was nothing more than a temporary lapse of sanity. That very night I found myself standing in front of her

again. She was even more beautiful than I had remembered. The moonlight seeming to radiate from her perfect form. Don't ask me how I got there. I had no recollection of leaving the house. All I knew was the compulsive need to be reunited once again with the object of my fantasy. I had to see her. Touch her. Be with her. I stood as though in a trance, trembling with desire. I heard movement behind me and turned quickly. A young couple wandered by and locked in each other's arms. I don't think they were even aware of my presence. The night was again bright with moonlight, a perfect night for lovers, and my attention turned once again to my sweetheart. Although I know she had not moved, tonight her stance seemed to be one of embarrassment and shame had I overstepped

the line last night. Don't feel bad, I whispered. The young couple turned. A puzzled look passing between them, but then continued on their way. I looked back at my love. We need each other, you see. I would never do anything to shame you. I love you. There, I'd said it. I never thought I would ever hear myself say those words to a woman.

I ventured on. I wish I knew your name. I want to be able to say your name when we make love. Those words came so naturally to me. It didn't feel wrong to say them. I knew we could never make love the way other couples did, but that didn't matter to me. I'd never been with a woman before, so what difference would it make? I reached up to touch her face.

A whirring sound from the path behind me cut through the tranquility of the moment, making me pull back in alarm. That was close. I quickly hid behind a low bush. A young man appeared, clattering up the path on a skateboard. His presence seeming intrusive in all this quiet place. He stopped, his attention caught by the statue. He ambled up to her.

Bored under his arm and began circling her, leering at her nakedness. I wanted to shout at him to get away, leave her alone. I shuddered with rage. I couldn't bear him looking at her like she was some cheap street whore. But when he stepped up onto her pedestal and put his hand on her exposed breast, I lost control. I jumped out and flew at him with my fists up, screaming something terrible. I can't even remember what. He turned to me in alarm, lost his footing on the pedestal and fell back heavily.

I heard the crack as his head hit the concrete path. He laid still, not breathing. I realized right away what had happened, but I didn't care. I had stopped him and I knew I would do the same to any other person who tried to touch my woman in that way. I looked around to make sure that no one had seen. They hadn't. All the same, the mood of the evening had been ruined. So reluctantly I kissed her goodbye and slipped quietly away,

leaving the lifeless body of the young man at her feet, like an offering to a goddess. It seemed fitting. I couldn't concentrate at all the next morning at work. I kept thinking about her. How can I protect her from all those passerbyes that leered and touched and shamed her like that? A young man would be just one of many. I couldn't be there all the time for her.

I could only do my best. I promised myself that from now on I would spend every available moment with her. So as soon as my lunch break came around, I was on my way. I'd never seen the park by day, nor my beloved goddess. I was anxious and a little nervous. I knew there would be more people around, although I did not wish to draw attention. It was determined that I would do everything in my power to see that she was safe. As I approached along the path, I could hear commotion ahead and see people milling around.

What was going on? There were people everywhere, pushing forward as though to get closer to look at something. I saw a police car with a slice flashing and heard a voice over the loudspeaker. Everybody go about your business. There's nothing more to see here. Stay back. Stay back. From the people chattering around me, I managed to piece together the story.

It was the young skateboarder of course. course. He had been found by an early morning jogger. Police had sealed off the area to conduct their investigations, and I reached the conclusion that it had been an unfortunate accident. I felt my way through the crowd, and there stood my beloved, appearing to cower in humiliation, surrounded by a noisy throng pushing and shoving to get a closer look. Her pedestal was cordoned off with police tape, and the white flowers had been crushed by trampling feet. What had I done? This was not the way it was supposed to be.

I had let her down. I had made my beautiful ghaness the object of a public scandal and brought even more unwanted attention upon her. What we had between us had been so special and private. It was now tainted by my foolish actions. I staggered home in disbelief. For several weeks, I stayed away. It was torture.

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I lost my job because I just didn't turn up after that day. All I could think about was my lovely goddess and how I'd ruined something so perfect with my petty jealousy. I wondered if she would ever forgive me. me. If things could ever be the same between us, I had to find out. That evening I approached the clearing with a pounding heart. It was much darker this night. The moon was thin, but I could still

make out the path in front of me. I could feel the excitement building. I just knew that she would be happy to see me after so long. I would apologize. Promise never to do anything so foolish. again and all would be well. I would embrace my love. Feel her cold, taut flesh once again in my hands. I would kiss the firm lips and run my fingers over the pearly white breast. My pace quicken. As I reached the clearing, I halted mid-step. What was this? There stood my goddess, surrounded on all sides by a high white fence, evidently put there for safety reasons since the man's accident. There was a gate, but it was shut and padlocked.

There was no other way in. I couldn't reach her. She was imprisoned behind bars by the frivolous actions of the one and only who had ever truly loved her. I cried. I pleaded for her forgiveness, but she remained aloof, turned away, lost to me forever. I should have known that a goddess made of stone must also have a heart of the same.

I spent many nights after that standing by the fence, dreaming of what had been and could never be again, longing to touch her smooth white skin once more, feeling an almost insane desire. I became a pathetic, unkempt shadow of my past self. people cringed and disgust when they saw me. I lost my house because I couldn't pay the rent. I slept in the park every night now, on the nearest bench to where my love stood. How ironic, I couldn't stay away. And yet at the same time, I slowly grew to hate the very sight of her.

I had loved her, care for her, and yet she had reduced me to this. Last night was another full moon. As I lay there trying to sleep, the slats of the wooden bench digging into my bony bag. I heard a soft sound approaching. I opened one eye, but stayed perfectly still. I could see a young woman, clearly silhouetted against the moonlight. She must have been out for the evening and was taking a shortcut through the park on our way home.

She tottered unsteadily along the past. her path, hesitating as though to get her bearings. She didn't see me there, watching every move. She wore a short, wispy, low-cut dress with thin straps that revealed her shoulders. The moonlight shone on her pale skin, illuminating it like smooth marble. Her perfume wafted on the night air, filling my nostril with a scent of flowers. The old desire return. I wanted, needed, to touch that marble skin. This time there was no high fence, no padlocked gate to keep me away.

I rose silently and approached her through the shadows. She was bending now, removing the high-heeled shoes from her perfect feet. I was close enough to see down the front of her dress. to the curve of her small, round pink breasts. She was almost as beautiful as my goddess had been, but of real flesh and blood. I pictured the two of us lying together in the grass, my hands caressing every part of her, finally knowing what it would be like to make love to a real woman. My breath grew louder and more intense.

She heard. Her back straightened up with a jolt and our eyes locked. I reached out to her. I wanted to say something reassuring, but she didn't give me a chance. Her face twisted in terror and her beautiful lips opened wide into a rasping scream. I lunged. I didn't want to hurt her. I just wanted her to be quiet.

This was a special moment and I didn't want anything to start. spoil it. My hand clasped her mouth as she struggled, trying to get away from me. She fought me. I squeezed harder, one hand on her mouth and the other on her throat. Her flesh twisted and yielded beneath my grim. Something was very wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. When her struggling eventually ceased, I removed my hand from her mouth. Her life was very wrong. Her life My helpless body sagged limply in my arms, like an understuffed rag doll. I could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her dress, and I didn't like it. The reality of her was nothing like what I had imagined.

I slid the strap of her dress off her shoulder and felt for her breast. It was soft, warm, and plight in my grip. I was revolted. Everywhere I touched was so soft. It felt wrong. I let her body fall to the ground and stood staring in disbelief. I had wanted to know for so long how real woman felt. But now that I knew, I was intensely disappointed.

I didn't want her. I wanted my first love. I yearned for my beautiful... cold, unyielding goddess. I don't know how long I stood there. Motionless body splayed at my feet. My heart ached for my one and only love, trapped in her padlocked enclosure, unreachable, like an exotic caged bird.

The woman I both loved and hated and knew I could never have. Many hours have passed, and it's almost daylight. I know people will be coming by soon. Early morning joggers. Businessmen on their way to work. Mothers with children on their way to the playground. I'd better move this crumpled mess of a woman. I didn't want a repeat of what happened with the skateboarder.

This park is my home now. I don't want people crowding around gawking like before. I'll just take her by her arms and drag her down to the, lake if I could bear to touch her. Wait a minute. Something's changed. She feels sort of different now. Colder.

Her skin is no longer pink and supple under my fingers. I can now touch her without feeling repelled. I rather like it. She's quiet and still, almost serene. Like a gonis. I wonder what she looks like with her hair swept up. I think I might keep her for a while. Creepy presents.

Bad Water Written by Grand Theft Motto and narrated by Megan McDuffie. I've spent a lot of my life on the water. There's nothing like being the first one on the beach in the morning, just as the sun is slipping up over the blue horizon, or spending the day drifting on a lake so, clear and flat, you feel like a marble rolling over glass. I was allowed to roam and swim and sail on my own from a young age. My parents taught me water safety, drilled it into me until I could

mumble the rules in my sleep. Swim parallel against riptides, wear a life jacket around swift water, never dive unless you are sure of the depth. More than anything else, my parents warned me about bad water. You'll know it when you see it. My dad told me the first time. I took a solo kayaking trip. I was 13. Bad water doesn't look the same every time, but you'll know. The danger is not noticeable until you've been on it for a while. You might get lost, even in a familiar area. You might see things in the water that don't make sense. Don't panic. Just head for shore wherever you are and you'll be fine. Don't panic, but don't hesitate. Bad water is usually out in wilder places, deep areas without much traffic. Sometimes though,

There were fluke in tides or channels or currents. You might find it anywhere. I always assumed my dad was using the term bad water as a catch-all for any dangerous patches of river or ocean. There are places where the water is deceptively deep and strong currents can exhaust even an experienced swimmer in minutes. Or maybe bad water was a superstitious thing for Pops. He was an old-school Navy guy,

a sailor who'd seen all four corners of the world, and probably even that fifth corner they kept secret. You wouldn't believe what he would consider good or bad luck. It took me 20 years after that first solo trip to realize that bad water is real. It's probably alive, and it's fucking hungry. The Pocomoke River is 66 miles long, connecting the southern edge of Maryland's eastern shore to Delaware and the north. It slithers along up from the bay through wetlands, forest, and the great cypress swamp. The word Pocomoke means black water.

There are some places where the river is so deep that it's said to be bottomless. The truth is, it might as well be. Quick currents a few dozen feet under the surface have been known to drag swimmers vast distances once they reach a certain depth. But for all of that, I loved the river dearly. I've spent countless hours kayaking or paddleboarding over the wide, dark water. The shore is lined by endless phalanxes of green. The cypresses stretch out over the river.

You could cut through the reflections as you paddle if you stay close to either bank. There are elms and pine and hawks and cranes and eagles often on the wing. Birds will dive and pluck fish from the Pocomoke like candy from a Valentine heart. The wind follows the river, gently most times, but when they quarrel, it causes the trees to bend and the water will chop in short, blue-black waves. If you're out on the Pocomoke at dusk, you can watch it drink the sun until below you is stained gold, and above you it's a purple canopy where the stars are just beginning to burrow through. When the moon emerges, low, and cool, it's like having your own personal spotlight.

Yeah, I love the river, maybe loved, because now I know there are places where the bad water got in. I launched my kayak from a slip not too far from town on a clear morning last week. There was a breeze coming from downriver. It was almost chilly before daybreak. Even once the sun was up, the air stayed cool, a perfect day for a paddle. The first hour was a wonderful drift. I had the current with me, so the ride was easy. The Pocomoke has a notoriously powerful undertow that gets stronger, the deeper you dive. Even on the surface, the current can drag an unprepared swimmer.

When you were paddling with the grain, though, it felt like gliding. I found the cut about two hours into my trip. I've spent countless mornings on the Pocomoke and thought I knew. knew every nook and cranny within ten miles of my usual launch site. But that day, I noticed an estuary creeping off from the main channel. It was half hidden by hanging willows, but my eye was immediately drawn to the opening because of how out of place it was. It shouldn't have existed. I'd traveled that stretch of river dozens of times and never seen the waterway before. It was like waking up and looking in the mirror one morning to discover an old scar had popped up

on your cheek overnight. A wound on the face of the Pocomoke, albeit a small one. I stopped paddling and floated. As I drifted closer to the channel, I began to feel a little nauseous. The cool breeze that was blowing across the water became chilly. I wanted to explore the opening, but my anxiety was revving up. There had to be a good explanation for the sudden appearance of a new channel. I began paddling towards the cut. The waterway was narrow, not much wider than the length of my kayak. Green branches wove together overhead, so thick I couldn't see more than a few patches of clear sky. It was cool in the shade of the trees. I felt my muscles begin to relax.

Maybe the channel was hidden in undergrowth before? Maybe it was always there and I just drifted past it. Now it was like I found a secret passage, a winding vein through the body of the Pocomoke Forest. This was some narnia shit and I was having a good time. The channel opened up after a hundred yards. Branches still blocked most of the sun, but larger openings appeared as I went. Sun stood on the river in hazy columns. The only sound was my paddle breaking the water.

The only sound. It took me a few minutes to realize that all of the usual forest noise was muted. No bird calls, no rustling from wildlife scattering around in the bush. I stopped paddling and found myself floating in silence. The river snaked ahead of me, the bends making it impossible to see more than 50 yards ahead. The channel might stretch on for a mile or ten times that or more. The lack of any sound was making me feel uncomfortable. Isolated.

I decided to turn around and head back to the main channel. I rotated the kayak and started retracing my route. It shouldn't have taken me more than 15 minutes to get back to the opening of the cut. After almost an hour of paddling in the strange quiet, I was focusing on my breathing to avoid having a panic attack. It didn't make sense. The river looped on and on with those light-eating branches overhead. It was a straight shot, and there's no way I could have gotten lost.

So why couldn't I get back to the main channel? After another ten minutes, I put my paddle down to rest. I was sweating heavily and half-soaked from the back splash. The cold air made me shiver as soon as I stopped exerting myself. I looked down at the water and felt the panic inch closer. Pocomoka's always dark. It's incredibly deep for its size. That plus silt and soil in the water, suck up sunlight until it looks like you're drifting over a shadow.

But this was different. The river wasn't dark. It was black, beyond ink. It was the empty black between stars. Bad water. I tried to analyze the situation calmly. professionally, and without pissing in my cargo shorts. The most repressional explanation was that I'd gotten turned around,

or that the side channel had a fork I'd missed coming out but accidentally took going back. As for the water, the shadows from branches overhead, plus some extra silt that day, might cloud it up so that it looked almost black. It's not almost black, I thought. It's... I told myself to keep it together. There were always explanations for even, even the weirdest shit.

I was lost. The water was full of soil, and the forest was silent because, I don't know, maybe all of the animals were at a party or something. Taking a quick breath, I put my paddle back into the water. The channel would have to open up eventually.

Thirty minutes later, it seemed like I hadn't moved at all. The only change was that with each passing minute, there was less and less light. It was too early for sundown, and I didn't see thunder clouds in the few patches of sky visible through the branches. The sunlight was simply fading, dusk in fast motion.

Maybe it's a fucking eclipse, I whispered, winceing at how loud my voice sounded in the utter silence of the river. There was only my breathing, the splash of the paddle, and the failing light. Full night came quickly. I hadn't brought a flashlight, but I was able to use the one built into my phone. No signal, naturally, for navigation. I stopped paddling and floated along in the quiet blackness. Eventually, the branches above me became less tangled.

Soon enough, I was staring up at a black sky filled with unfamiliar stars. They were close and cold and tinted a sickly yellow-green, all except for a single red star, brighter than the rest, that made my eyes water when I looked at it. The constellations made no sense, chaotic swirls of uneven lines, crooked spirals and overlapping rings, and the stars were moving, slow but clear, like storm clouds in the wind. A pock-marked moon rose shakily above the tree line. I cast a harsh light, enough so that I no longer needed my phone to see. The river stretched on and on, and I wondered if I should beach the kayak and take my chances in the forest.

I'd nearly made up my mind and was searching for a level plot of shoreline when I noticed the eyes. Thousands of eyes, all reflecting the glow of the moon, hovered in the darkness between the trees. I decided to stay on the river and began paddling towards the middle of the channel. The moon climbed quickly, casting shadows of trees onto the water. There was another shadow, slim and oval, about the size of a bed. At first I thought it was from my kayak, and the shadow jerked and darted away like a trout fighting a line. Whatever it was, the object was unarmed. the surface. Another shadow appeared, then another. These were larger, each roughly the size of a truck.

More shapes began to surround my boat. One was massive, taking up most of the width of the channel, and more than twice that in length. It settled directly under my kayak and matched my speed. The world shook as something nudged me from below. I began to paddle as fast as I could. My mouth was sticky with an alkali-adrenaline taste. My shoulders burned, but I kept moving, trying not to look down at the shadows swarming below me. The river straightened out after the last bend, and I spotted a new cut out. It was a narrow opening obscured by roots. I leaned into the turn, sliding into the channel, praying it was too tight a fit for most of the shadows to follow.

I guess it was, because nothing seemed to follow me. The estuary widened, almost immediately, opening into a small gulf. I racked my paddle, completely exhausted. There were no eyes shining for me. from the shore here, I decided to take my chances with the forest. Before I could make my way to land, I noticed a log was floating toward me. The moon was directly overhead now, lighting the river in a perverse pseudo-noon, like daylight strained through a dirty coffee filter. I leaned forward to get a better view of the log, then recoiled. It was a body. I couldn't tell if it was a man

or a woman. The corpse was naked, pale, shoulders and back exposed in a dead man's float. It was drifting slowly toward me. I paddled away, racing for shore, but found my weight blocked by another body. Just like the shadows, new corpses rose to the surface, bobbing on the river, macabre landmines I desperately wanted to avoid. They all moved with that same dead man's float towards me. I was stuck, surrounded, maybe ten yards from shore. I had just resolved to make a break for it, even if I had to ride over one or two bodies on my way, when I felt a tug on my submerged paddle. Before I had a chance to react, the paddle was yanked down so hard that I lost my balance. The kayak tipped, then rolled. The water was so cold. I tried opening my eyes, but the river burned. Christ, it felt like being

pepper-sprayed. I thrashed, kicking for what I hoped was the surface. The hand wrapped around my ankle while another ripped at my hair. I could sense forms around me in the water. There wasn't time to take a deep breath before the boat flipped and my lungs were already shrieking, begging for oxygen. Something scratched my left calf deeply. I yelped and felt greasy water flow into my mouth.

It's incredible what a human is capable of when facing absolute desperation. Moms lift cars off their kids. Hikers fight off mountain lions. And somehow I managed to squirm until I broke the surface of the Pocomok. The air that rushed in was the sweetest, cleanest thing I'd ever tasted. Unseen hands still pawed at me from below. I swam for it, all grace and experience forgotten. I splashed and kicked and forced my way through the water until I finally felt dirt against my chest. I scrambled up the bank, collapsing. into a ball. My eyes were still closed. They vomited in darkness, the liquid burning almost as much coming out as it did going in. I opened my eyes to dazzling summer sunshine. The night was gone, along with its strange moon and exotic stars. I spit out more water, pushing down a wave of nausea at the taste. The shoreline looked familiar, as did the river. I knew where I was. There was a section of the forest I'd visited a dozen times, not more than a mile from where I'd launched earlier in the day. The Pocomoke was calm and normal. There was no sign of my kayak. I was able to hike back to my car

in less than half an hour. If it wasn't for the burning sensation in my eyes and throat, it would have felt like a regular day trip. They drove home and immediately went to bed, still soaking wet. After that, I got sick for a while, even went to the hospital for a week. Doctor said it might be flu or food poisoning or any number of things. Whatever it was, it seemed to clear up on its own. But I knew it wasn't over. I never should have traveled the cut. I should have listened to the little warning bells.

Once bad water gets in, it stays with you, seeks you, finds you. I don't go out on the river anymore. I don't swim. I don't even shower. Disgusting, I know, but the water. It always comes out bad. I drink overly processed sugar-saturated crap, boiling it just in case. And even then, I can taste it.

You never think about how much of your life revolves around water until you can't have it anymore. 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 Shera-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.