Creepy - Hell's Well & White Noise

Episode Date: July 23, 2026

Hell's Well (starts at 4:14)***Written by: Jacob Walters and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Content warning: elder abuse***White Noise (starts at 22:30)***Written by: Kevin M. Folliard and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warning: verbal abuse***PO Box 535, Osseo, MN. 55369***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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. So, y'all. DJ Creepy John on the Airwaves.

You know what? Crap. Where's the drop button? That is not the nickname I want to stick. I guess I just need to power through that one. Let's change the topic I started by checking the mailbag. Yes, an actual mailbag. I'm honestly not entirely sure. when it was that I made my mailing P-O-Box known to listeners,

or if it was just something that people saw when they had rewards sent out to them at some point. But recently, I've been getting some interesting stuff coming through P-O-Box-535-369, that's O-S-S-S-E-O. Y'all are kind of a trip. Okay, let's see, what do we have here? Okay, so first is a T-shirt for the Savannah Bananas. Thank you. I'm actually really hoping to see him play live.

someday. No, it feels like you've... It feels like you have a picture of me in your mind that isn't entirely accurate when it comes to my proportions. I normally get t-shirts in a size large, but thank you. I appreciate the thought. And that was the normal thing that I got. I might actually have to start posting some of these on socials. Next up, we have a dog collar, and the name on it simply says... Good boy. That's not concerning at all or anything. Glad this is just a P.O. box. And then there's this.

Which I didn't know what it was at first. It kind of looks like one of those plastic bird whistles you'd get in a cereal box or something. You know, like shape like a bird and gives a little tweet. Except it doesn't look like a bird. It almost looks like a fish, I guess. Also, this doesn't tweet. And to save y'all from what almost blew out my eardrums, I'm going to step away from the mic and actually out of the studio.

Yeah, that ladies and gentlemen, who aren't familiar, is the sound of an Aztec death whistle. And that's not a fish head. That's an artist rendering of a human skull. And that sound hits about 125 decibels, or around the volume of an air raid siren right next to your ear. So there are probably some local dogs out there that are kind of pissed at me. But not nearly as pissed as those of you who listen to this show will go on to sleep would have been if I was even a foot closer to the mic.

But you know what? I'm just thrilled that there are people out there who still know how to actually send a package instead of just receiving them. So thanks. Anyone who feels like sending more oddities, I'm happy to share. Until then, let's get on with the show. First up from writer Jacob Walters and narrated by Nate Dufort. Creepy presents, Hell's Well. I have digged and drunk strange waters, and with the soul of my feet have I dried up all the rivers of besieged places.

Second Kings, 1924, June 18th, Thursday. The arid village is dusty and chalky in the sun. It is a small collection of shacks and shelters in the middle of the vast expanse, known as the high desert, and the air is so dry it threatens to crackle and shatter. Scruffy shrubs and squat cacti in trees whose branches tied themselves into bedraggled knots are the only vegetation out here. Sometimes there is moisture in the forms of clouds so white, they shine like angels' hair, drifting overhead so high they might be heavenly bodies, but those are rare.

Usually the sky is light blue and huge, an all-encompassing ocean of blue that you are ill-advised to stare at for too long. I have been here for three days now, but I've been unable to journal about it until today. At first I was worried that someone would read my writings, but it quickly became apparent that no Nobody here speaks English, and precious few of them possess the faculty to read in any language. And yet, they know the scriptures widely and intimately. The other thing that stopped my journaling was the sickness, but that appears to have passed now. I feel better than ever now. I encountered their little desert hamlet one morning as I crested one of the countless dunes of baked sand.

My first impression was that it was an abandoned place for nothing stirred among the scrabble and sand. It was my habit to find shelter when the sun came up and to trek through the high desert at nighttime. Most days the shelter had been an outcropped rock or a piece of dried bark laid against a boulder, anything that cast a shadow. The shacks that composed that little village were Shangri-La by comparison. I felt my legs growing weak as I approached the border of their little town. I was badly dehydrated by then, and I prayed to my own gods that I might find water here.

And as I crossed the line into their town, I saw the well. The wellhead was ornate and tall, perfectly chunky stones that looked like they came from an English garden, arranged in a solid circle supporting a wooden cap like a roof, A bucket hung from a pulley system, and I felt myself pulled towards it, like it had cast out invisible fingers and grabbed me by the tongue and was reeling me in. And before I knew it, my hands were upon the stone structure, and I was peering down into the well. Cool air puffed up at me like the breath of the nighttime desert. Already my hand had fallen upon the wooden crank that let down the bucket into the well,

when a man yelled at me. His voice was sharp, and although the language was native, I did not need to speak it to understand his meaning. I jumped away from the well, more out of surprise than a desire to obey his command. The dehydration was a pounding drum in my head, sizzling symbols down all my nerves. My blood was thick and hot,

and I could feel it pulsing behind my eyeballs. I would have drawn water no matter, whose well it was, no matter the cost. And then the villagers' hands were upon me, pulling me away, dragging me through the dry dirt. I tried to speak with them, but my tongue cleaved to the top of my mouth. They pulled me into one of the ramshackle huts and put me gently on the floor, but three of their men held me down. Their faces hovered over me. The men holding me and the rest of the villagers, mostly old men and women, the youngest of them, still older than me. The oldest of the women said a few words in their native language. At her command, a younger woman disappeared into the

rear of the house. Nobody spoke for a few seconds, and I heard the sweet sound of water splashing and dripping. The villager returned with a small dirty cup and squatted beside where I was being held down. She held the cup to my lips, and the old woman nodded her head emphatically, repeating one native word either drink or water. I glanced into the cup, and what was in there could hardly be called water, I thought, but my thirst was too great, and my tongue sought out the wet, and it washed over my teeth and down my throat, and the cup was tipped back until it was dry.

It was air temperature and cloudy with silt, but, It was hydration, and after I had drunk, I let the water sit in my belly. The older woman asked me a question, and by the way she nodded her head while she spoke, I surmised she was asking my opinion of the drink. It's better than wine, I said, and the villagers exchanged a confused, wary look amongst themselves. I relaxed my body and the three men holding me down, slowly loosen their grips on me. I remained on the floor, but I sat up. I tried my luck and asked in my rudimentary Spanish,

What about the well? Someone translated for the old woman, and even I could tell that the translation was difficult. The old woman said a few words, and the translator turned to me and spat the answer like a heavy stone from his lips. El Tiaplo, the devil. Tingling fear jolted down my seat.

spine, but not for fear of the devil. I was suddenly afraid of these people who believed in the devil. These were people who refused to drink from the only good water source they had because of their superstition, and I was alone in the desert with them. June 19th, Friday. Yesterday's journaling was interrupted by shouts from the villagers. They were urgent enough that I was roused from my small desk in the room where my hosts are allowing me to stay. I tried to come to an agreement with them for my rent when I was first taken here by the rest of the village on the day of my arrival, but when I flashed a handful of money at the old man and woman, they simply looked at me quizzically and smiled gently. I looked for them on my way out of the house, but my landlords were outside,

like everybody else. I emerged from the hut to see a terrible scene. They were surrounding the well, shouting and pumping their fists into the air. Their feet kicked up clouds of dust. One hand picked up a stone and made to cast it, but another hand stayed the throwing arm. I squinted against the harsh light of late afternoon to try to locate the object of their hatred. And there I saw, smiling back at the derisive mob, an old man. Clear droplets of water hung from his lip and chin and dripped off his fingertips. The old man cackled in utterance. I imagined he was saying,

I couldn't help myself. I was too thirsty. He licked his lips and they made obscene slapping and sucking sounds. The oldest woman, who led them all, stepped forward and spat some scornful sounding sentences at the old drinker. Then she turned her face away from him and toward the sky and she closed her eyes and sighed. Then the arms which had been pulled back were let loose.

The stones flew with awful precision. The mob which stoned the man was of an average age, somewhere around 70, if I were to venture a guess, but they threw like major leakers. Rocks whizzed through the air and impacted the old man's fragile body with sickening thuds, deeper and more resonant than I would have thought the man's thin body would produce upon being struck. The old man fell and some stones flew above his collage. collapsing body. They struck the rock casing of the well and little chunks of cement and mortar and stone flew off in chips and sparks. There, now I've committed it to writing. Doing so has offered me only a fleeting moment of relief from the heavy feeling of dread I live in now. Until writing

it down, I could almost convince myself that it had all been a hallucination brought on by my dehydration or by some microbes in the nasty water they'd given me to drink. But I know better. What I saw was real. And it needs to be reported to the authorities. July 21st, Sunday. I spent yesterday preparing for my departure, which I plan to affect tonight. I have not been able to gather any evidence to bring to the authorities other than my personal account of what happened. After the old man was killed, I watched them lift his withered body and dump it into the well. The old man disappeared into the hole like a bottom-feeding fish coming up to the surface and sucking down a morsel of food. I never heard the old man's body hit the water. No splash, no thud,

like the hole went on forever. As soon as the old man's body was gone, the villagers turned to me with looks on their faces like they'd only just remembered I was there. Quickly, they ushered me away from that place and back to my quarters, where they gave me two cups of their saved-up filthy water to keep me quiet. And I drank every drop, and still I wanted more. I tried not to think of where they'd collected it and when. The only thing I knew for sure was that it did not come from the communal well. I started planning my escape that night.

Something told me the villagers would not simply let me go. It was not that they would fear me going to the authorities to report their crimes. It was more profound fear, based in a deeper sense of justice that would incline them towards keeping me among them. I developed the irrational idea that maybe all of the villagers were once like me. Lost, wandering in the desert, lucky enough to find this oasis, then made prisoner here forever. Maybe they'd been here for centuries consuming only enough water and pumping just enough blood to keep them trapped in the sandy zone between life and death indefinitely. Because it should not have been so hard to escape the old people's clutches. If I walked briskly, I would outrun them.

But then I remembered how they threw the stones and my easy courage quickly faded. So when I was let outside, I walked to the high. highest point around and covertly surveyed the surrounding desert, trying to plan my route away from there as carefully as I could. But the desert looked the same in every direction. And when I turned around, I saw a part of the desert which I thought belonged in another place and vice versa. It was as though the desert was transforming around me continuously, as though it was doing it on purpose to confound my sense of direction. I realized with some dismay that even if I were to get to the authorities, I might never succeed in showing them where the village was located. I sighed and walked back down

the little hill to the villagers who looked at me with mirthful knowing in their eyes. They did not bother trying to communicate with me using oral words, but their looks at all. Escape is impossible. and underneath the mirth a note of pain. Take our word for it. And I came back to my little room and I waited. My hosts have brought me a precious cup of water in the morning and half a cup in the afternoon. I think they've stolen from their own precious stock to give it to me

and some little part of me is grateful, but that part of me is buried beneath the fear and the trepidation. I'll need to fill up my canteens before I leave. the village tonight. I'll have to do that quietly. Night. The stars shone brightly enough to see the ghostly frames of the little huts in the village cast in dark silver. The wellhead stood like a gravestone in the middle of the only street. I laid my feet on the ground softly, unheard, I hoped, by old ears. I felt the wooden crank. The wood of the handle was warm like living flesh, and I I yanked my hand away, stifling a yelp behind my lips.

I glanced around the village, but nothing had changed. Everything stood sentry in the silver glow of the Milky Way. Slowly I reached for the crank again, fearing that this time it would grab my arm and maybe throw me down the well after the old man. I inhaled sharply, held my breath, and took hold. I exhaled as I turned the crank and let the bucket down, down, gritting my teeth when the old mechanism squeaked softly. Again, my eyes darted around the village, still stillness.

I turned the crank for what seemed like hours, and still there was more rope feeding into the well. When I began to think that maybe there was no bottom to it, I heard a tiny splash, and the rope I was feeding down into the earth went slack. I had hit the water. I waited while the bucket tipped into the water and filled. itself, willing myself not to imagine the body of the old man which the bucket would play over, not daring to imagine the old man's dead hands grabbing the bucket and waiting for me to pull it back up to the surface. But after the bucket was filled, that was exactly what I imagined as I

cranked the bucket upwards toward me. It felt heavy, but I could not tell if the weight of it was just the water. How much weight would the old man's husk of a body add to the pulley? Forever it seemed to take for the bucket to reach the wellhead, but eventually it came, and it came without the old man clinging on to it. I poured the precious stuff into my canteens, spilling nary a drop in the starlight. When my water receptacles were full, I replaced the bucket exactly in the fashion and pose in which I had found it. I resisted the urge to drink greedy handfuls of it right then and there, for something told me

that as soon as my tongue and lips touched the water, the angry villagers would appear already holding their missile rocks. And then, I was gone. I ran on tiptoes to the edge of town that lay in the direction I had scouted earlier. I climbed to sandy hill, my steps struggling extra hard to find purchase, as if the geography itself did not want to permit my escape, sucking at my fleeing feet. Once I reached the top of the hill, I felt a breath of fresh air blow on me. It was the air of freedom. I did not waste any time smelling the air, however. I set out in a straight line away from the village, my muscles renewed with the energy of escape. I walked on and on, never pausing, not even to take a sip from one of my canteens. The secretness of my flight kept me moving, and I told myself that I should conserve

my water anyway. Miles and miles I walked, unsure in what cardinal direction I moved. When I looked overhead to locate the Big Dipper in the North Star, none of the constellations I saw were familiar to me. I heard strange sounds in the night, hoots and caws and scaly reptilian skin scraping against the desert rock. The desert chattered around me, telling its secrets to itself as it observed me. I did not bother trying to run away. I just kept walking. And then I crested a small hill, and the village was laid out before me. My breath caught in my throat. I turned around in circles only to see the same bewildering bohemian desert surrounding me, except it was not the same. My legs went suddenly weak and I sat down on the desert floor hard. I crawled. I crawled. I crawled. I

over to a small rock outcropping, lean my back against it so the village was in my view, and I took out one of my canteens. I felt the coolness of it between my palms, the delicious and fighting coolness. I will sit here for just a bit longer, watching the village, licking my lips every so often, letting myself get good and dry. Then, when I finally taste of the water, it will be that. much better. I will let it wash down my throat, rush through my veins, become me, and I will become it. I lick my lips. They're already pretty dry. And next, from writer Kevin M. Folliard and narrated

by Jimmy Ferrer. Creepy Presents White Noise. They come when it's quiet, Doc. They're why I surround my bed with old TVs. Why keep the radio. on low. White noise keeps my senses occupied. Keeping those things at bay. Even a steady drone, like a fan, stops the silence from capturing my thoughts. Once everything is still, there's a void, a path to my mind that they cross. I know professionally you'd think it's all in my head, But if they were in your head, you'd understand. They've been visiting since I was about three. I'd lay awake.

They would creep up into my bedroom. I was terrified, too terrified to scream or move or. Well, that's just it. I sort of am awake when it happens. Awake enough. And I know what night terrors are. I know about sleep paralysis. You're not my first shrink.

But maybe science doesn't totally understand what the mind opens up to in this weird, half-awake state. If you searched my apartment, of course, you wouldn't find the evidence. That doesn't mean they're not real. on some level. They look like stencils. This is hard to explain. We see objects in three-dimensional space, right?

These things are all shaped like beings. Anthropomorphic, maybe ten feet tall, lanky arms and legs, and spherical heads. But they're not flesh and blood. There's no substance, just form.

It's like they're carved out of reality. A recess of space moving about. Sometimes on two legs. Sometimes on all fours. They don't have faces. They don't really even have features, except for the shape and what's inside. Remember TV snow?

That frantic static? When the cable went out? Before everything went digital, inside their forms, is a mess of white and gray light particles. As if their bodies are portals into some dimension of static. And there's something else. This pure fucking evil that you feel in your guts.

It's a sickness. inducing unnaturalness. Look, if there truly is a god that's good, then I swear he had nothing to do with these. Sorry. You know, I like talking to someone like you. It helps me feel better. But it doesn't stop them.

Why do you people always ask about parents? Parents aren't the root of every problem. Definitely not this one. Of course, my mom and dad didn't believe me growing up. Why would they? It bothered me at the time, but I understand now. My mom, like everyone, like you, reasonably thought I was dreaming about things creeping into my room.

Most kids have nightmares. Doc, this is a whole other world of unpleasant. I'll never forget. Lying in my bedroom in our house on Ash Street. Brown carpet. The gold-striped wallpaper. They crawl on those long arms and legs and duck in from the hallway. And within a few strides, they're right in my face.

It feels like my eyes are popping out of my head. Like my mind is being sucked into that fuzzy gray static. Oh, and it hurts. physically hurt so bad, like a muscle cramp over my whole body. They came almost every night until I was about 13. That year, my parents let me have the old TV for my bedroom. That's when I figured out of that if I fell asleep with a TV on. They didn't come.

The white noise kept them away. Kept my mind occupied as I drifted to sleep. I don't know for sure the psychological and scientific reason. but it worked. It still sort of works. Anyway, as a teenager, I got into the habit of sleeping with a TV on. My mom used to scream at me for wasting electricity.

Call in, she'd say. You're going to drive us to the welfare office. Which I still don't understand because how much does it cost to keep a TV on overnight? Anyway. things got better in high school. Even a faint crackle of radio static, I learned, canceled them out somehow.

But they knew I was thwarting them. You know bedbugs, Doc? They hide in the bed frame or whatever, or wait until their human host falls asleep. The bugs depend on that human every night, sleeping in that same spot so they can suck their blood. That's like my problem. So imagine you're one of these beings.

And you know every night this kid with these tasty brainwaves or whatever. This fear or pain they feed on. My aura. I don't know. Is in that bed. In that room. And suddenly he figures out how to shut the door. Well,

These things are like bedbucks with a vendetta Because when I figured out how to block them They took it personally A few of these encounters stand out And summer before high school That's burned in my memory It was a scorcher of a night And we had all these window unit air conditioners

So did everyone else on the block So of course Zap. Power goes out around 9 p.m. Pitch black. Dead silent. At that point, it had been a while since my last encounter, so I'd grown cocky. I thought I'd put the whole thing behind me.

That's when I learned just how cruel they were. At first I thought they were my parents. But they started screaming. accusing me of doing things an adolescent might do at night, you know. And for a long while I thought my mom and dad were truly there in a rage, calling me a pervert. But then, Doc, you eventually noticed that their faces are missing. Not the TV static, but this time, a human face with the elements. the eyes, the nose, the mouth, replaced by a film of fleshy blankness.

It was still my parents' voices, though. And I'll tell you, Doc. Maybe technically I was asleep or in a trance for 10, 15 minutes. But it felt like ours. When the power came back, it was 10.15 p.m. Just imagine a kid trapped in this time war. with his parents tearing his most embarrassing secrets out of him. Sorry.

I'm done for today. It got worse than college. Until then, they'd only ever visited my parents' house. If I had to sleep over or we went to a motel or something, I somehow knew they couldn't find me. My college roommate Ted was a great guy. By then I thought I'd outgrown the whole thing. and I didn't want to ask my roommate if I could sleep with the TV on or the radio crackling.

He'd wonder why, and I wasn't going to tell him the real reason. So, in that little dorm room, every night, it was quiet, it was still, and it was dark. And within a month, they found me again. After years of keeping them away with my white noise trick, there was hell to pay. I distinctly remember the first time they entered my dorm. Ted slept on the top bunk. We had the window open and this is weird, because I know they aren't physical creatures,

but they crawled through the window. One by one. Three of them. Their negative forms just sprang in. And they stalked up to my bottom bunk. One of them touched my forehead with an electric finger. Had never experienced pain like that. It was like a white-hot sword stabbed into my brain.

His finger twisted, like it was drilling into my soul. I screamed for, I don't know how long. And this is the worst part. My roommate, nice 18-year-old kid from Iowa. shakes me, wakes me, and then all the beings vanish. Ted thinks I'm having a medical emergency. And tears are running down my face, and I just tell him it was a nightmare. But it doesn't end there, of course.

Ted starts shouting, starts calling me a crybaby, shaming me. Acting totally out of character. His face is meaner than he ever was in real life. He's calling me a pantsweather, pansy, a million other things I hadn't heard since I was a little kid. And then his features blurred into that fleshy, nothing. And I realize, I'm still trapped. This isn't Ted.

It's those things twisting my perception, even more than normal. The fake Ted berates me all that long. The next morning, the real Ted slept through it. He never noticed, which on the one hand was good because I'd have been embarrassed. But after a while, when it kept happening, started to feel, I don't know, lonely. I wanted Ted to care that it was happening. And somehow every time, they'd trick me for a moment into thinking he did. It messed with me to the point where, even in broad daylight,

I'd be talking to Ted, unsure if he was real or not. I tried sleeping with headphones. But I still ended up seeing the evil, Ted. I just couldn't stand being in that room with him, even though I knew that really wasn't him. Ever since college, the encounters have been more like that, a torment that escalates. It's why I never finished my degree, why I ended up back at home. I could never face Ted without being afraid of any second. I found myself stuck in some agonizing warp.

My parents were livid. I attended community college, but it was a setback. Even so, I was happy. I had my TV in my room that I controlled. Except eventually, even that stopped working. They were adapting. That you're at college helped them figure me out a little more. figure out a way around by white noise trick.

Not just one TV didn't keep them away. Just having the radio unload didn't work either. And the things they say, Doc, things you have to lay frozen and hear all night. Sorry. It's just... Sometimes when you talk about it, when you tell someone it happens.

Because it's on your mind. Because you externalize it. They're coming tonight. I know it. They've come several times since we started talking, you know. After last week's session, I had a bad episode like I knew I would. It was not a self-fulfilling prophecy. Don't start with that, okay?

I was lying there. Exhausted. I had all the TVs on. I have eight bedroom TVs on a power switch. I just click, pop them on, volume's on low. Or like a nightlight, I guess. But I've explained this before. If one TV works, then two must work better and so on.

I know it's crazy for an adult to live like this. Anyway, I look up and it's you, Doc. and at first I'm thrown But for some reason your mind just rolls with it Eventually you realize hey It is crazy unprofessional for the doc to visit me in my home As soon as I figure it out You dropped in a demon mode

You got dirt on me doc And you're using it to wound me every Way you know how Calling me a pansy pussy, crybaby, bedwetter, queer, faggot, pathetic little wanker. You go on and on. Of course you wouldn't say that here, not out loud at least. But hey, I still had to listen to it.

And even though I know it's not really you, it feels real. Like, sometimes I wonder if those things are hurtful. because they're lying or because they know what people really think but never say. Of course you'd say that. But what are you thinking? It's enough to drive you crazy.

Date? No, I don't really date much. Who wants to date a 37-year-old copy shop clerk buried in debt? What do I do? Bring them home to my TV chamber? Besides, any time I get close to someone, they get inducted into those things, repertoire of faces. I'll be a man and admit it, I had a little crush on Ted. That's what you've been thinking about me all this time, isn't it?

Like I'm so repressed, it's making me hallucinate because I can't be myself. Try again. I'm cool with it. I'm mostly going for women, though. I dated this barista named Trudy in my early 30s. She was a sweetheart. She even knew about the experiences I had. I think it kind of endeared her to me.

She was a little wacky, but a good cook. Good listener. She wanted kids in a house, and we both knew I didn't have that at my sleeves. I loved her. But it's strange. I wonder how important she could have been. They've never worn her face. So I tried, Doc.

I tried, just like you suggested. Try it a night without the TVs. And I... I can't do that again. It's too dangerous. It was like they'd broken my mind. Like I was staring into nothingness forever. It started out with one of them.

Upside down on the ceiling, its static neck stretched down to my face. That painful eye-suck-it-bulging feeling sucked me deep into the gray-white mess of its head. Only the particles grew bigger and bigger, like pixels in an old video game. Big white-gray squares. Until I fell into one of the white squares. It was white, white nothing. Like I was dead. Stuck forever on my final thought.

And my last thought was terror. Felt like days, weeks, I couldn't say. Eventually the physical pain faded because I have no body. I was just a detached perspective. They struck this final discordant. note of fear inside of me that echoed non-stop. Eventually I woke up, yeah. It was 2 a.m.

Only a couple hours passed in real time. But it was an eternity, and I was not meant to escape. They must have slipped their grip or something. Doc, you have to believe me. I cannot mess around with this anymore. This nothingness is where they want me. This is what they've been building to. A final moment where they can trap me forever.

And honestly, I don't know what happens on your end when I'm there for good. Does my brain just echo in that nothing? And the paramedics find me comatose or dead? Does it look like my heart gave out? A stroke, maybe. Aneurism? What good are a bunch of expensive medical tests? Things don't operate on anything.

any plane in any way that we can measure. They're here to fuck with me, and only me, I guess. And I know how that sounds, okay? I know that you're fucking scribbling on your pad. I'm not going to calm down or humor you or make nice. I know you think I'm crazy. So let's drop the bullshit, okay? If I listen to you, I will end up dead or worse.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout or swear. You know what's so scary about it? When you're stuck in a state of total fear and defeat, party is starts to slowly accept it. Your mind decides I have no choice. So I guess this could be worse. That's waiting for me.

A gradual, humiliating acceptance. That I must deserve this. Because sooner or later, there will be a power outage. Or I'll not off somewhere, somehow, in a place where they can find me. You know what? I'm glad you all think I'm fucking nuts. Because you have no frame or reference for what this is like for me. Hopefully it means that you and everyone else doesn't have that waiting for them.

Because I know I do. Colin is not dead. He will never die, Dr. Taylor, though his body rots. Final part of him sinks forever inside of us. If you go there, you will never meet him. You will each float forever and never cross paths. To Colin, you were a dichotomy of stress and support. You and every person he wanted to confide it.

He loved you, and he hated you. In his fading moments, he wished he had never met you. Your words cut through the hum of Colin's lonely world. You sliced his pain open, and we swam to him. We've worn your form as we now were Collins. And Colin was right. We speak for another. It is more than a lie.

It's a dark truth. Sharpened into a surgical tool. You hide a molten core of judgment beneath a veil of compassion and to dig it him, him away, and cherish his eternal pain like a precious jewel. And because you wish so desperately to understand calling, We have come to teach you and you. 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 Sherylite licensing, or with Rick consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.