Creepy - Heart of Dixie

Episode Date: March 4, 2024

Home is where the heart is...***Written by: No One of Consequence***Bonus Episode: "Disappearing Act" Written by: Robert Kluver and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***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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rewarded for it. Please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. All right, just a quick check-in from Creep Boy Camp. Things are going. Well, they're going. If you follow the show on social media, maybe you saw that for the first time ever, the creepy production crew was able to meet together in person, you know, when it didn't involve camp or meet locking them in a haunted house. More so, it was actually in one of my favorite all-time places, New Orleans.

We had a great time, lots of laughs, and ideas for the future. First and foremost, making this year's camp the best we possibly can. If the others were around right now, they'd be able to tell you the same. I gotta get it going. There's still so much work to do. Get things up and ready for April. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this week's stories. Now, 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. Heart of Dixie. Written by known of consequence. Have you ever been on a road trip and come across a small town only to wonder why it was there?

Why, of all places, would someone settle down in such a random location to build their life? In ancient times, cities thrived when located near mountains because it reduced risk of attack. Other locations have been picked. because of the availability of resources such as minerals or logging? What if those were only the surface reasons? And there was something hidden underneath. When I was in middle school, I was forced to take a geography class. I've always been directionally challenged, and geography was really hard for me.

They told me it was part of the curriculum and I didn't have a choice in the matter. I really bugged the crap out of me. And I went into it with a lot of irritation. I mean, the kind of irritation typically reserved for chubby kids when it came to gym class. I struggled with it from day one, but things changed at the mid-semester project. The project was to design your own town, and you could only use ten buildings. This didn't include residential properties, but the township itself. Everyone got to work locating their prospective locations, but I was at a loss.

The main requirements were to have a source of water and a dump of some kind for waste management. I thumbed through the maps, looked at several undeveloped areas, but I couldn't settle on any location. The teacher noticed my struggle while everyone else was already planning their communities. Mr. Henschman asked me what my problem was, and I told him plainly that I couldn't understand why anyone chooses a location. He listed off a bunch of reasons, but it wasn't sinking in. Maybe if I saw these places with my own two eyes I could decide, but I couldn't do it just by looking at a map. Things were a certain way in the old days, but it's different now.

Resources can be brought in from other places, and water can be pumped up from deep in the ground if necessary. So what makes someone choose a specific spot? This was a question Mr. Henshman couldn't answer. I ended up picking a random location, did a haphazard job, and got to see. That was fine with me. It was my average in the class. Actually, it was my overall grade point average.

However, this project sparked an interest in me that nothing else in school had managed to do. I couldn't let my question go. So I started doing some research. I grew up in a small town called Dixie, but it doesn't matter which one. There are more than 20 of them in America, so take your pick as to which one it is. Most small towns are the same,

despite how individual and unique they make themselves. It was a kind of place where everyone knew each other, and everyone was in everyone else's business, no matter how private. I had a small group of friends. But we weren't the losers or anything like that. If anything, we were ghosts. People took notice of us,

but we were so non-unique that we didn't interest anyone. They were merely aware of us when we were present, and forgot about us almost as soon as we were out of sight. This suited us just fine. It allowed us to do what we pleased without being hassled by the grown-ups. It's not that we use this, ability to get into troublesome situations. Generally, we were good kids.

As we got older, my need for an answer reached new heights. I went to the public library to research the township and other small towns to see if there was an underlying reason why their locations were chosen. After a few years digging in the books, I decided to take a different approach. Every town like ours at older folks who spent their entire lives there, And as I saw it, that was an untapped resource. Probably better than books because they know things that were never published. The facts aren't always the full truth.

And some truths are kept from the record. Our resident old-timer was Jacob Hassanflat Jr. His family was one of the oldest around, and they originally opened the first general store here up called Flats. It since changed into something. more like a supermarket, but it's still rooted in the community. We don't have any big chain stores here, and the closest one is several miles outside of the town limits.

People will occasionally go out there for things that flats either doesn't have or ran out of. They carry a wide variety of items, and if you need something they don't carry, they'll try to special order it. Jacob didn't run the store, having left it to his two grown children since he got too old. He used to sit outside on what was the front porch. The building sits on Main Street and has expanded to four times what it originally was. The main entrance in the center of the storefront is on Maine, where the parking spaces are. If those are full, you can go down the alley and park in a lot out back.

The porch where Jacob spends his days faces the town square. Most people don't use it because there's no parking on the street going around the grassy area with its statute. trees and benches. We used to ride past him all the time when we rode our bikes through town, and he's about the only adult that bothered to notice us. He would even wave on occasion. If you got close enough to talk to him, he'd say something along the lines of, that town's prosperity is slowing down.

No one ever knew what he meant by that. It's not like we were going through hard times, but it did feel like that on occasion. I couldn't remember the last time a new building went up either. For the first time in ages, I approached him on foot and didn't pass by. This caught him off guard, but he didn't seem displeased with my presence. I sat with him and asked if you knew why the town was founded. He started on a story about it being a mining town in the old days,

but there wasn't ever enough gold found to make it a boom town. As he started to go into detail, I decided to stop that line of thought. I wanted to know why this spot specifically was chosen. The Dixie Town Square was just across the street from where we were, and yet they could have put it anywhere back then. This cut him off guard again, and he looked at me sideways. He got this little smile in the corner of his mouth, and he leaned into conspiratorially whisper.

You're asking about the heart, aren't you? For a reason I couldn't understand, that sounded exactly right to me. I nodded at him enthusiastically. Before you go into it, he told me to follow him inside. He said this was going to be a long story and you wanted something to keep his throat from going dry. Jacob wasn't used to talking for long periods anymore. We went inside, got a couple sodas, and he grabbed something from the back office before we went back to the port. He lit himself a cigarette.

One of those older kinds doesn't have a filter. I began to speak the way all old men do when they're getting into a story. My grandfather used to get like this when he'd tell me stories about the war. I didn't usually enjoy his stories because he would admit the really good parts, as I thought of them back then. It never occurred to me in those old days that he did it not to keep the interesting details from me, but because it was hard to bring it to the very good things. up such horrors. As we settled on the porch, I had the book he'd taken from the back office.

It was an old thing that seemed better days. An odd color orange that might have been burnt at one point, but now it just looked faded. I expected him to open it and start reading, but he merely sat it on his lap. He started telling me the story, all from memory. These were things he grew up hearing from his father and other people from the town. It made me wonder why. he bothered to grab the book, but I wasn't going to sidetrack him. Jacob Sr. was one of the original town founders, and they settled in a mining camp more than a hundred years before. Small gold nuggets were found in the river, and people were convinced there was more to be found. Instead of wasting his time trudging through the river or digging

into the mountains, Jacob Sr. brought in supplies and sold him out of a wagon. Every once in a while he'd relocate, finding this spot he set up shop and was missing something. He moved time and time again, always searching for the right spot. The people that can't found this odd, but always kept an eye on where he went. Being the only one with the supply of essentials, it was important to know where he'd be at all times. His changes in location weren't very dramatic, but he never stayed in the same place more than a few days. Jacob Sr. couldn't figure out why, but he always knew he was in the wrong spot.

After about a month, he settled his wagon in a beautifully shaded spot. Within hours of hanging his sign, people were flocking to him for this and that. It was a record day in sales for him, and he knew this was the spot he'd been searching for. Over time, he increased the two wagons, and always had a third out to resupply. Buildings were only just starting to go up, and Jacob was working to build on his spot. The problem was, he couldn't. It's not that the town didn't want him to put up shop on his spot. They honestly didn't care where he built,

as long as he kept the supplies coming and didn't charge him ridiculous prices. His father told him that something kept stopping him from building. He'd be there with his timber, ready to start, but the energy drained from him. This perplexed him, and it took a solid week of trying for him to realize he'd have to build somewhere else. It was okay to park his wagons here, but not to build on this spot of land. Instead of trying to fight it, he started testing the ground for his foundation. Jacob remembered asking his father why it happened, but he was evasive in answering.

He'd been younger than I was at the time and was told it wasn't something he could understand. It wasn't long after that he picked a spot where he sat. He kept the wagon in the original spot and sold from it even after the store was built. It wasn't until a harsh winter that nearly killed half the people in Dixie that he stopped selling from the wagon. It hadn't been mobile at the time and was used for firewood when the people got desperate. As time progressed, more buildings went up. But no one ever built on that spot. Soon businesses were sprouting up around it.

and everyone that did became prosperous. Even though the mining for gold wasn't going well, people continued to come to Dixie and settled in. Eventually, the mining stopped after several deaths and very little gold was found. Soon after, logging started, but no large venture has ever lasted long, especially when people randomly up and left without a trace.

Farming became a big thing in the surrounding areas, and Jacob supplied them with everything they needed. He, in return, sold their crops and meat in the store. When Jacob was little, the town was about half the size it was when I was sitting with him. He explored the area with a curious mind when he wasn't attending classes. As a youngster that loved a plane explore, he often skipped his classes, finding more fun in the outdoors than with books he couldn't even read. From what I gathered, he was very much the Huck Finn

of Dixie. He knew the town inside and out, even went so far as to explore some of the abandoned mines. That's where he first felt it. The mines weren't that deep, and he knew their passage as well. But this one time, he found something new. It was at the deepest part of the mine, and was dead and dead like it always had been. But then he felt something. He had trouble describing it, but said it felt like something was reaching inside of him with invisible fingers, like a ghost or a divine entity was touching something inside him, turning him to look back to the dead end, only it wasn't the dead end anymore. There was a crack in the wall that hadn't been there a moment ago, and something was glowing inside it. The opening was barely wide enough for Jacob

to fit through, but he managed to squeeze his way inside. He left a few pieces of skin behind to do it, but he couldn't seem to stop. After what felt like 20 feet, the space opened up into a much more comfortable passage. It wound this way and that, going deeper into the earth.

Using his compass to tell which way he was headed, Jacob discovered he'd headed back to town. He swore he was on the verge of finding the gold that the original settlers never found, but what he discovered was something else altogether. Unfortunately, that's where Jacob's story ended. He remembered going into the mines, finding the mysterious crack,

traveling through the underground passages, but not what he found. The book he held in his hands with a journal from those days, and he had to read from it to be able to recall as much as he did. From it, he pulled a small piece of paper, and in a child's handwriting it had only three words. Heart of Dixie. It was the only thing he could remember from the cave when he got out and wrote it down without knowing why.

At the time, he couldn't even read and had no idea what he'd written. This piece of paper is what got him to take his classes more seriously. He wanted to know what he'd written, but was too afraid to show it to anyone. In later years, he tried going back into the mind, could never find the mysterious crack again. He only ever experienced that feeling from in the cave one more time when he was in his 50s. Jacob had been in the town square park sitting on a bench

and was debating a decision to expand the store. This decision would lead to it becoming the store I knew then, but he was having trouble deciding. There's a lot of risk, but if he wanted to provide more for his family and more for the town, he'd need to take the risk. It was a major financial gamble, and he didn't know what to do.

As he sat on that bench, that invisible force reached into him again. But this time it came from the ground below his feet. He wasn't drawing him in this time, but pushing something into him. He became blind for a moment, but wasn't panicked. When it was over, the decision was made. and he went back to the store.

Listened two weeks later, when he exchanged hands and construction was underway. From his journal, he read that he could only remember two things from the experience. The first is that he was given the feeling that expanding the store was not only a good idea, but it would work out for him and his family. The other was that phrase again, Heart of Dixie. Jacob never figured out what the phrase meant.

but he has this theory small town folks with pride in their community I always talked about the heart of a town as if it was something real and alive maybe it really was a tangible thing something that had always been beneath the surface it just takes the right person to stumble across it for a community to form

who knows Jacob said to me with the far-off look in his eyes maybe there's one beneath every town and city I asked him where the mine entrance was located, but I didn't expect him to tell me more. After a moment, he asked, If I told you to let this go and move on with your life, would you actually do it? I answered truthfully. This question had been nagging me for a long time, and I didn't know if I could let it go.

He sighed and pulled out another piece of paper from the orange tome. It was a map, and it clearly marked the mine. After thanking him for his time, I went inside the store, purchased a bottle of water, flashlight, headlamp, and batteries to power him. As I walked out of the store, Jacob called out to me. Think real hard about this, kid. You ever notice that people go missing sometimes? What kind of question was that?

Yeah. Sometimes a person randomly left town without a word, but that hadn't happened in a long time. The last time I could recall it was just before Rudy Abernath he built and opened up a steakhouse a few years prior. Maybe, sometimes, the heart chooses who stays and who goes. I had absolutely no idea what Jacob was talking about. But if he didn't want me to look for the heart, why tell me about it at all? I just figured he was saying more random things that didn't make sense,

like his comments about the town's prosperity. shrugging my shoulders, I got on my bike and rode right out of town straight for the mine. What I didn't know then was that Jacob knew exactly what he was talking about. And I was too focused to realize the warning. When I got to the mine, it took me a minute to find the entrance. It had been years since anybody had been around here. The tunnel had been covered by vines as if nature was trying to keep it hidden. I didn't rip him away, but moved the curtain aside so it could stay hidden.

This was a curiosity I needed to satisfy for myself, not something to share with everyone else. If this was something everyone should know about, then Jacob would have told this story ages ago, into someone other than a dumb, curious teenager. It was pitch black in the tunnel, and my lights were enough to see, but it didn't chase back the creepy. factor. I stayed at the entrance for a while, listening to the sounds coming from deeper within the darkness. There was nothing. You'd think there would have been at least bats or something like that. The only sounds I heard were my own breathing. I was well and truly alone in there. The tunnels started off nice and wide, but before long they got considerably tighter. It was obvious that there hadn't been a lot

a work put into him, and the supports weren't nearly as thick as I'd have imagined them to be. Dust and Grime covered every inch of the place, and was getting all over my clothes. I knew I was in for a lecture from my mother about the state of me when I got home, but that was a worry for later, even though there was no evidence of animals present. I swear each time the tunnel turned that I was going to come face to face with a bear or something. Every once in a while, I stepped on something slick. and immediately thought it was bat droppings.

My imagination was coming up with all kinds of things to freak me out. But nothing was going to deter me from exploring that mine. After a while, I stared bumping my head against the ceiling. This was also how I knew for certain that there were no bats in the mine. I'd have been eye-level with them if they were there. It had gotten me wondering how anyone ever managed to swing a pickaxe in this place. I know that had been done in the old days because it came across no problem. pickax lying in the ground.

It looked to be in moderately good condition, despite how old it was. On a way, I picked it up and carried it with me. If I was going to come face-to-face with a wild animal in this place, I wanted a weapon to defend myself. It took longer than I thought. But eventually it came to the dead end Jacob talked about. Reaching out a hand to the hard wall, I felt around for a crack, but there was nothing to find.

I started to think it wasn't the right tunnel and turned around, leaving the pickaxe behind to market in case I ended up back at it. It was the only thing I had on me that I could have left. At that point, I was starting to believe I'd never come across another living thing in there, so leaving the weapon was fine. I stopped moving for a moment when I walked away, hoping to feel that pull what Jacob had talked about. But nothing came.

Perhaps the feeling came to him because, being able to sense the heart was genetic. Jacob Sr. felt it when he set up his wagon and what was now at Town Square, and he felt it when he tried to build there. Maybe I couldn't feel it because I shared no relation with the House and Flat family. Feeling a little discouraged, I continued to wander around. I didn't find another dead end, and headed back to where I left the pickax. I was starting to get frustrated and decided to do something ill-advised.

I picked up to pickaxe and started swinging it. Not an easy thing to accomplish with as tight as a tunnel was, but I managed it. Something inside me was sure there was something there, an answer to the question that had been plaguing me for years. Swinging the axe with all my might, I managed to break apart some of the wall. Chunks were falling at a surprising rate, Tiny shards kept peppering me in the face. How I managed not to take a piece in the eyes of mystery.

And after a few dozen swings, it happened. A bowling ball-sized rock rolled off and I saw it. A blue glow was coming through the crack that had been hidden. With genuine excitement and uncontrollable curiosity, I kept swinging the pickaxe until I uncovered the complete crack. It had been difficult for young Jacob to get through. and it's a damn tight fit for me. I left more than a little skin behind as I shoved myself through,

driven on by a curiosity that had become a serious obsession when I wasn't looking. That should have been a red flag. But I was too blinded by the sensation to realize it. After a long and painful struggle, I came out of the tight space in a much larger tunnel than the one before. I could stand tall and not hit my head on the ceiling. The tunnel itself was rounded, as if a giant snake had made it instead of a person. I walked on, a little faster than I should have.

But I could feel something in the air. Not the pull that Jacob had described, but a giddy sensation that reminded me of when I was a kidd. And I went to my first corn maze. The air in the tunnel wasn't stale like I expected it to be. A closed-off system like this shouldn't have much. in the way of breathable air, but I was having no difficulties. There must have been holes or some other passage leading to the surface.

It didn't matter to me at the time, but I know how it is now. I lost track of time as a tunnel made its way down and back toward town. The glow is always just out of sight. The source of mystery to me. I couldn't understand how the glow was always present, but the source of it wasn't. It defied physics. But as I continued to walk, the glow was only getting brighter. When I finally came to the tunnel's end, I was dumbstruck.

The cavern was massive, and the dome reached up at least 30 feet. I now know that the center of that dome was just underneath the town square. In the center of the cavern was a large pulsing ball. It was emitting the blue light that I've been chasing, and it pulsed when I saw. I pulsed when I stepped closer. There were tendrils lying on the ground around it, and it came to life at my presence. I still didn't feel that invisible force the way Jacob had, but I knew what it was. It was the thing that created the town around it.

I had found the heart of Dixie. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that the heart wasn't meant to have visitors in the traditional sense. That's why the entrance had been sealed off like that, and it wasn't an accident. I don't know exactly what happened to me in there. I can recall the tendrils swinging out at me, and the sensation of those oddly, meaty appendages wrapping around me. I can even remember them slowly dragging me across the ground, and how I screamed and struggled to get free as it brought me closer.

Fear was intense. and I wish I'd listen to Jacob's odd warning. I know what it did to me, and I know the afterpart, but I can't remember being absorbed by the heart. All those miners and loggers that died or went missing had been led to the heart by Jacob Sr. And were fed to it. Their sacrifice gave the heart the ability to cultivate the growing township

and expand it when there was no reason for Dixie to succeed. exceed otherwise. It helped the outlying farms grow good crops, even during harsh conditions, and aided in the town's growing population. Jacob doesn't remember what happened to him in the mine because of his age, not because the heart didn't want him to. It hadn't consumed him because he would be one of its tools, giving him more sacrifices to help grow the town.

The heart was happy with animal sacrifices because it didn't need anything more potent, so Jacob didn't have to kill anyone. Unlike his father, the town only got as big as the heart wanted, and when it was time, Jacob had sealed to crack. Every once in a while, a small burrowing animal would make it into the heart's cavern and it would consume it. This wasn't enough to make a major change for Dixie. but enough to sustain its current situation. Now, if there were to be a major change or improvement, like Rudy's Steakhouse, a larger sacrifice was needed. Jacob unsealed the crack only three times after expanding the store to its current state. I wasn't the heart's tool, and it consumed me because I had found it.

Yeah, I would help the town grow more to improve the prosperity that Jacob would help the town grow more to improve the prosperity that Jacob acclaimed was slowing down. And I did. Now, mind you, this was 20-some-odd years ago. And I'm only explaining this to you because you stumbled into the mind by accident. Jacob hadn't been able to make it to the mind to recover what I opened and died before he told his kids about the heart.

Shortly after he told me his story, the orange tome was misplaced. And the old man forgot everything. Now you. are going to help the town prosper. So maybe it will bring you some comfort. If you want, some of the others here can tell you their stories too. But I warn you, they come from a much different time and are hard to understand. After a while, your consciousness will meld with the rest of us.

And understanding won't be a matter of words. The truth is, Every town and city have a heart underneath it. The larger the city, the more the heart is eaten. Some hearts have grown so big that they end up joining with other hearts. And that's how you get places like Los Angeles in New York. There are easily four or five hearts in places that big. But not every one of them aspires to be so large.

Just imagine how much a heart would have to consume to get that big. And how many tools they'd need to be. bring them sacrifices. Ever wonder how some serial killers can make bodies disappear? Hearts exist all over the world, and some have yet to be built upon. They die like every organism, and when they do, the town above them will fail. Every once in a while I feel angry about being here. Then I remember I wasn't doing much with my life to begin with.

I didn't have anything in the way of prospects. At least now I'm contributing to my community in some way. For your bonus episode, creepy presents, disappearing act, written by Robert Clover, and narrated by Owen McCune. In the span of less than a week, I lost everything. Last Saturday, my parents took Sandy, my childhood golden retriever of 13 years, to the vet to be put down. I don't know how they had the heart to do it. Waking up to a puppy when I was four is one of my earliest, fondest memories. The sun wasn't up yet.

I opened my bedroom door and walked down the dark front hall, yawning, and rubbing sleep out of my eyes. The living room lights were all on. I remember the light hurt my eyes and I had to squint. As my eyes adjusted, I could tell something was going on on the other side of the couch. Mom and Dad were staring down at the floor, smiling and giggling. I walked around the couch. The floor was covered with newspaper. And romping around and crinkling the headlines and ads was their surprise for me.

A reddish-gold, rambunctious, ten-week-old pup. She took my breath away. Mom and Dad got down on their knees, scooped her up, and handed her to me. They'd already picked out her name, Sandy, short for Alexander. Her cute, wet, button nose and bright brown eyes captured my heart. I hugged her to my chest with both arms and never wanted to let her go. She was my best friend and received all my attention. She grew at an astronomical rate that was only matched by her boundless enthusiasm and curiosity.

She had beautiful, flowing, dark, red-gold fur. She smiled and whipped her tail back and forth whenever I was around. and when anybody taller than six feet came over, she peed where she stood in excitement every single time. It was funny, weird, and predictable. I walked her every day, played fetch, picked up her poop, gave her food and water. We took her camping and hiking and on all sorts of road trips. She was a good girl, the best girl. Sandy was hyper and chewed her way into trouble on more than one occasion.

After the first incident, Dad built a plywood and wire mesh cage around the outside part of the air conditioner, the big fan that kicked on whenever the AC was in use. Sandy had chewed through the wires and killed it. She was lucky she wasn't electrocuted. When the AC was no longer available to chew up, she went for the hoses and wiring on the filter for our above-ground pool. I never knew Dad would hurt an animal. but after she cost him hundreds of dollars, he punished her.

I don't know what he did or how he hurt her. I pictured him swinging a two-by-four of plywood. He used to be a carpenter. Wood was always around. But Sandy yelped as he laid into her. It was terrifying. She didn't deserve it. She was a good girl.

Before I knew it, I was in high school, studying and doing homework for my college prep classes took up all my free time. Sandy was already old. The fur along her muzzle turned white. Her hips troubled her. She was stiff and walked funny, and she reminded me of a shopping cart with a broken wheel. Sandy developed mange and arthritis a year or so ago.

She must have been about 12, 84 in dog years. She scratched herself raw and ate the, fur from her paws. She had all these dry, scaly patches of pale-inflamed skin showing. She'd whimper and stare up at me with pleading brown eyes to do something, but I didn't know how to help. I felt bad just looking at her. Months went by. Sandy became a ghost that haunted our backyard. We stopped going out there as much, barbecued less often, and let the yard go. The grass grew knee-high and the rose bushes died. Sandy's health declined.

My parents didn't know what to do for her, so they did nothing. And then, last Saturday happened. They took Sandy to the vet to put her down. They informed me of their decision, how it was best for her since she was in so much pain. They told me it was time to say goodbye

before they took her away. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear to look at her, knowing it would be the last time I'd ever see her. And so I stayed in my room with the door closed. I sat on my bed trying not to think any thoughts at all. I emptied my mind until it was a vacuum, devoid of thought and feeling. And then I was inside the vacuum where no one could hear me scream. No one could see me cry, my eyes red.

I just disappeared. A few days like, Later, Mom and Dad were dead. I'd barely noticed any time had passed at all since Sandy was gone. Mom and Dad came home from the vet without her. Grimmissing and silent, they retreated to separate corners of the house. I disappeared into an epic fantasy novel and only came out of my room for the essentials. Days went by, with no one talking to each other.

I'd occasionally bump into Mom or Dad in the kitchen or on the way to the restroom, But they never had anything more than a polite nod or a half-hearted smile to offer. Putting down Sandy changed them, took something vital out of them. We were prisoners locked up together in our house, sentenced to suffer our emotions in solitary confinement. I'm not sure how many days passed. A few, judging by the stack of plates on my dresser. I was sitting on my bed with my earbuds in. Music turned up high.

I existed in the notes of the song. It was the only way to move forward with a propulsive beat, distortion-laden guitar, and shrieking vocals. Between songs one afternoon, there was an urgent pounding on the front door. Mom or dad would get it, and I figured. But whoever it was kept at it.

Maybe mom's arms were full of groceries and she needed help, I thought. I sighed, peeled myself from the bed, and went to the front door. The hammering knock rattled the door again, three times in quick succession, echoing through the house. I turned the deadbolt and opened the door,

muttering, I'm coming, I'm coming, while taking out my earbuds. The door opened, and stark daylight flooded the entryway. I flinched and squinted into the light. It was neither mom nor dad at the door. Two uniformed police officers

stood on the porch with hats in hand, and frowns on their faces. One asked me if my name was Scott Reed. Yet, yes, I stammered. Son, we're very sorry to tell you this. Panic quickened my pulse. I wasn't there, son. I didn't like being called son by a stranger.

I didn't want to hear whatever they had to say. It took all my willpower to keep from slamming the door shut and going back to my music. They solemnly told me they believed my parents were involved in an accident. Of course. Everything they did was an accident. Dad accidentally lost his job, and got depressed and moped around the house until he drove Mom and me crazy.

Mom snipped at him constantly. They were both miserable. Dad not working meant we couldn't afford extras like medicine for Sandy. Neither of them survived, son. I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you. There was that word again. Son. Who did he think he was?

He couldn't be my dad. He had a job. The officer gripped my left shoulder and looked into my eyes. His eyes were watery. He sucked snot up his nose and extended his other arm to embrace me. And then his words hit me. My parents were dead. The only people who'd ever loved me were gone.

I would have dropped to my knees if it weren't for the officer's grip on my shoulder. He pulled me into him, apologized, and informed me that I needed to confirm the identity of their bodies. Two black body bags rested on two steel tables in the middle of a room that reeked of formaldehyde and something like asparagus-laced piss. It turned my stomach. I breathed through my mouth after catching a whiff. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to see what was in those bags.

Couldn't their driver's licenses be used to ID them? Were their dental records? It didn't make any sense. How could either of them be gone, let alone both? It was like God determined it was time to put them down. I approached a bag on the left and lifted a shaky hand to the gleaming silver zipper. Once it was between my fingers, cold and pointy,

I pulled to the left, but the zipper didn't move. It was stuck. I looked around for help, but I was alone. I didn't want to look, but what if these bodies weren't my parents? Then they would have been home and worried about where I disappeared to. I suddenly had to know. If mom and dad were gone, I'd be the only one left. I gripped the vinyl bag with one hand to steady.

it. The zipper slid open easily this time. A whiff of formaldehyde and something manure-like wafted out of the bag. I exhaled and resumed mouth breathing. It was dark inside the bag. Curls of mom's auburn hair slid out of the opening. My breath caught in my throat. I lifted the top of the bag up with one finger. Light spilled in and I glimpsed the smashed broken face of my mother inside. The airbags hadn't deployed, and the right half of her face was crushed. Shards of bone glistened through her torn mangled skin. But it was her. Of this, I had no doubt. My stomach twisted and bile shut up my throat. I re-zipped her bag and a sob welled up out of me. It filled the silent cold room and echoed off the bone saw's force-obsessed.

some pliers hanging from the walls. It really was, Mom. She was gone. And that meant dad was in the other bag. I didn't have to look to know. I felt it. They were both gone. I was a 17-year-old orphan. One of the officers gave me a ride home. When he asked if there were any relatives I could call, I lied and said, yes, of course. He offered to help me make the first couple of calls to get me going down that difficult path. I pretended to consider his offer before answering no thanks.

I needed to be alone. It hit me. I was finally free. Free from their sadness and failures, their neuroses, and the tyranny of their silence, but also free from their hopes and dreams for me, their memories of my life that I, I'd never have access to again. So much personal history gone in a blip. I walked around my

empty house. I had no parents to scold me or tell me to pick up my room. No parents to dump their problems on me like I was there shrink, like I could help them with anything, like I had much of a perspective beyond their own. I could eat what I wanted, listen to music as loud as I wanted, without earbuds. I didn't have to do homework. I didn't even have to do homework. I didn't even have to go back to school. I stayed up all night that first night, watching horror movies. Each jump scare jolted me to my very core. I rode lightning bolts of fear all night and forgot to feel sad. Pink orange sunrise bled through the sliding glass door to the backyard as credits rolled on the fourth slasher in a row. I yawned, briefly considered going to school, and then went to bed. I pulled the covers up

my head and drifted into a dead, dreamless sleep. My head was empty. All the nightmares were in real life. The phone rang non-stop for five minutes and around nine in the morning. It was probably school wondering where I was, but I wasn't going to answer. I wasn't their concern anymore. I woke around noon, feeling refreshed until I remembered the past week. My parents' faces filled my mind and my eyes threatened to spill tears. I ran out to the living room TV and put on the first scary movie I could find. I didn't want to feel my feelings. I needed to escape. By mid-afternoon, I was convinced my tragedy wasn't a misfortune. Characters in horror movies are governed by rules. They lived or died based on their ability to perceive and follow those rules. Real life

was governed by rules and laws, too. But what if the rules in a sense? scary movie were also applicable in real life. The more I dwelt on it, the more certain I became I had made it out of my own personal horror movie alive. Death claimed three of my loved ones, my dog and my parents. It was the rule of three. Death could no longer touch me. I was safe from it. People buzzed in and out of my life for a couple of weeks. There were neighbors' casseroles to accept social workers and probate lawyers and a joint funeral. I slapped a weak grin under a vacant stare and nodded my way through it. And then it was all over.

I was alone again. My parents were really gone. I was never close to anyone at school. When my one good friend Josh fell in love with drugs, he dropped out and disappeared. I disappeared too, in a sense. I kept going to class and doing all the work, but no one spoke to me nor I to them unless they were a teacher compelling participation in class. I knew what it was like to not exist at school.

And when Sandy and my parents died and left me all alone, I stopped existing anywhere. Forlorn and unable to sleep, I drove all around town late one night. Distracted, I crept along the streets at five miles per hour below the speed limit. Other drivers honked and swerved aggressively around me, but I didn't care. I turned up my music, they ignored them. It felt good to be alone in my car. It felt appropriate.

I passed the Chinese restaurant, famous in my family, not for the quality of its food, though it was quite tasty, but because it was where my parents first met. Kismet while picking up cartons of fried rice and chalmain. They chatted while waiting for their food and got along so well that they shared their to-go orders at the restaurant. The rest of the world stopped existing for them after they met, or so their story went. My mouth watered at the thought of spicy, greasy noodles and fried rice with little bits of barbecue pork and scrambled eggs.

But I didn't turn into the parking lot. There were too many memories associated with Lee's Chinese. I didn't think I'd be able to eat there ever again. I kept driving. After a while, I was the only car on the road. The blocks blurred by, empty parking lots and dark storefronts, an endless run of red lights waiting for my approach to turn green. My eyelids got heavy after an hour or so.

I stopped at the side of the road next to a park on the outskirts of town, cracked the windows, and shut off my car. The night air was cool on my face. It was relaxing. I could fall asleep there. I didn't want to go back home. I removed the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. I squirmed my ass forward in the bucket seat and tried my best to get comfortable.

My breathing slowed and before I knew it, I was drifting off. Thoughts formed pictures in my mind. I had a vague awareness of my surroundings as consciousness slipped away. The air was the perfect temperature. I was comfortable in my short-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts. I know I fell asleep because when a fast knock wrapped against my window, I startled awake with a gasp. I sucked in air and sat up straight, craning my neck around to see who knocked on the window. I didn't see anyone.

There was only the dark, empty street on my side of the car and the park on the passenger's side. A cement sidewalk disappeared into the distance as it wrapped around the park. A cement path cut through the park from the sidewalk. overhead lights dotted the path and created pools of light that led toward baseball diamonds and a playground. Maybe I dreamed the knocking. It wasn't impossible. I've always had vivid dreams. My racing heart slowed little by little as sleep descended on me.

I turned out on my side, or as best I could, between the bucket seat and the bottom of the steering wheel. I wanted to spend the rest of the night there. Sleep the darkness away. Let the first rays of the sun's light wake me. I stared out the passenger window down the partially lit path into the park. Green grass stretched for acres on both sides of the path. Several types of trees lined the path and spread out throughout the park. There was a miniature suburban forest.

My eyelids grew heavy watching the still scene. My heart was empty. I could drift off again. before I closed my eyes, one of the lights down the path went out. It blinked back on and then went out again and stayed dark. I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but then something moved beneath the dead light. It was low to the ground, some kind of animal. It was probably a raccoon or a stray dog.

Nothing to worry about. A big yawn escaped me, and I stretched as best I could in the cramped space. I thought I only closed my eyes for a moment, a simple blink, but maybe I was out longer. My car alarms screamed into the night, and I woke up startled. I didn't see anything outside the windshield. Nothing moved at all in the dark, empty street. There were no other cars or people, not even a stray dog or cat. It was eerie.

Was it empty when I parked there? I couldn't remember. I pivoted around in my seat. seat to look out both sides of the car and the rear window. Dark houses, many of them boarded up, lined the opposite side of the street. The lit path into the park was empty. So why had the car alarm gone off? I dug my keys out of a front pocket and clicked the button to disarm the alarm. Could I have set it off moving in my sleep? I clicked the button to lock the doors and arm the alarm. Maybe I'd fall back asleep, I thought. I needed the rest.

that spot seemed safe. I woke up sometime later to the car alarm blaring again. Something wasn't right. I checked the time on my phone, 3.12 a.m. The view out of the windshield hadn't changed, nor had the view out of the left or rear windows. But when I looked out to the right toward the park, the lights along the forested path were out. It was pitch black.

I reached for my keys, left in a cup holder after the last alarm incident, and killed the alarm. I immediately locked the doors and rearmed the alarm. As soon as it was armed with a beep-beep, something scratched at the front passenger door. It sounded like uneven nails dragging across the paint. The scratch repeated in short strokes, insistent, begging. What the hell? I leaned over to see what was scratching the passenger door, but couldn't make it far enough to get a good look. Something blurred back and forth in the dead.

dark. Was it the animal I saw earlier? The scratching sounded again, this time from the rear passenger door. It was a light scraping sound. It must have been a lost dog, confusing my car for his or her owner's car, I thought. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. A lost dog was nothing to worry about. This dog might even need a home. Maybe it was fate? I opened my door a crack and waited for the dog to make its way around the car. I didn't hear anything, not the click of nails on asphalt, no panting, no noise at all. Convinced it was a lost dog, hoping it would welcome me as its new master, I got out of the car. I left my door open and walked around the back. I stopped at the trunk and looked around the passenger side. There was

nothing there. The sidewalk and street were empty. What the hell? I repeated. The night swallowed my words. Something wasn't right. I'd left my door open. If the animal went around the front while I went around the back, it could have gotten inside. I ran around the front of the car to my door. I scanned the front seats and back seats. They were empty. I got back in the car, Shut the door and started it. The dash lit up and my headlights came on and illuminated the street ahead. Everything looked normal.

I didn't know what scratched at my car, but I was safe back inside it. There was no need to freak out. I drove home through vacant streets. I parked in my driveway, killed the engine, and sighed heavily. The weight of my parents' presence would suffocate me if I went back into the house. I tried to get a couple more hours of sleep in the car. I armed the alarm and maneuvered to get as comfortable as I could in the four-door sedan. The car alarm announced its arming with a loud, be-beep.

A half second later, the scratching sound came from the side of the car again, only this time it was on my side. I sat up bolt straight and turned my head to look out the window. The tip of a tail pointed up in the air and wagged back in the front. forth. Dark red-gold fur. It couldn't be. I threw my door open and the car alarm blared. Sandy? I shot out of the car and looked around. The driveway was empty. I killed the alarm and walked around the car. Had I been dreaming? Going crazy? Maybe it was time to sleep in my own bed. Sleep came as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I woke up mid-morning, but it seemed like no time had passed at all. I was still exhausted. I sat up and checked my phone, no texts. Not that I'd expected any. I contented myself with watching funny videos of people and pets. After a half hour or so, my stomach rumbled. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything. One more video, I told myself,

then I'd get out of bed and get something to eat, try to act human. The short clip was ending when nails scratched near the bottom of my bedroom door. Sandy had always scratched at the door the same way when she wanted in, before she had manes and was confined to the backyard. Scratch, scratch, scratch. It couldn't be her. She was gone. Everyone was gone.

Had I left the front door open? Scratch, scratch, scratch. My heart hammered and my mouth went dry. Hello? I cried shakily. Several sets of nails clicked on the wood floor outside the door. A shadow moved under the doorframe. I imagined Sandy sitting in the hall waiting for me to open the door.

I couldn't stay in my room forever. I had to know what was in the house with me. I grabbed my phone and opened the door. Sandy? I asked, even though I knew it made no sense. I poked my head into the hall and looked around. It was empty. Of course it was. I released a lung full of air and went to the kitchen for breakfast. I grabbed an apple and a glass of water and resumed scrolling through social media on my phone. Five minutes later, my head was clearer, more awake. I tossed the remains of the apple in the trash. There was a noise at the front door. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I ran to the door. Whatever it was wasn't going to get away this time.

My feet slapped against the cold tiles of the entryway, and I threw the door open. The porch was empty, but there was a blur around the far side of my car in the driveway, a swishing back and forth in the air at about knee height. I ran out to the driveway in my boxers and around to the driver's side of the car. The door was open. Had I left it open when I came home? It was possible. I wasn't in my right mind.

I stuck my head in the car and was overwhelmed by the odor of dog. Tufts of dark red-gold fur covered the front seats and the center console. The open door alert chimed, ding-ding, every few seconds. I couldn't have left the door open. The battery would have died. I got in behind the wheel. Loose tufts of fur leaped in the air before swirling back down and settling on me. My keys were in the ignition.

What the hell? It seemed I intended to go somewhere. But I wasn't dressed, and the front door of the house was wide open. I grabbed the keys and went back inside to get some clothes on. I swear, as soon as I shut the front door, I heard Sandy bark. She was leading me somewhere. I just had to follow. I got back in my car, pulled out of the driveway, and drove away from home.

I wasn't sure where I was going at first. Hot breaths panted at the back of my neck. Familiar dog breath filled the car. I grinned for the first time in weeks. Before I knew it, I'd pulled into the parking lot of the veterinary office. There were no other cars there. it was Sunday. They were closed on Sundays. I parked in the back and walked up to a glass door. The lights were out, but something was moving inside. A tail swished excitedly. I tried the door,

expecting it to be locked. Not only did it open, but no burglar alarm sounded when I opened it. I was meant to be there. I walked into the back hallway. A bark came from a room. on my right. This wasn't a kennel. Animals weren't housed here after hours. So I followed it. A large, coffin-like metal box filled one side of the room. It had wide pipes extending from it, a control panel with multiple dials, and a digital display that shined in the dark, along with two buttons, one red, then one green. A bark echoed from inside the metal box. It sounded like Sandy's bark. It seemed like she led me there for a reason. And then the reason occurred to me. I'd never said goodbye to her. She brought me to the last place where she drew breath to say goodbye to me.

What a selfish fool I'd been. I poked my head into the opening at one end. It was pitch black inside. Sandy barked again, from far inside the box. I was so close now. I maneuvered my torso in. I knew if I got all the way to the back, I'd reach Sandy's final resting place, and I'd get to say goodbye. But the metal was cold against my skin. I wanted to take a nap there,

where her ashes were created. But I knew I'd never fall asleep surrounded by all that cold metal. I extracted myself from the box and hit the green button on the console. A whoosh of gas sounded from below the box. and then low flames licked the air along the bottom of the box. It was perfect, just enough to keep me warm while I communed with my best friend.

I crawled inside the cramped space and pulled in my legs. Sandy barked in approval. I'm sorry, girl. I shouldn't have let them take you, and I should have said goodbye. There was a louder, whoosh, and the flames grew higher. My clothes ignited, but the warmth was pleasant. It felt like giving Sandy a big hug. I closed my eyes and pictured her bounding across a green expanse toward me.

She jumped and barked with excitement. The pain became intense. The burning turned to freezing. I kept my eyes shut. It hurt like nothing else I'd ever known. But I knew I was going to be okay. Sandy had disappeared, and now I was going to disappear too. 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 story's author.