Creepy - Hit & Run

Episode Date: February 24, 2025

Hit & Run***Written by Joseph Yenkavitch***Gingerbread Massacre***Written by: Justin Montgomery and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***A Little Light in the Darkness***Written by: Jake Stein and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***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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or you listen on the free feed, taking the time to listen and share the show means more than you will ever know. So thank you. Thank you for spending your time with our dark little family. 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. For our first story this evening, a man's hit-and-run accident spirals into a chilling psychological descent as guilt and paranoia manifest in haunting visions, blurring the line between reality and delusion. Creepy Presents Hit and Run. Written by Joseph Yankovic. I pulled into my driveway and eased the car into the garage. My hands tightly gripped the steering wheel

as I watched a small wiffle ball hanging from the ceiling bounce across the windshield telling me I had entered far enough. I stopped and reached over to the visor and pressed the garage door opener. The metal door slid down screeching as the rollers hit an uneven spot.

Both headlights were lit and I felt a surge of relief. I turned the headlights and engine off. The garage plunged into darkness. Little snapping noises from the engine cooling down filled the quiet, cold atmosphere. I stared straight ahead at the barely visible jumble of garage refuse against the far wall. A car went by outside and I tensed. Cold seeped into the car, killing off what the heater had produced.

The little hope I felt a moment ago faded and I didn't want to get out and look. Sitting here I couldn't see a thing, just a dim layer of snow on the hood. Both headlights had lit, but the right one seemed to be beaming a little too much left. I opened the door. The cold air completed its invasion of the car. Stepping cautiously around lawn equipment and made my way to the light switch next to the door leading to the kitchen, hesitated a moment, and flicked it on. Two ceiling bulbs lit.

I shivered and turned. First, I stared at the windshield. Intact. My gaze then drifted downward, and I fell back against the door. I looked away, then back again, hoping I might have erased what I saw and something new, better, would now present itself. No. There it was. A torn, crumpled front fender just behind the headlights.

which had been shoved slightly out of line. At the front, a gash, jagged metal dangling. I looked closer. Something dangled from the whirl of metal, a cloth, and something soft. I reached down and touched it and pulled my hand away. I could feel the stickiness of flesh and blood. Everything collapsed into that one terrible happening. I stumbled inside and slumped onto the kitchen chair.

A lamp burned in the family room. All the pieces began running together now and I could see it all. The road way dark between lamp posts, light snow falling, the road, a sheet of untouched white, and the anger rising from thoughts of the lounge and the woman who laughed at my attempts to be friendly. Something I shouldn't have been doing, reliving at all and not watching the roadway or the biker. I remembered the jolt that pulled me from my bitterness to a vague impression of someone beside my car. Maybe a face? I pumped the brakes as I passed and looked back at the reddish scene behind me thinking I understood what happened.

I clenched a vague shape in the snow. But I didn't stop. In the darkness, the emptiness, I sped on, fear and hope fighting it out. Stopping might have made a difference, but I didn't stop to help. It's all there is to it. People don't take kindly to people who do that. Too late to change anything now. Turning myself in won't make that guy better or bring him back to life.

I suppose it would be some kind of murder, wouldn't it? Not number one, but maybe two or three. It'd certainly be prison. They don't give you a slap on the hand for this sort of thing, or parole. And forget about good jobs after this. What the hell was that person doing on the road and weather like that anyway? That would be a positive factor in my favor,

but probably not enough. I didn't stop. The jury faces would look at me coldly because of that. The person had a right to be on the road. I'd get little sympathy. No, I'm just going to have to live with this. No one saw me, except the biker. Maybe he's not dead and could describe the car.

But that's improbable. He wasn't watching me, just. Plowing ahead, snow probably making it hard to see. And after I struck him, he'd be in no condition to see anything except maybe taillights. I began to feel a little better. The guilt lingered, but it could lessen in time. Maybe if the guy had to be a guy was hurt, I could secretly send him money. Yeah.

That would make me feel better. Make sure he comes out of this all right. I could do other things to help people. I'm willing to pay a price. But what if he's dead? I left him there bleeding. I'd have to do more. And I would.

I just can't go to prison. It was an accident. They happened and you can't pay forever for them. In the pantry, I pulled down. a bottle of scotch, pouring a drink, I sat down and sipped it, feeling better knowing I've made decisions, positive actions. It was that guy's fault, too, you know? He should have known better than to be out in that weather?

How do I know he didn't swerve into me? The drink tasted good. I glanced at the kitchen door. My thoughts pulled beyond it to the car as I realized one thing. What would I do about the damage? After these accidents, the police check garages to see if anyone came in for repairs. This wasn't something I could fix myself, and driving around with this damage would be a dead giveaway. The scotch tasted sharp.

I had the weekend to think about it and could call in sick to work for a few more days. What solution could I hope to come up with? No one I knew could fix a car. This is a major body work. I poured more scotch. The glass at my lips I stopped is an idea flickered. Why not hammer the metal back into place as best I could and tape it up? I'll have seen plenty of cars riding around like that.

Maybe it wouldn't be a dead giveaway. By the time inspection time arrived, the heat would be off and I could get things fixed. Maybe in another state. I went into the garage and inspected the damage again. The job had seemed easier in my mind than what confronted me. Still, no one would expect someone doing this to produce a work of art. I felt pretty good about the idea, but that high quickly deflated. I was left with one problem.

How to explain the damage in the first place? Tell friends I hit something and hope no one else questions it? Of course. Most people couldn't care less about a taped up car. And how many police cruisers do I run across? Take a chance, I guess. And drive as little as possible. My weekend plans were set.

One thing I needed to do first. I hooked up the hose. Those pieces of flesh and streaks of blood had to go right away. I sprayed the fender and kept spraying until the evidence had slid down the drain. Back inside, I finished drinking, feeling pretty good. My bases were covered. I could now relax. I went to bed and slept remarkably well.

The next morning I awoke to more snow. Great. Keep it up. It roads nice and dangerous for a few days to make a story of hitting my garage or something airtight. I turned on the television. It was near the top of the hour and the local news would be coming on. I decided at best to have a clear knowledge of things.

There remained the possibility things weren't as bad as I thought. I fixed the coffee, cereal and toast and set them on a tray before the television. The boy and announcer came on staring down at her electronic pad. First, some political news before her words became solemn. Woman, Trudy Blair, killed in hit and run. A quick picture. Someone pretty, smiling, on a beach somewhere with others around her. So much like my lover Karen from work.

No suspects at the present time. if you have any information. Cheerios slipped from my spoon. I didn't need any gruesome details. The words police, young, family, slid past as I reach for the remote and let the screen go to a thin white line. No matter.

As far as I could tell, I was in the clear. I couldn't imagine any evidence they'd find. Just my car, of course, and that solution was already in the works. I went to the kitchen door and opened it. The car, now bathed in gray morning light, showed its injury more eloquently than last night. The gash was far from a bump. When the bike did the damage, your body must have been dragged into the metal.

I began to wonder, did more than a few pieces of flesh hang on the car on the way home? I went to the back of the car. Nothing on the floor. I opened the garage door and inspected the driveway. That's when I saw it, almost covered in snow, a chunk of flesh draped with a piece of fabric. I ran to the road and down the sidewalk looking for any other evidence I might have dragged home. I saw nothing but went further to be sure there wasn't more. A woman walked up the sidewalk and passing me said,

lose something? I mumbled, shaking my head. Satisfied I'd find nothing more, I went back to the garage and got a shovel. I chopped the flesh with the shovel's edge and tossed the pieces into the thick trees behind my house. Critters would take care of it in no time. I had thought of flushing down the toilet but didn't want any inadvertent evidence in the house. I washed the shovel at the outside faucet. and tucked it behind other tools.

No wonder she didn't survive. She must have bled to death. I shoved the gruesome thought out of my mind and replaced it with the thought that perhaps now it was a good time to deal with a car. It took the better part of the morning to get the fender as flat as possible, tweaking the metal with gloved hands,

scraping off ice, and laying smooth courses of tape. Afterwards, I dozed uneasily on the couch the rest of the day. I ate a simple supper and returned to bed, awakening the next morning with a headache and a light snow falling outside. Nothing more about the hitting around on the morning news. I made coffee, forget booze,

and checked my work on the car. Perfect. While staring, Trudy Blair's image slipped into my thoughts, smiles, the beach, eyes wide with the life. I shook it away and slammed the garage door. I assume this would happen for a while, but life must go on. Work, hobbies, all the everyday things would begin. Layer upon layer.

It's covered not the memory of all this, but the worry of being caught. Even the guilt. I'd make amends somehow. I wasn't ready to go to work, so I called in sick. The next day I couldn't stop turning on the news to see if they were going to do. come up with any evidence. The story was mentioned once, then fell off the radar. I didn't want to become overconfident, but it was hard not to.

So much so, I decided to ride past the spot. Don't ask me why, but it felt like some kind of closure. Sort of made the whole thing more normal. I mean, I usually drove that road a lot, so why not keep it ordinary? Late that afternoon at the edge dusk, I did just that, figuring I'd see nothing because of the snowfall. I even thought I might forget exactly where it happened, but the taillights that night it embedded in my memory a sign, a house, a fence. They all appeared, and I remembered clearly. Slowing, I glanced out the passenger window.

The spot now had a small jumble of snow from a snowplomb. in front of a bouquet of flowers on a fence. Whatever blood, flesh, and metal remained have been removed or freshly covered. Someone stepped from the house and stared at me, making a motion with his arms and a shake of his head I took to mean he agreed something terrible had happened. After that, he stood in the cold air and watched me.

I wish I didn't come this way. What did that guy think as I slowed down? You see it on TV shows. the perpetrator makes a simple mistake and is caught. As I watched, I remembered the noise as though just happening. The sound of a bump and scrape when Trudy Blair collided with my front fender. Instinctively, I turned the wheel as though trying to avoid her, and at that moment glimpsed the face from the TV outside the car window,

pressed against it, Trudy's face. Only now the bright-eyed smile showed pain and, anger. At that moment the passenger window fogged as though a breath had been blown upon it or something terribly cold that encountered the heat at the car's interior. In a spasm of fear, I pressed the accelerator, fish-tailing, and sped away, instantly regretting it. The guy immediately take that as an indication of guilt? In the rearview mirror, I could see him watching me leave, his stare remaining until I turned a corner. What do you call in a description?

Did he see the taped up fender? Best not to come this way for a while. Now, unmistakably, even with the heater on, the cold settled in the car. I cranked the heat higher, but the chill wrapped around my hand and I yanked it away from the knob. As I drove, I couldn't help sensing something unseen coiling in the passenger seat. As I stopped at a red light, a car with the rust of a lot of winters pulled alongside. I glanced at the man and woman inside who stared straight ahead until, the light being the long one, the woman turned my way. She nodded and gave a smile meant to compensate for staring.

I returned the smile. As I did, she turned her head slightly to the right toward the back window and again nodded. A sad look on her face. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw it just a shadowy back seat. The woman looked my way again and turned away as the light changed and they sped off. Perplexed, I waited a moment longer until a blaring horn made me hit the accelerator. I kept checking the mirror only to see the movement of shadows as streetlights came and went. Cold caressed my neck like an icy finger.

I glanced in the mirror. Another sweep of light, but in that instant, like one frame in a film, a face. Maybe the light and dark and the glint off glass led my mind to making a pattern. But no, the image was unmistakable, even in that moment. Trudy's face from the TV. The face laughing among friends, but now glaring. I pulled over into a Walgreens parking lot.

rushed from the car and looked in the back seat. All I saw was a cap that said Caribbean cruising and a few papers, but no remnants of Trudy. What hell did I expect? I returned to the driver's seat, slammed my fist on the wheel, and sat there compiling excuses for the faint visage I'd glimpsed. Things leap from your brain for the simplest of reasons. The woman nodding at the back seat of her car was probably only a little bit of the same. only wishing she had a nice car like this.

Get a grip, asshole. I turned into my driveway. The garage door lifted. Shatters skittered around the interior like someone dashing away, not wanting to be seen. Nothing there, I told myself. Just a remnant of a memory I had to get used to and eventually ignore. As I entered the house, a cold burst of air swept in ahead of me like something rushing past. Inside I hung up my coat, turned down plenty of lights, and put on some coffee.

Suddenly my earlier euphoria slackened. An unsettling quietness that settled in the house. Almost a hollowness making me feel like an outsider. Someone who had come into a stranger's home. I turned on the TV to fill the room with something more than the buzzing in my ears. As the curie heated and began pouring, I sat in my chair. chair, barely aware of the TV noise. The machine sputtered out to last at the coffee, its aroma barely filling the deadening air.

I got up and added half and half and hazelnut to the coffee while glancing out the kitchen window. Moonlight glanced off the snow and didn't live at the backyard. I saw my footsteps half filled with new snow leading to the edge of the trees, ending where I'd moved while throwing Trudy's flesh into the woods. Suddenly the thought struck me that maybe there weren't any animals about in the winter to eat it. What if there were still strands of flesh uneaten, waiting for some dog to latch on and drag it to his home or the street? Maybe there'd be cloth fragments still attached.

Someone finds it, mentions it to others, and tells the wrong person hears it. The thought came attached to a sudden chill as though cold it'd seep to his own, the window. I put the coffee down and hurried out of the house into the backyard. Rushing into the trees, I pushed aside branches, snow cascading on me, and shifted shrubs, hoping to see nothing left behind of Trudy Blair. I broke off a branch and used it to sweep the snow. I hadn't thrown the flesh all that far, I was sure. Frantically, I kept widening the area, going over disturbed sections like someone with chronic OCD. I didn't find anything and wanted to feel better, but couldn't.

Even as I trudged back to the house, I felt the urge to rush back and do it all again, envisioning Trudy's flesh everywhere, even in the well-washed fender, pieces waiting to fall out. In the garage, I ran a hand over the rough metal under the fender, check the floor again and then again before going inside. Grabbing my cooling coffee, I slumped into my chair. The coffee was tasteless. The TV of blur.

I scolded myself that no way in a million years could I be connected to the accident. But all I could think of were the pieces of flesh. That guy staring and Trudy's accusing face. I returned to the window and glisting. layered through the depressing early darkness, watching that one spot, expecting to see God knows what. It's done, I angrily told myself. I'll just have to wait out this silly uncertainty, go to work, do my job, and let the days

and months pile atop all this until it's blotted out. I returned to the family room, my new resolve bolstering my spirits to the point where I mumbled, I was sorry, Trudy. but you're gone and nothing can be done about it. You weren't just unlucky. I don't know, but after I said it, I knew something was different. Just not the difference I'd been anticipating.

The coldness that had earlier drifted in with me from the garage settled over me like an icy shawl. I turned the thermostat 10 degrees higher. The furnace let out a guttural sound in the metal on the hot water registers. snapped with the heated hot water. The temperature rose on the thermostat, but the coldness enveloping me remained. I checked the windows.

Maybe one was broken, some damn kid flinging rocks. Everything was intact. I checked the thermostat again. 88 degrees. I should be sweating. I leaned close to the kitchen window. My breath, fogging it. Another circle of fog appeared beside mine, followed by a breath like cold

cellophane settling on my face. Then, as though tucked inside the glass, Trudy's face appeared, this time neither glaring nor with that happy beach smile. Now the gaze of someone patiently watching. I pulled back, stumbling against the island, going to my knees with the pain. The urge grew to grab something, anything, and pulverized the glass, that image, and free myself from my own mind. When I looked back up, a spot of fogged glass remained, but Trudy's face was gone. I struggled to my feet, grabbed my coffee, and backed out of the kitchen. I stood in the middle of the room, not knowing which way to go. My foot slipped and I looked down thinking it might be a piece of ice from outside.

But it was something soft and I didn't have to examine it for long. I staggered back. A piece of Trudy had somehow stuck to my shoe. Cold slipped over my foot and slithered up my pant leg. I smelled decay and in a rage kicked out sending the piece of flesh against the coach. How would I miss it out there? Trudy!

I yelled. No matter any of this, you're gone. Dead. Maybe lodged in my mind, but you'll never be able to reach me. I yelled again to the dark rooms of the house. Rushing over, I picked up a piece of soft, slimy flesh and grounded between my fingers, feeling Trudy's memory die. That's the end of you!

They screamed, but Trudy's face reappeared in the dark corner of the room. I lifted a small statue and flung it at the vision, the porcelain shattering against the wall. You will go away, I said to the dark, I will win and you'll be gone. As I stood there, my breathing heavy, feeling my heart racing, trying to gain control. The phone rang. The coffee in my hand slipped from my grip and splattered on the floor. I stared at the cell phone on the table next to my chair as if it were an intruder. It rang again and again.

I thought of the police. Thought, for God's sake, I'd hear Trudy's voice. I didn't want to pick it up. But the persistent ringing finally made me snatch the phone to look at the caller's name. My breathing slowed and my anger subsided when I saw the name Karen. Like freeing a rescuer, I punched the button. Her voice had a soothing effect. I settled into the chair as though melting into the cushion.

She asked how I was and mentioned a few others at work asked about me. I made up an excuse for not calling her and it sounded that way, but Karen didn't seem to notice. I felt the stickiness of Trudy's flesh on my fingers. concentrating on it until Karen asked if I was still there. Please come over. I quickly said, unable to keep the pleading out of my voice, sensing that same awful presence lingering near me again in the room. Please?

I repeated, sure that Karen would replace Trudy, that holding her would squeeze Trudy out of my thoughts. She agreed. Her apartment would be. I wasn't very far away and half an hour later I saw her car headlights sweep across my front window. As soon as I let her in, she threw arms around me. Her face lined with concern. I kissed her, trying to say something that sounded coherent and not laced with fear.

I led her into the family room and we both sat on the couch. She asked me what was wrong, the palm of her hand against my cheek, her blue eyes looking deeply at me. But what could I answer? Tell her I'd killed someone and didn't want to get caught? No, that was a secret I had to keep forever so that I could have the life I wanted. Hopefully with Karen, the room became quiet. I saw Karen staring at the broken coffee cup and coffee splattered on the floor. I just said, an accident.

She looked puzzled. Lies and secrets. How could I expect anything with Karen? And yet it had to be this way. Trudy was dead and nothing anyone did to me would change that. I squeezed Karen so tight she squirmed and then I kissed her hard, trying to push away the sense of a lingering presence around her. Trudy trying to invade what hope I had.

I saw Trudy's face behind Karen and swept my arm out to shove her away. Karen pulled back, concern laced with fear on her face. I stood and pulled her up to me. Upstairs, I whispered. Please stay. Tonight. Maybe I'm ill, just tonight. Tomorrow will be different.

At first, Karen looked thoughtful, and I thought she wouldn't stay. Her face softened and she nodded. I wanted to feel relieved, but instead I'd be different. felt tense. I felt like something was trying to intervene between us. I couldn't let it take over. Just a little more time. Karen grabbed her purse as I took her hand and pulled her towards the stairs leading to the bedroom. As I let her up, I was sure a shadow moved across the landing and I staggered backwards. Again, Karen asked what was wrong and it made me loosen my grip. I kissed her on the cheek.

In the bedroom, we both sat on the edge of the bed. Karen held me, but I could feel her tenseness. I wanted to give her all my attention, but the room felt strange. The shadow's alive with something. And I thought I saw flickers of Trudy's face, only this time with the beach smile as though she felt happy about something. I started to lift the lamp with the metal base, ready to crush out this apparition.

Karen's hand went to mine, pulling it back, but even then, I felt I needed to protect us both. She pulled me down beside her, pressing my head into her neck as she caressed my back. The light went out, and her hand returned to my back. The room now bathed in moonlight. I wanted to relax, lose myself in her, but the wintriness from outside seemed of course. crept close to the bed. I struck my hand out, yelling for it to go away. I squeezed Karen harder, pulling her under me.

I kissed her, ran my hands over her. I cried about how much I needed her, but even then I felt as though I was embracing cold. She kept saying something now. Her words frantic. But all I could feel was the cold and kept repeating, no, no, no, and grabbed her shoulders wanting more than ever her lifeline. I lifted myself up and looked down at her, but it wasn't her. Trudy's face looked up at me with the same beach smile,

but tinged with the smuggedness of satisfaction. You will not win! I yelled. No one will ever know. You'll be gone. Do you hear me? You will be gone! As I kept yelling,

screaming. You will be gone. be gone! I reached over and grabbed the lamp. And I struck and struck that face, over and over, killing it, killing what was in my head, freeing me to be with Karen. I stopped, my breathing coming out and gasps, and I held Karen, squeezed her, telling her I was free.

body heat enshrouding me. I began sobbing. But now, with a feeling of joy, I lay there, clutching Karen to me until I started to hear movement in the room. Voices filtered into my tired consciousness, more than one. But that was all right, because everything was all right. Pieces of conversation entered my dreamy world. I didn't understand them. I didn't want to open my eyes and just wanted to savor the feeling of escape. But I kept listening and heard, just bludgeoned her. I thought, who can tell about these things?

She was pretty, a real shame. But you can't see her. I thought. She's gone. There's only Karen now. And I could hear my own voice rise. Don't you understand? I sat and the voices stopped.

She's gone. Trudy Blair's gone for good. I'm sorry I killed her, but I'm with Karen now. For our second story this evening, a young woman's attempt to create festival. cookies for her family quickly spirals into horror. Creepy presents. Gingerbread Massacre.

Written by Justin Montgomery and narrated by Rissa Montanez. What's up, Chicks? Today's episode comes from the chilling tale of Alicia Gardner, a woman who murdered and ate her family at their yearly Christmas gathering just two years ago. In this exclusive recording, you'll hear Alicia's story from her own lips,

as recorded from an interview with her therapist at the institution in which she's currently facing multiple life sentences. Alicia is perhaps one of the most prolific serial killers in decades, like chilling stuff. Anyway, we want you to hear it from the woman herself. So settle onto something comfy, snuggle up under a blanket and make some coffee. because this case is down, right, cold. But first, a brief sponsor break.

When I made plans to bake gingerbread cookies the week before Christmas, I didn't expect so many people would die. Hell, I never expected anyone to die. The most I expected was dirty hands, an even dirtier kitchen. Maybe a festive aroma rivaling would I imagine they pumped onto the the set of Hallmark movies to, you know, keep the actors in the holiday mood when they were filming in mid-July or whatever.

I always imagined some poor sound guy, positioned unfortunately close to the blazing, picturesque hearth, sweating, cursing the production team for not spending the money to shoot in a colder location. I love Hallmark Christmas movies. The real eye-rolling cheese fest once. Always makes me cry. Helps me to remember that love is out there.

somewhere. And one day, it'll show up for me. Six foot two with a jawline chiseled from stone, elbow up to the doorway, the raised hem of his jean jacket exposing a flash of a stomach. Huh? Oh, yeah, right. The deaths. Sorry. I can't stop talking when I'm nervous. Well, I don't really know how to say this. I mean, I was just a 19-year-old college girl who wanted to make cookies for my family Christmas party. Maybe to impress my grandma, who was always like the queen of Christmas cookies, I think. I don't know. Whatever my motivation, I really don't remember anymore now that I... Sorry. It's a lot. And the tears, I can't control... Okay, I'm okay. So like I said, I really love Christmas. My entire family lived for it.

spent the other 357 days of the year preparing for the eight days between Christmas Eve and New Year's Day. As such, I really did my apartment up, you know? Lighted garland, a ridiculous tree, stockings on the TV stand because I couldn't afford a place with a real hearth. Hell, what college student could. And really set the mood. Like stepping onto a set at Hallmark Studios. My college loans were more than my tuition that year. so I got a decent refund.

I decided to go all out and do something nice that year, so I ordered these super expensive baking supplies off the internet. I still remember the advertisement, a pop-up ad on the sidebar of my email inbox, one that was loudly declaring, best gingerbread cookies you'll ever make in green and red letters. Of course I clicked it, who wouldn't, and it redirected the page to some European website.

We said the supplies were forged from neochromium? Again, I was a 19-year-old trying to oppress her grandma, so I didn't search what neochromium actually was, or if it even exists. Like, it could have been the same aluminum they used to make cola cans, and I wouldn't have even known the difference. I mean, I was an English major transitioning to societian. so like, I didn't really have an eye like a botanist would? Or wait, no, botanist is plants.

A metal urchic? Is that the name? Well, whatever, they said overnight shipping from Transylvania was just $9.99, and I jumped on it. They sent me a tracking number in a pickup location, which I thought was kind of odd, but like, not really. Because sometimes Amazon will give you a discount, if you. you pick up your package at like a locker outside a 7-Eleven or something with a special code. So I wrote down the drop-off address and punched it into maps. I didn't recognize the address, but it was close.

Just walking distance from my apartment beside the city cemetery. Which, again, weird, but I mean, maybe it was just like perfect distance from the warehouse or something. And I mean, I've seen cemeteries right beside high schools and sandwich shops and Walmart. so honestly, I didn't think anything of it. The next day I was out jogging when my email pinged in my headphones, interrupting Britney Spears. I was floored to see that my package had already been delivered and was ready for pickup. But like, it was the holidays. And the delivery people work like 24-hour shifts or whatever, so I jogged over to the cemetery expecting to see a cluster of lockboxes or something.

But my box was just sitting. there on the sidewalk right against the cemetery fence. The top of the box covered in clumps of dirt and grass. My name on the shipping label. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Not really. I just figured the grounds crew wanted to get a quick grass cutting and trim done before the snow dropped the next day.

So I brushed the dirt away and picked up my box, which was heavier than expected. And I felt this flicker of excitement in my chest. I shook the box, heard the little metal jangling in there. And I knew it was neochromium because aluminum doesn't sound like that when you rattle it together. I sprinted home as fast as I could, box rattling and jangling and drawing stairs. I'm sorry. But could I please have some water? My throat.

Thanks. So yeah, I got home and I pulled up the gingerbread recipe I was using. and I started to get to work prepping the dough when I realized it might be a good idea to wash the cookie cutters before I use them. Unfortunately, I opened the box with a pocket knife and cut my finger on accident. I remember seeing the blood smear across the box flaps as I opened it,

and in my haste to bake, it was already going on three in the afternoon, and mom and dad would be there to pick me up at nine the next morning. I didn't wash my hands right away, gross. I know. Instead, I examined my new cookie cutters. They shine so bright in the multicolored glow of the garland I hung up all around my place. There were so many, all a medieval theme, with like, frosting tips to help decorate the cookies once they were done. And it even came with little gumdrops and candies and sprinkles in cellophane bags. But it was weird because the bags had this weird writing

on them. But then I remembered it was from Trans-Pensilvania or whatever. and figured it was some European candy company. And anyway, it was perfect because I didn't really have time to go to the store or order grocery delivery, so it worked out. That's when I got the idea to just make the dough and pre-cut the cookies. Then we could decorate them all as a family together. Grandma had so many ovens. She had remodeled her kitchen with Grandpa's life insurance money,

so there was plenty of room for an oven dedicated to just the cookies. Grandma always Sorry Grandma always loved baking cookies with us And I figured well This would be a great way to help her like Relive that maybe To have that again

So I washed my hands and the cookie cutters But when I went to scrub them From the blood I'd surely gotten on to them It was a deepish cut but not really They were clean and I remember being impressed at how this neochromium was so sleek that the dough wouldn't stick. And I felt so proud of myself for buying these all in my own, with my own judgment. Now, though, after seeing what happened to my family and being here for a while,

replaying it all in my head, seeing the evidence presented in court, I don't think the blood dripped off the cookie cutters. because if it had, then there would have been like streaks or stains or something. But no. The cookie cutters were pristine. They practically glowed and now. Now that I've had time, do you want to know what I think? I think they drank my blood.

How's it going, chicks? Feeling that chill yet? What do you think of Alicia's story so far? Buckle up because you haven't heard anything yet. Go ahead and grab another blanket, make a fresh cup of Joe because after this sponsored break, well, I won't spoil it for you. But I will say that if you're grabbing a snack with that coffee, make sure to eat it quick. You do not want food in your mouth when you hear the rest of this.

And now, on to our sponsors. My blood. It's the only way to explain what happened next. I believe I'd accidentally initiated some weird European blood curse. I'm older now than I was then, 21 next month. So I can look back and understand why I thought the way I did. I was young, oblivious. Okay, so I prepped the dough and cut the gingerbread men,

place them all into the wire rack baking sheets, then covered them with saran wrap just like grandma had taught me to when I was a kid. They looked so cute with their little swords and dresses. They made like six trays of them. I regret that. And I did end up getting a grocery delivery, even though it was late, like 7.30 and snowing by that time. But I tipped well, so it evened out.

I ordered more decorations and a little build-your-own gingerbread house that I thought we could like, you know, pose the cookies around once they had been decorated. It looked like a castle. And I thought that was just perfect. But I regret that too. The next day, mom and dad picked me up and were so impressed by the cookies. I felt so much pride. I look back now and laugh.

I'm the one who brought the cookies which led to my family's death. And the fact that I felt pride, well, I suppose, though. I had no way of knowing what would happen. So we pull up to grandmas, and she's just over the freaking moon about these cookies. Uncle Lester helped me inside, and I set up the baking station on the kitchen island farthest from the stovetop. Yeah, multiple islands. Huh? Oh, well, with the insurance money, she'd had one of the ground floor walls knocked down and extended the kitchen. Yeah, I know. Crazy, but when you've got 16 grandkids...

Sorry, okay. Where was I? Oh, so I set out the gingerbread house that I had made the night before. With some Hallmark Christmas movie blasting on the TV and more mugs of hot chocolate than I would want to admit. Everyone was awestruck, kept fawning over the gingerbread castle, and making a show of it, and I remember just how grown up that made me feel, to be recognized as a contributor to the event.

someone who had put time and money and thought into their contribution, not just a kid who had to piggyback off of whatever their parents had brought. It felt good. Now, this is where it gets tough. Could I have more water, please? Thank you. Okay. They keep saying that I did this,

like I'm some kind of monster cannibal, that I slaughtered my family. But that's nowhere near the truth of what happened. People say the video was digitally altered. But as I swear in court, this genuinely happened. I loved my family. Why would I do that to people I love? Anyway, we were on our fifth batch of cookies when things started to get weird.

The gingerbread castle was fully iced, So we started brainstorming how to position the gingerbread knights and princesses and horses. And a dragon. But that one got all broken during baking and decorating, so it was just kind of a lump there. And we decided to make it look like the gingerbread knights had just slayed the dragon to win the favor of the princesses. My cousins, Dan and Dave and Brandon, they were in middle school. They made all these weapons out of candy and candy canes. making literal licorice whips or like ball and chains, bases, you know that stuff,

and they actually managed to get the candy canes pretty sharp, bracing them with metal reusable toothpicks and stuff. One even held a cheese knife. The plaster cube of Swiss cheese on the handle cradled between the cookie's arm and neck. My cousins were proud of that. Proud of having rigged a candy brace to hold it. By this point, there were nearly 60 cookies and another sheet in the oven. So, a whole lot of weaponry.

I remember it so vividly. I was finishing up icing the details on a princess with blonde hair and a purple, sparkly-sprinkled dress. When my niece, Gracie, screamed that one of the gingerbread cookies had. Moved. We all laughed. waved her off but Gracie was petrified I'd never heard anyone scream like that before

well until moments later anyway all at once the gingerbread people came to life it was weird it was like they had this stop motion claymation quality to them that like they couldn't move fluidly

like maybe the sugar in their dough bodies had crystallized or something but still they were fast and before anyone could react the cheese knife's pointed tip was lodged in cousin brandon's cheek they swarmed him stabbing his skin with their little weapons and brandon was screaming this loud guttural thing he slapped at his face to wave them away but that just drove their weapons deeper drew more blood i remember watching in terror how the cheese knife glided through the meat of Brandon's cheek and whisked through his lips in a red arc. Brandon fell to the ground.

And before long, his eyes had been gouged out. He drowned in his own blood. Thank God Dan caught it on camera. God rest his soul. Without his video, I'd have gone to the electric chair. We all just stood there in shock while the gingerbread scattered. Some got smashed. But they were fast, so goddamn fast and worse.

The trace had been placed all around the kitchen, and before anyone could even figure out what was happening, blood coated the kitchen tile like a dropped pot of water. That's what ultimately caused the deaths, I think. The blood on the tiles. Grandma was the first to slip, and there was a sickening crack as her hip shattered from the impact. Uncle Lester stopped to help her, slipped,

and was caught beneath the capsized pot of boiling water. What were supposed to be hard-boiled eggs, splattered onto Grandma's face, and into her throat as she screamed. Wasn't long before most everyone was on the floor. And the gingerbread cookies were giggling, grabbing knives and forks in hot pans, diving out the people on the ground, cutting their faces and genitals, pulling out their organs,

the floor slick with tangled tubes of their intestines. Me and Aunt Barbara were the only ones who made it out of the kitchen, and I can't. I'm sorry. I thought it would help to force out the details, but I just can't, okay? What you're asking me to do? I can't. How are you holding up, chicks? Here, the therapist chases Alicia, and it's about an hour before she's calmed down.

Now, Alicia swore still swears that she didn't kill her family. But the way she describes the killings and the evidence collected at the scene contradict her testimony. I mean, the audacity to actually try and blame magic murderous gingerbread cookies? It's completely absurd. The cheese knife she talks about? Nowhere to be found. The castle-shaped gingerbread set she supposedly ordered? If it existed, it was never manufactured. by the companies which supply the retailer that she had placed the grocery delivery order from.

However, it is possible that Alicia customized the gingerbread house to fit her vision of a castle. But the way she words the set as a castle-themed theme set draws doubt. Now, the grocery delivery itself is confirmed. And after scraping Alicia's phone and computer records, authorities can confirm that Alicia did in fact click on an advertisement. However, the website which the link brought her to was an unregistered domain and no longer active, so it's impossible to tell. There is a PayPal charge for an alleged cookie-cutting set, and security footage does in fact show Alicia jogging away from the cemetery with a package. But there is no footage, however, of the package being brought to the cemetery.

The CCTV cameras from the building next door, conveniently, go dark between the hours of 1.13 a.m. and 2.13 a.m. Now, police did recover a set of medieval cookie cutters at the crime scene, but lab analysis shows they were forged from plain old cheap aluminum. No one knows what neochromium is, as Alicia claimed she had been tricked into purchasing. And metallurgists are baffled, as this name has not appeared anywhere. in mythology nor history. Investigators have even contacted self-proclaimed master alchemists, but have come up dry. Neochromium, it seems, is something of Alicia's own invention. But, Alicia's testimony has not faltered, not one word.

Those who have seen the court videos released by the Missouri State Police and the FBI know the sheer emotion on Alicia's face. While she was grilled by the attorneys of the prosecution, Still, despite the incredulity of Alicia's testimony, it is delivered with an air of truth, and the demeanor in which Alicia has held herself has caused a vocal group of supporters to rally behind her. Now, most of this is your standard Internet chatroom conspiracy, but the discourse is anchored by an indisputable piece of evidence. The video footage.

When Alicia's cousin Dan began to record, he captured the story. the gingerbread people in motion. And, as Alicia states, they were carrying various pieces of weaponry made from candy. And it is true that Brandon's injury and subsequent removal of his jawbone are recorded. That is to say that even video effects experts are baffled, saying that there's no way a poor college student could afford to render the gingerbread men with such clarity or animate their movements with such realistic fluidity. Now, it is true. true that Alicia's grandmother, Roberta, was extremely wealthy, but the budget required to create such effects would be an astronomical burden. And even further, there is absolutely no evidence of

any image or video manipulation software being used by any member of Alicia's family. This presents an awkward situation, right? Where the testimony is ludicrous, but the video evidence is undeniable. The jury has been in deliberation for three months now, and any time the prosecution calls a new witness or expert, get this, it ends up reinforcing Alicia's alibi. But, who's to say? What do you think, cold case chicks? Do you believe Alicia's story? Do you believe that tiny little holiday cookies are capable of slaughtering an entire family, some of which were strong young men. Well, I hope you're waiting for more, because Alicia returned to the interview after she calmed down. And the last piece of evidence, the one we've been saving for last,

is going to shock you. One more sponsored break, and then you'll get to hear the conclusion of Alicia's macabre tale. I can't do much more. Yeah, I know, I know. It's just, after the prosecution, after sitting there in court forced to relive this day again and again and again. It's breaking me. It's breaking me. I guess. Well, I guess it's time to finish this, yeah. One more time.

All right. And you promise. No more of this, unless it's related to the trial? No, no, no. I can do it. I can do it. The world needs to hear my story without the media. a slant. Yes, thank you. Where was I again? All right. Aunt Barbara. Me and Aunt Barbara had

escaped to the living room, and we just looked at each other. The sound coming from the kitchen, the sheer wetness of what we were hearing was, it was indescribable. When the electric turkey carver buzzed on, Aunt Barbara ran out the front door and right into traffic. She, she, didn't make it. The truck was going too fast to stop in the slush. When the turkey carver came on, I knew I had to do something and that they were just fucking cookies, right? I'm an adult. And my family was being murdered by cookies? I kicked open the kitchen door, and the gingerbread cookies all froze. One was wearing Uncle Lester's severed head, asking one of the princess cookies, how's my head game, bitch?

And they laughed this terrible laughter. And then I knew this was all just evil. Not the cookies. They were just like a body for whatever had possessed them. Whatever my cookie cutters had created. And that joke will forever be in my mind. In the moment, it was just awful. Like, the joke was raunchy enough, sure, but

to casually wear my uncles blistered and burned head like that? Something snapped and I grabbed the shovel by the fireplace. You know, the one for shoveling out old ashes or burnt up wood. I took that thing and just started swinging. Crumbs were flying across the kitchen, confectionary limbs sliding across the countertops. I didn't think about it at the time. Not really.

And afterwards it caused me. a great deal of distress. But I used my family's bodies to keep my footing on the slick tile, to keep my feet planted so that I didn't slip, so that I didn't, didn't become, like, well, anyway, once I had finally killed or crippled enough cookies to catch my breath, it's like everything in me fell slack. I dropped the dented and twisted shovel.

and like didn't physically fall to my knees. I was standing on top of grandma after all. And there were candy canes and forks and knives in my calves, not deep enough to cause damage, but deep enough to get stuck. And make me bleed. But inside, like, my spirit fell. And I felt so hollow. The reality of the situation was starting to set in,

and I remember clawing, at my face, hoping it was a nightmare or something. I was looking down at their bodies, both my families and the gingerbread cookies when I noticed movement. The cookies were moving. Crumbs rolled like tumbleweeds across the ruined polyester desert of my family. Some rolling through wet rivulets of blood and staining red. Cookies without legs crawled on their hands. Cookies without upper bodies ran blind. all the pieces converging in the corner behind the island by the bay window out of sight

I grabbed the turkey carver and thanked my lucky stars above it was battery operated and waited and then and then no I'm okay it needs to be said the cookies were

rebaking the room smelled like a bakery but with the coppery bloody tang beneath. And like, it felt hot from that side of the room too. But then there was the smell of cooking meat. And I noticed that some of my family were missing some parts. And then a bloody hand slapped onto the counter. Skin missing in candy jutting from gashes.

Whatever had fallen inside of me stood again. I readied the carver and I charred. Instead of running around the island on the ground, as I suspected it wanted me to, I left, slid across the island, and plunged, burying the turkey carver's screaming blade into the forehead of my grandma. Her face distorted and stretched and melded with cousin David's. Their eyes gone and paled on the candy canes which jutted from the crab-like abomination. It screamed, but it just kept moving, and I realized their... would only be one way to truly end this. I was going to have to eat them.

I pictured the Hallmark Christmas movies. Sheets of cookies baking in a beautiful kitchen. Nutcrackers standing on top of the cabinets. Holly reeds in the windows. Missile toe above the front door. I reached down, crying. Scooped a handful of molten cookie flesh, and I... I stuffed my fucking face.

Well, chicks, this concludes Alicia's testimony. Pretty must-up, yeah? When the police arrived at Alicia's grandma's house, they found Alicia huddled in the corner, drenched in blood and holding the still-wurring turkey carver. She was immediately arrested and brought to the emergency room for a wellness check. Alicia began to vomit. Doctors quickly pumped her stomach and, at the request of detectives on the scene,

seeing as how the corpses had been gnawed at, ordered the contents of Alicia's stomach to be analyzed. Sure enough, the DNA of each and every one of the family members was present in the contents pumped from Alicia's stomach. Further, investigators learned of something even more gruesome, something never mentioned in Alicia's testimony. Inside Alicia's stomach were specific cells, some lung, some liver, some intestine. But most disturbing was the presence of not just brain cells,

but eye cells. Alicia Gardner had eviscerated her own family and then eaten their eyes. We hope you weren't planning to bake cookies this year, chicks, or if you're listening before Christmas dinner at your own family gathering, I hope you keep an eye on the gingerbread. Until next time, this show is brought to you by For our final story this evening,

a man on a dark drive stumbles upon a line of abandoned idling vehicles in the middle of a mountain road, unaware that he's crossing into a realm where some mysteries are better left undiscovered. Creepy presents a little light in the darkness written by Jake Stein and narrated by Cole Burckhart. Morning woke up slowly and the woods were still black when I rattled around in my old Ford. Through the smudged windshield the mountains loomed like the shadows of giants. and my headlights carved yellow circles on the dark road. Only a year ago, a drive like this would have cost me a couple cigarettes.

The craving was creeping up again. I went so far as to open the glove box where I used to keep a crumbled pack of camels. Now, there were only registration papers and an old bit lighter. I pocketed the lighter. Force a habit. Carrying around Ben, I saw, saw distantly a collection of red lights in the darkness, tail lights. They were getting brighter. It was a bunch of stopped vehicles. I rolled forward, barely riding the gas. There they were,

about a dozen cars just idling in the middle of the road, lights on, hadn't bothered to pull over. and a lot of the driver's doors were ajar. At about 20 yards away, I parked and sat for a while, watching the motionless vehicles, hair rising. I turned on the oldies station, and for the length of a 60s ballad, I sat brooding in the humid darkness, breathing the fumes of my Ford.

Nothing happened. There was nobody. in those cars. I tilled my ignition and stepped outside, moving warily toward the closest idling sedan. I called out, hello? No answer. Only insects chirping in the pre-dawn warmth. I arrived at the open door on the driver's side, took stock of the car's interior. Empty. Lights on, keys in the ignition, as if the driver had

suddenly just decided to run off. Why? No sign of a struggle. No sign of anything. I thought about grabbing the keys. Somewhere behind me, and not far away, a small, muffled cough. I turned, standing the darkness, the thick, endless forest. I shouted again,

Hello? The tree line swayed. The wind whistled. And that was all. I checked the sedan's glove compartment. Locked. I thought, what the hell? I ran through a list of possible scenarios in which a person might be forced to abruptly abandon a vehicle. The list wasn't long, and it wasn't pretty. I dug in my pocket for my phone. I'd almost finish dialing 911 before I realized I didn't have reception, not even emergency calls. The breeze felt colder than it had moments ago. I was desperately craving a cigarette now. I stood perfectly still studying that darkness beyond the lights of the cars. Some kind of practical joke? Suddenly, I had the unshakable sensation of being watched. A strong gut feeling, the kind you always trust. Another noise farther out. A quiet noise.

Someone trying to be quiet. My heart pounded. Get back in your car and get out of here. But instead, I crept. towards the darkness. I didn't try calling out anymore. I wrapped my right hand around my keys to reinforce the fist. I was overwhelmingly aware of my life being in danger. But what if someone needed help? I waited into the woods, the morning buzzing in my ears. Leaves rustled with bugs and bigger creatures.

Difficult to tell now if a noise was human. A path. Look for a path. If someone had come here, they would have left a trail through the dense foliage. I followed my own tracks back to the road, then started off in a different direction, searching for evidence of bushwhacking. I gripped my keys tighter.

I almost tripped over a rock. Fear constricted my muscles. There was nothing here to indicate that anyone else had come traipsing through this place. But I headed, deeper into the forest, squinting to pick apart the uneven ground. There, a shoe print? I crouched to inspect the depression in the soil. Hard to tell. I considered a new angle.

How long had the cars been sitting in the room? road. Whatever happened, it might have happened an hour ago. If foul play was afoot, whoever was involved could be miles away. Maybe I was alone. I cried again, loud as I'd ever cried. Hello! And I knew there wouldn't be an answer. There was, however, a light. A red light, in the woods. It appeared, then it was gone. Nothing more than a flash as if someone had flicked a lighter. But I knew I'd seen it. I took out my own lighter and responded, one quick flash. It felt like an eternity that I waited, trembling in the darkness. But the far-off light didn't reappear. I wasn't going to call out again.

I wish I never had in the first place. Ready for anything, or telling myself I was, at least. I tramped in the vague direction of the light, which had appeared. The brief flash, which had not only been a figment of my imagination, no, couldn't have been. I was convinced that if I found the source of the light, somehow it would answer my question, about the cars stopped in the road. And I couldn't quite grasp that I'd lost my mind, that I was caught in some kind of siren song,

until it occurred to me that I was completely lost. The darkness was everywhere and all-consuming. Where was the road? Where had I been driving this morning? Where was I going so early in the morning? Now, I couldn't even remember. And where were my car keys? My throat closed, and I could barely breathe, let alone scream like I wanted to.

Because I realized I must have dropped my keys back when I'd taken out my lighter, or at some point while blindly wandering the woods. And what choice did I have but to keep me. If I ever wanted to see my old Ford again. Everything is okay, I told myself. Soon you'll be able to retrace your steps in the daylight. But the day seemed to have fallen back asleep. I waited, waited,

but the darkness refused to abate only grew thicker. Darkness for too long. yes, much too long. Dawn should have broken by now, certainly by now. How long had I been roaming the woods anyway? The sun should have risen already, bleeding light through the canopy of this world of trees. Instead, I could see nothing,

could only hear insects and my own gasps and groans, could feel things crawling on me. And still, I had the overwhelming feeling of being watched. Watched, perhaps, by someone who could see in the dark, or something. In the far distance, the sound of a car, the clunk of a door being opened and shut. Hello? Someone shouted. Hello?

But I hardly noticed, because I'd just seen the light again. It was already gone, but I'd seen it. I had, and I wasn't going to let it get away this time. I crashed through the undergrowth, smashing into branches and tripping over rocks, refusing to stop even when I tasted blood and felt bruises. Was the light bringing me farther from the road or closer to it? Did the light really just blink again or was that only in my head? Where their lights blinking all around me, had there ever been any light to begin with?

I remembered being in my car. A familiar 60's ballad slid through my mind. The hot summer air, the simple pleasure of driving. But that was a different life. Now I would find the light And I would become the light Echoing again from the dark depths Hello

I didn't respond Except with the flick of my own lighter A swift shudder of flame in the void of night Then I was running again Running from or two, the answer I'd known all along. Mourning never came, and I kept on chasing a little light in the darkness. 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.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.