Creepy - Great Grey Wolf

Episode Date: July 10, 2023

You aren't going to believe this...***Written by: No One of Consequence***Content warning: animal cruelty***Bonus Episode: "Lingering Justice" Written by: Charlotte Platt and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Content Warning: Abuse, alcoholism, rape, gore***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex AldeaHosted 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.

Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons, William Bidlack, Kimberly Bennett, Susan LaMasters, and Karen Croft. All patrons get early commercial free access to all Sunday and Wednesday episodes. From there, tiers include weekly bonus episodes, immediate access to our entire back catalog of over a thousand Patreon exclusive episodes and logo merch. And for the next few weeks, just as an added thank you, I'll be posting bonus content for all patrons, regardless of the donation level. to see how you can support the show and be rewarded for it. Please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. And for those interested, the show followed the tide and is now on thread. At creepy pod.

At the moment, it's mostly just letting people know what's going on with the surviving interns we have hiding around here somewhere. But who knows what the future will hold. It's got to be better than Twitter, right? Right? 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. Creepy presents. The Great Gray Wolf. Written by known of consequence. Growing up in my family, camping was just a way of life. I've spent more birthdays in the woods around a campfire than I ever did at a pizza place designed to make kids spend their parents money. I never resented it. I love the outdoors. even after the horror I went through when I was 14.

I'd been in the Scouts for years, went on a camping trip at least once a month. My merit badges covered a wide spectrum of activities and skill sets. The first one I ever got was for firebuilding. When you're out in the woods, whether it's cold or not, a campfire is a staple of the experience. Sitting around the campfire, watching the flames dance and eat the wood. It's like watching the same TV show over and over, but never getting tired of it. When the fire is going, it becomes the center of camp. The place everyone gathers around.

Sometimes we sit in silence, others we chat. On good nights, there are stories told, tales of adventure and horror. My father was an expert storyteller. He had more stories than any other person I knew. And he never told the same one twice. I can still remember the look on his face when he'd be spinning the yarn. He looked deep into the fire like it was a portal to another world. And the story would come from there.

Dad used to say that there was power in words in the stories he told. And there are some places where that power was very strong. I used to think he was trying to scare us. But it was more than that. Never in my wildest nightmares did I believe he was right. But he was. And that's why my life changed as drastically as it did. During the summer of 1999, when I was between 8th and 9th grade,

my troop went on a high-adventure outing to a place in Minnesota. Northern Tier, what we called canoe base, is the premier scout experience for canoeing and winter camping. It borders the land and lakes between Minnesota and Canada, with a wide range of tracks for high adventure fun. Ten days on the water with all your gear and provisions and packs that sit in the middle of three canoes, man by two or three people each. It takes a long time to train for this kind of experience, requiring a decent amount of stamina to row for hours on end. There's more to it than rowing all day. Sometimes you reach a point where the water isn't enough to get you where you need.

need to go. When this happens, you have to put those incredibly heavy packs on your back and walk through trails in the woods. These hikes are called portages, and they can be as short as 20 yards or as much as two miles. Our goal was to map out a journey that took us through short portages, because the long ones will sap all of your stamina. The longest one we had was nearly half a mile, and I can still remember how hard it was carrying a canoe on my shoulders by myself. The main camp was an interesting experience. I grew up in San Antonio, Texas, and this was as far from home as I could get. I was in a place where 80 degrees is considered a heat wave while I thought of it as a pleasant temperature.

They were honest-to-god lumber workers taking down some of the tallest trees I'd ever seen to expand the camp. Or whatever they were doing. I saw log cabins being assembled for crying out loud. It was a whole new world to me. What I found fascinating. Those two days at the main camp were mostly for orientation, familiarizing ourselves with the dangers, the wilderness, getting to know the gear assigned to us and meeting her guide.

Hours was a lovely young woman named Sarah. She was a pretty red head with an athletic build, flannel shirts, and a red bandana for a sweatband. It's easy to say I developed a crush on her. her for those few days I knew her. Back then, it was easy for me to crush on someone, especially when they shared a love for the outdoors. So hard to find someone like that.

The first day we set out, our journey was for seven miles before we'd make camp. On a canoe, that's a long day. But thankfully, there were no portages. To train for this trip, I'd spent dozens of camping trips on the lake with my troop. my father taking the stern position with me and the bow. The stern directs the canoe while providing for momentum. The bow is solely for propulsion. I was never one for sports or the gym,

but paddling a canoe for hours developed a fair amount of muscle. After an hour, I could feel the burn in my muscles, but I pressed on without complaint. I'll tell you this. The view was well worth the effort. The wilderness is a site I find difficult to describe to someone that has never seen it. I could go on about all the trees, the clear, cool water, and the existence that looks virtually untouched by civilization. But what does that really tell you?

Nothing compared to the reality of it. Anywhere else had camp tap, you had to boil or purify the water before drinking it. Here, in the middle of a lake, you could dip a cup in the water and drink it as it was. Granted, we didn't do that a lot, but in a pinch it hit the spot just right. We made camp hours before nightfall. Plenty of time to do what needed doing.

Set up tents, gather water, secure the bare rope, fixed dinner. Each campsite came complete with a small fire pit that's a little more than a grill. The only firewood we could gather was twigs and branches that were already on the ground. No cutting up trees, same as it is in the state parks. I've always thought this was a strange rule

since fresh wood from a live tree doesn't burn well. But not everyone knows that. Dry and dead branches burn the best. Dead pine needles and pine cones make great kindling. I always volunteered for firewood detail, which wasn't a surprise to anyone with my love of fire. The first night was rather uneventful. We were too tired for much else than making dinner, eating, and cleaning up.

One of the most important things we had to do before turning in for the night was the bear rope. Bears roam free and unchecked in the wilderness, especially in this area. In order to prevent a bear from wandering into camp and tearing the place apart for our food supplies, you have to gather the packs with all smellables, including deodorant, and hang them from a tree. Now, mind you, it doesn't do any good to do this. with a tree in the middle of the camp, you need to find a suitable tree away from camp. You throw a rope over a high branch, minimum of 15 to 20 feet off the ground, at least 10 feet from the trunk, and hoist the heavy packs into the air. Once you've got them as high as you

can, you tie off to another nearby tree. This isn't going to stop bear from going after the food, but it will draw its attention away from camp and make it more difficult to get the provisions. If our food got taken, we'd been screwed. I'm not much of a morning person. But on camping trips, I'm always the first one up. I can still picture it as clear as day. That first morning watching the sun come up behind the trees, the clear water stretching out on the lake.

So peaceful and tranquil that morning was. Quiet with nothing but the sounds of nature. I stood on the edge of the water where we tied our canoes to shore, far enough that I couldn't hear my father snoring. About 50 yards away was a small island, very dense with trees. Something caught my attention, and it took me a moment to realize what it was. We were told that seeing animals in the early morning was a common thing, so when I got up I grabbed my binoculars. Without them, I could see the shape. an animal I know all too well.

A wolf sat at the edge of the island, but the coloring wasn't what I expected. The wolves I had seen had dark fur, black and brown. This was significantly paler, white on the underside with pale gray on the top. Even gray wolves natural to the area of darker fur on the top. But not this one. I love wolves, but I'd never seen one like.

this. The binoculars gave me a decent look at it. And this one is big. Bigger than I thought a wolf could be. This also allowed me to see where its gaze was directed. It was looking right at me. I remember wishing that Sarah was awake so I could ask her about this. Within minutes I heard light footsteps coming towards me from behind, and she was the only one that could have been that light footed. I looked away for a second to confirm it was her, and when I looked back to point out the wolf, it was gone. I decided not to say what had seen, but asked about the need of wolves. What she described was exactly what I'd read about gray and even some timber wolves. Neither were what I'd seen. I decided to let it go, thinking my eyes had played tricks on me.

Later that day as we were paddling across another lake, I could have sworn I saw that same wolf again. This time it was perched high on a rise off a larger island. As soon as I was about to point it out to my father, it had once again disappeared. If it happened a third time, I would mention it, but not then. Ever since they mentioned wild wolves in their orientation, they've been on my mind, so. Once again, I thought I'd imagined it. After all, we were five miles away from the last place I'd seen it.

Really, what purpose would a wolf have to follow us like that? There's a lot easier prey to stalk than a group of seven humans and canoes. After setting up camp, I went out to gather firewood. Every so often, I get this feeling like I was being watched. And I looked around expecting to see the gray wolf, but there was nothing. I went further from camp than a little. I should have, not the wisest thing to do in the wilderness. At the height of my paranoia, I managed to get turned around,

and was on the verge of freaking out when a hand clasped my shoulder from behind. I was gone long enough that my father came looking for me and skirt the shit out of me. As we picked up, the arm full of wood I dropped when he startled me. He said he'd been calling out for me, but I hadn't heard a thing. We went back to camp without incident. You're not supposed to leave camp by yourself, not even to go to the bathroom. Now, granted, the bathroom at Northern Tier is nothing more than a plastic tube with a seat on top over a four-foot deep hole. There are no privacy walls or coverings of any kind.

It's literally you sitting on a cold plastic seat in the middle of the woods. If you're lucky, you have a cluster of trees or some kind of vegetation hiding you. It sounds horrible and exposed. But be honest, it's a peaceful way to do your business. Well, except for the mosquitoes. Those little bastards are everywhere and moving swarms. I spent half my days swatting at them. Bug spray doesn't really deter them either.

Back base camp, like with any other major camp, they have a trading post. Really, it's a gift shop, but that's what they call it. We went there to get the maps we needed for a truck, but they had lots of T-shirts too. One featured the pictures and names of over 20 different types of mosquitoes. They labeled it the Common Wildlife shirt. That coupled with the entire shelf loaded with insect repellent should have tipped me off. With a decent amount of garlic in my diet, I've always been less affected by mosquitoes, so I figured how bad could it be.

Last time I ever thought like that. Dad sensed that something spooked me when I was gathering firewood, but he respected my privacy and didn't ask about it. If I wanted to tell him, I could, but I hadn't known where to start. So I said nothing. Instead of his usual scary story at the campfire, he opted for a tall tale about an underwater creature off the coast of New Zealand. It was more of a helpful creature story than one that feels.

beasts on human flesh. I was grateful for the change and had a laugh or two. I slept soundly that night. Northern Tier is the kind of place to rejuvenate the spirit, unplugging from the hustle and bustle of the real world for something more simplistic. You use your muscles to get from camp to camp, to get back to nature and deal with immediate things like getting drinking water, cooking meals on an open fire.

Cell phones weren't as big back. then. And even if you go there today, there are no cell towers for service. The only way to reach out to civilization is an emergency radio that Sarah kept in her pack. Since we were from San Antonio, we were specifically told we couldn't call the base in order to find out how the spurs were doing in the playoffs. They ended up winning, by the way. But by the end of the trek, no one cared. By the end of the third day, we were nearly 30 miles of away from base camp. We knocked out our half-mile portage and paddled another six miles before reaching camp. The site was as sparse as the others. But someone a long time ago had set up

a bunch of thick logs as benches around the fire pit. I hadn't spotted the Grey Wolf on our journey that day. And I was beginning to believe I really had imagined it. That feeling of being watched never really went away. But I tried to ignore it as best as I could. This camp was going to be ours for two whole days, our only layover camp for the entire track. We had another 37 miles ahead of us, but no more 10-plus mile days. Layover day was going to be full of fishing, swimming, and lounging. I planned on spending a lot of that day perched on a rock overseeing the water, leaning against a trunk of a tree and hiding in the shade.

I wanted nothing more than to sit and watch the world. to breathe easy and bask in the glow of nature. If only Dad hadn't told his story that night, I might have been able to do just that. With full bellies, clean dishes, and the supply packs hanging from the bear rope, it was story time. The night time was cold for summer.

Enough that us Texans were bundled in long-sleeved shirts, light wind-resistant jackets, gloves, and huddled around our largest fire yet. Dad got that thousand-yard stare into the heart of the fire and told us the legend of the great gray wolf. My eyes grew wide at the name, and my paranoia came back in full force. I immediately regretted not telling anyone about the wolf I'd seen. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep well that night.

Hundreds of years ago, there was a fur merchant that lived in the area. He spent his days hunting and trapping all sorts of animals. beaver, deer, moose, bear, wolf, even rabbits. If it had fur, he captured, killed, and skinned it. Nothing on four legs was safe from him. He would keep what meat he needed from them and sell the rest of the local village. Not that this byproduct was his idea. He went to the village for supplies and happened to mention a local bartender that he had more meat than he knew what to do with.

The routes and trails we were using on our town. trek were all mapped up by merchants and travelers in those days long gone. People would travel just like we were doing, carrying supplies in our packs over portages and canoeing across the lakes. In the land of 10,000 lakes, canoeing is the only way to travel. One of the biggest hazards of this is tipping over your canoe, and if you're not properly prepared, it could cost you your life. In the case of the fur merchant, he'd bundle his furs together with rope. Even if he tipped the canoe over, the bundle would float, and he'd be able to recover it. On his last track to the closest major town, he loaded up with his finest furs.

Wolf, bear, the softest rabbits in the land. It's such a fine price and a town rich enough to buy them. The lesser quality furs have replaced this much closer to home, with little money to spend. Halfway through his journey, pulled out to a bank on the lake. It was a very good. It was a very good about to set up camp when he stopped cold in his tracks, standing in the middle of the clearing he had sought to put his tent. A wolf stood staring at him. This wasn't any ordinary wolf, not like anything he'd seen before, nearly twice the size of those he'd taken for their peltz, with light gray hair on its back and fur as white as snow on the underside. The wolf stared at him, seeking to punish him. The merchant's

His habits of setting up dozens of traps would often leave animals wounded in the wilderness for days. They would needlessly suffer before he came along and put them down. With the smaller animals, he dragged them back to his home still alive, string them up, and cut their throat to drain the blood. He liked to watch them struggle, to see the light fade from their eyes. The great gray wolf knew this, and had waited a long time to catch the merchant. in his path. You see, the wolf can't just go out and seek those that nature is deemed unworthy. The human population would be whittled down to nothing if that could happen.

The wolf has to wait for the prey to wander into his path. Weeks after the merchant was due to arrive with his wares, the traveler came across his canoe. It had been crushed, broken apart into kindling. The pelts were rendered down to nothing more than ribbons and tassies. As for the merchant himself, only bits and pieces were ever found, but nothing that could properly identify him. Legend has it as time it progressed.

Nature's views on humanity have only grown harsher. It's no longer just those that rape the land, hunt for sport and poison the earth. They say that if you don't have a respect for nature, and you happen upon the wolf's path, it will be the last thing you see. Travelers from all over have vanished without a trace, taken by the great, great wolf. Dad's story ended with a lesson on respecting nature that chilled me down to my core.

I always saw to myself as a nature lover. I've never hunted for sport. The idea of torturing an animal still makes me sick to my stomach. Hell, I don't even litter. And as a scout, when we're hiking, camping or whatever, we pick up trash as we go. There's even something called the Guadalupe River cleanup. An event we did every year. Basically, you float down the river in rafts with large trash bags and clean up the banks as you go.

Sure, they gave us fruit pizza at the end of it, but we did it for the conservation. Only a little bit for the pizza. I wasn't a tree hugger, but I certainly wasn't a polluter either. So why the hell was the Great Grey Wolf after me? No one else had seen him. What did I do? Dad wouldn't tell me if the story was true. He wouldn't even answer me when I asked if someone could see the wolf and not have incurred nature's wrath.

What he did say was that the Great Grey Wolf was a shape shifter, a phantom that could take any form it desired. but mostly appeared as a wolf. It was impossible from him to know the answers to my questions. He was only the storyteller. That night I didn't go to sleep. I stayed with the fire all night. Nature couldn't be mad at me for the fire. I made sure to keep it small enough

that it wouldn't get out of control and cause a forest fire. In orientation, they told us that picking up dead branches and using them as firewood was part of conservation. the opposite of destruction. This was back in a time when Smokey the Bear was on TV and billboards telling us only we could prevent forest fires. These days, psychologists are actually blaming his slogan for helping all the worst wildfires over the last decade. But that's a different matter. As far as I could tell, there wasn't anything I'd done in my 14 years of what have incurred nature's wrath.

as I continued to feed the fire late into the night. I kept telling myself that I'd done nothing wrong. That it was only a story. If anything, I was the one person in the group who should be safe. Maybe Sarah, too. My dad had a 13-point buckhead mounted on the wall above the fireplace in our living room. I once saw the other three kids with us kick a duck to death a few years back. I tried to stop them, but it wouldn't listen to the same.

listen to me. At the time, I wasn't sure about the other parent, Mr. Jansen, but I did later find out he ran a dogfighting ring. I repeatedly told myself that I was safe and there was nothing to be afraid of, until I heard screams in the darkness. About 20 minutes before I saw two of the kids walking towards the shitter with flashlights, they've been snickering at me for sticking close to the fire. I didn't care much for them, especially after the duck incident. The worst I'd ever wished on them was that puberty would pass them by. But they got a lot worse than that. Eventually we found what was left of them, mostly blood and tatters of clothing.

Mr. Jansen lost his shit. One of the kids was his. Sarah went to a pack for the emergency radio, but while we were looking for the others, something tore her tent to pieces. There were streaks of blood. All our gear was destroyed. The radio was missing. I tried to tell my dad it was a great, great wolf, but this caused Mr. Jansen to lash out.

He yelled at me to shut my stupid mouth and punched me in the face. I didn't get to see my dad take that asshole down. I was a little too busy seeing stars. When my vision cleared, I saw Dad standing over Mr. Jansen, curled up in the fetal position and threatening to kill him if you ever laid a hand on me again. We left him in the dark as the four of us walked back to the fire. Dad and Sarah were going over our options when Mr. Jansom made it back to the light. My face hurt, but I wasn't seen double anymore.

I just added more wood to the fire. Every so often I'd look at him from across the fire. Touch the outside of my right pocket. I always carry a knife on camping trips, and that's where it lives. If you made a move toward me, I planned on pulling my knife and aiming low. Listening to Sarah and Dad talk, everything went silent at the sound of an unnaturally loud growl from the darkness. We all turned in the direction it came from and saw only the glowing green eyes of a canine. I was frozen in place.

Fear anchoring me to my caters. spot. The other kid had a very different idea and ran in the direction of the canoes. It is possible to use a canoe by yourself, but it takes a lot of effort. This dipshit had spent the whole trip sitting in the middle of a canoe, no paddle, and it as little as possible during portages. If he made it to the canoes, you wouldn't get far. I never saw the movement, but the glowing eyes were suddenly gone. We could hear whatever it was move and the darkness, incredibly fast. And in less than a minute, the kid screamed as the monster attacked.

The sounds of bones breaking, flesh tearing, and inside spilling on the dirt will be with me for the rest of my days. I'm only glad I didn't have to see it happen. I'd still be in therapy if I had. The adults believe the firelight seemed to be the only thing keeping the monster from rushing It stuck to the darkness, and if we waited it out, we could make it to the canoes at daybreak and get the hell out of there. It sounded like a good plan, but there was just one problem. I'd seen the gray wolf in daylight, twice.

My chance to mention this was lost when the growling came back. Mr. Jansen grabbed the largest branch in my firewood pile and let the end with dead leaves on fire. The improvised torch lit up the path towards a canoes. And what I saw was something straight from a horror movie. At least seven feet tall. It was a heavily muscled, humanoid gray wolf. Mr. Chanson swung the fire at it. And it did cower back, but only briefly.

As it moved forward, that fucking asshole used his free hand to push my dad toward the beast. It caught him in its grasp easily and threw him over our heads. I heard it before I saw. He was impaled on a broken tree branch several feet above my head. Before I could think, I pulled my knife and slashed Mr. Jansen in the back of the leg. The cut wasn't as deep as I'd hoped, and he kicked back at me before running. I missed what happened to Sarah. She was on the ground with a set of slash marks on her back.

and she was unconscious. The humanoid wolf turned away from her still form and ran after Mr. Jansen. I watched as he tossed the torch behind him and used the seconds of bottom to get into a canoe. The wolf went around the torch and leapt into the air. Before touching the water, I saw its shape change, but couldn't make out what it became before completely submerging. I still have trouble remembering this next part thanks to the kick Mr. Jansen gave me. I hadn't realized at the time all hard I'd hit my head on a rock, but I was bleeding.

Mr. Jansen made it a few yards before the water surrounding the canoe began to thrash about. The canoe began to crumble from end to end like a soda can being crushed. He got caught on a rung in the middle of the canoe and failed to bail before his lower half was squished. Somehow he managed to remain conscious as the crumpled mass began to sink into the water, and he screamed like a bitch to his watery grave. My vision began to blur as the wolf emerged from the water and walked toward me. I still had my knife in my hand, and I took a pitiful swipe at it only to get a slash mark on the back of my arm, knocking the blade from my hand.

My world became black, and the last thing I thought, what a lousy last stand. I stirred from my slumber to the sensation of a dog licking my wounds. There's a faint memory of watching the wolf I'd seen twice before licking Sarah's back. But that's all I've got. Another crew found us the morning after the attack and called for help. Sarah and I woke up in a shared room in the local hospital. Our wounds were superficial, but we appeared to have a matching set of scars. The claw marks on her back were much bigger than the slashes on my arm, but virtually identical.

My guess? The Great Grey Wolf not only left us alive, but licked our wounds to heal us so we wouldn't die out there. The official story is we were attacked by a pack of wild animals. None of the bodies were ever found. And neither Sarah nor I told anyone the truth. It's been over 20 years. and I still don't think anyone would believe me. For your bonus episode,

creepy presents Lingering Justice Written by Charlotte Platt and narrated by Megan McDuffey. The case was quick. My lawyer wanted to pull for more mitigating circumstances, explain the details of our childhood and the mess that was home. I watched people in plush suits argue about the details of past trauma,

and how a seemingly normal family could hide all sorts of rot beneath the surface, substance abuse and regular beatings, the silhouette of our mother leaving, wailing like a wraith, screaming she would come back for us, the gaping silence when she didn't. The judge might be sympathetic if we got the right one. None of it mattered. I pled to my actions, and they wanted my head, so that's fine. Let them cart my body out of the chamber.

I'll be gone. and have no interest in the sack of meat left behind. You have plenty of time in this place to think about matters like that, to consider what brought you to the cells and bars in the ever-ticking clock. My lawyer tells me the average waiting time is 15 years, but some people sit for 30. Some people die before they get killed, cheating the system out of justice. Some kill themselves in one final act of spite,

control until the end. Sometimes they let you talk to a priest He comes to visit an especially arranged taxi Shuffles in with a face as grim as a mortician I like our one, Father Richards He's bitter as a pill Brown hair turning into a grey tide line Rinkles on his face that aren't all from smiling

He talks philosophy with me We discuss the weight of the soul And if there's a value in repentance when it's taken Hollow and unwilling I am unwilling. They'll say prayers in the mumbled language of rote, learned custom, the clock keeping percussion behind him. It can be a comfort, that sound.

Better than the silence at night, the only comfort and echo in the back of your head. Her laugh, her shouting my name. Sabrina was my sister, younger, an absolute brat from three through to 23. She was kin, though, and a pretty kid who grew up into a beautiful woman. Too much for my father to handle.

We both were. She was working at 14 and out of the house at 17, living with friends. There's a condition you get on here, death row syndrome. They think it's irregular that lying here, listening to the clock, waiting for news, waiting to die, makes you a bit nervous. The natophobia is the fear of one's own death, and I am not afflicted. But the waiting is what gets you. The clock ticking in a mockery of your heartbeat, which will end sooner than you planned, and later than the executioner would prefer. I hope the grave will bring silence, but I don't have the luxury of it while I sat here counting floor tiles.

Sabrina didn't have the best friends. Some were fine, the ones she lived with, but she would give anyone a chance, knew not to judge someone for their learned responses. We both had learned responses. I'd come out of our house prickly and sharp, always ready to match someone in a fight, to get in their face that they tried to get into mine. She'd come out, a facilitator, able to walk the negotiation line when unreasonable anger put others at risk. I had never been good at that, except as a distraction, bait for the angry beast that was our father's alcoholism.

I was nothing, if not ready, to meet a fist with my own jagged rage. She would let people lash out and walk them down, circle them around their fury until they were back to a level C. I think that's what made them target her. That softness. It wasn't weakness, but it could look like that to a predator. There's a certain type of man who sees opportunity in every interaction, the social armor of politeness and excuse for him to interpret intent. A smile is an invitation, a demure rejection of flirtation. When he's told someone's a lesbian, it's a challenge rather than an explanation.

I was the challenging one out of us. I was the problem, kid. I should have been the one targeted by something like that. Not their type, though. The report gave brutal details. The language meant for professional eyes rather than grieving family. Words like cavity and perforation, multiple samples and head trauma,

carefully separate language to describe what she looked like on their slab. Her face bloody as burr meat and no longer recognizable through the swelling and red. I knew it was her. Didn't need the ink or the dental. I knew my sister. Three men had attempted to convince her she was not, in fact, interested in the fairer sex. Three on one, not a fair fight in any way. I was never won for fairness either, though.

The police would take their turn at the crime, but I knew that ending too well. Years of blue lights and tears and threats of investigations that turned into warnings and then promises to do better. The subsequent beatings that left bruises blacker than their uniforms. These three weren't even afraid of the cops. Alibis lined up like jury members waiting for a call. A little pack of jackals hanging around house parties and cheap bars. Jason, Prim and Prime and All-American. covered by his parents' money. Tony and Paul were a bit rougher, but still considered good young men,

athletic college students with bright futures. The future has become an abstract concept, time stretching out either side and away from me. I talk to Father Richards about Sabrina, and he assures me she would go to heaven, that their God doesn't consider rape to be something that bars you from entry, no matter how many men do it to you. He offers me, absolution if I say sorry. Apparently there's peace in that, but lies taste bad, so I don't apologize. One house party blends into all the others eventually, the carousel of red cups and moving bodies. I can scrub up well with effort, wear the right things to look like I should be there. If any of the younger ones there recognized me, they didn't say anything, and that worked fine.

None of her friends were there anyway, still wrapped in the fog of their grief. Mine had crystallized into a sharp blade, blood-hungry and keen. I drank and made a show of acting drunk, stumbling as I went outside for a smoke. Being raised with alcohol makes that easy. Blending, bending, going along with the story being spun. Of course it's just orange juice. Of course it was the cupboard that clipped your cheek. They found me outside, propped up beside the back railings, joined in my hand and head back.

I could only look at the night sky. I missed that, stars. The feel of the night brushing over you like a presence. We joked about the party being lame. They were going to a better one. Jason had friends at a place with more of a vibe. Did I want to come? Of course I did.

Of course. Crowd control is an easier feat when the crowd is distracted. It's not hard until they know what's going on, and if you do it right, then they won't. realize. Sabrina had the skills in that. I'm a blunt tool. Sandwiched between two of them in the back seat. I let them put their hands where they liked as Jason drove down winding streets and into darkness. No sign of a house or a party. Probably a back road. I laughed into Tony's mouth as he grabbed my face, kissing me sloppy and brash, the dull pressure of his fingers at my thigh, a burning brand.

He mistook it for enthusiasm and tugged me closer, a hand to the back of my neck, tipping me forward so Paul could grope at the button on my waistband from behind. I led him, trailing a hand down Tony's chest, moving to open my jacket for easier access. Our father shaved with a straight razor until the shaking got too bad, then he switched to safeties to avoid the betraying red marks. I took it with me when I left home, to be sure he didn't use it as much as for my own purposes. Slashing Tony's chest was gratuitous on reflection.

I didn't have to do that. With a flick of my wrist, the blade went up his stomach and across his chest, the skin yielding briefly to show the full moon yellow of fat before the blood started to pour. He screamed, flinching back from me, which just made going for his throat easier. It only took a quick swipe to get in at the side, cut in and drag back out again, Tony folded over, arms around himself, a gush of red accompanying the movement. Blood is so hot when it first gets on you, it's scalding. Paul probably saw the blood, or his reaction to Tony's scream was delayed because of the alcohol,

but he yanked me towards him. I went with the movement, slamming my skull into his nose as my back connected to his chest. It was too cramped in the car to fight properly, but that was enough to hurt, to distract him while I twisted around. Jason was shouting, throwing an arm back to try to catch whole of me. A punch connected, maybe two, but his angle was off, and I could shrug them away by dropping my shoulder. Paul had his hands on his face, blocking my access to his neck,

and I slashed at his wrists to make him drop them. He tried to bat me away, but he was sluggish, arm dipping too far, and I grabbed one hand, keeping it down against my thigh as I got up to his neck. and hacked. He was bigger than Tony, more of a threat if he wanted to be, and I needed to be sure he would go quickly, so I kept cutting at him, leaning my weight in before I yanked the blade home to my chest. Jason slammed the brakes, and I shot sideways, wedged into the space between the driver and passenger seat, my back to him as I tried to scrabble back up. He popped me in the head,

a good hit even by my dad's standards, but I'd taken more of those than Sabrina had. I wrenched myself out, the backseat sodden with blood as I tried to follow Paul out of the door he'd flopped through. Jason grabbed for me, screaming some obscenity as he grasped my waistband and tried to pull me back in. I tried to find the razor, lost in the sudden stop, nicking my fingers as I struggled for it. The handle was slick as I snatched it, wrenched sideways again as Jason kept punching into my back, my ribs. I felt a familiar pop in one of them and laughed, howled at him as the pain blossomed out. He was halfway through the seat gap, looming over me so we were almost face to face as I twisted on the bloody fabric, wedged a knee to my chest so he couldn't get any closer.

His hands were aiming for my throat, slipping over my chest and bumping over my collarbone, iron fingers trying to snag my pulse. I spat Sabrina's name at him, angry he hadn't done that with her. had felt the need to smash her face into bone and teeth rather than the swiftness of a crushed windpipe. He startled, paused enough for me to bring the blade up in an arc for his face. It slid into his cheek, lower than I'd meant to. The blood sprang over me as he bellowed.

Rearing back, he tried to punch me again, but I kicked at his chest, keeping him up as I swung at his throat. I felt contact but couldn't see how much for the blood in my eyes, hacking against the splattering into my mouth. I was sliding on the material, and he'd have weight on me if my leg moved, so I shoved against Tony, bouncing out the open door with a thud.

Pain flared up my hip, sharp in the cold night air. Kicking back against the middle frame, I bumped into Paul, on his front to crawl away, but now still on the ground. I shifted off of him, pushing up on one knee to get purchase on the gravel road. Stones studded into me,

grinding against my kneecap as I panted, wavering. Jason hadn't come after me, hunched over himself in the car interior and babbling something. I stalled. The thrill of adrenaline that had kept my focus stuttered, my vision swimming black for a breath. Two, he could still leave. The engine had died with the stop, but he had the keys. I came closer, leaning down to push the edge of the razor into the thick rubber of one of the front tires. It took some attempts, but the pointed tip of the blade sank in, a cold hiss of air, a kiss against my knuckles.

I peered into the car, razor still in hand, and saw Jason had his phone out. It had flopped out of his hand as he tipped forward, head pressed into the back seat, face slap. The stern voice was repeating questions down the line, the firm demands of emergency response. I carved out the other side of his throat, just to be sure. waiting for the police in front of the car seemed safest separate from the bodies and blood i left the razor on the bonnet so they wouldn't feel threatened by me not that it would matter much if i was shot but no point in making it easier for them my mother wrote to me when i was awaiting trial in careful language she didn't quite say she was glad they were dead it couldn't be used against her in court but i understood maybe she'd considered similar uses for a razor before she had been used for a razor before she had been used against her in court but i understood maybe she'd considered similar uses for a razor before she ran. Dad appeared at the trial, clean-shaven, and pressed into a suit that used to fit. He wasn't needed much after I pled, but he cried valiantly for my mercy, more than he ever gave me

himself. Father Richards told me one of his favorite verses, "'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.' He wasn't too put out when I laughed at him, which was gracious. Sabrina had mercy. She had patience and kindness and all. all those good traits that take you through the pearly gates once dead, and she wound up on that slab much too soon. A shortcut to heaven I would kill all over again to take back. Now I sleep on a cot and wait for the injection. When the appeals are done and they're satisfied,

they did everything they could for me. I know I did all I could for her, and that's enough for me to sleep. 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-Lite 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 story's author.