Creepy - I Bought a Couple of Used Disney Animatronics For My Haunted Attraction...

Episode Date: March 28, 2022

If it sounds too good to be true...***Written by: Kyle Harrison***Bonus episode: "The Grey Lady of Westwick" written by: ShadowsintheLight23 and narrated by: JV Hampton VanSant***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. I bought a couple of used Disney animatronics for my haunted attraction. Written by Kyle Harrison. When I first spotted the listing on Facebook Marketplace, I was sure that it was a scam. Two used animatronics, dismantled, bundled together, for sale, discounted, the header read.

They were a new seller with what looked like a fake account that had been quickly set up. It was actually the picture that tipped me off that they were from Disney attractions. One appeared to be an angled shot of a robot pirate from the Caribbean ride, and the other was look like an older model from one of the presidents from their infamous Liberty Square attraction. I told myself it was too good to be true, but went ahead and shot to sell her a message anyway to let him know I was interested in buying. Their reply came quickly. Hello. Thank you for the interest. These items will be auctioned next Monday at the Storage Unit. Please submit info for your spot at the event. John. That immediately made me reconsider.

I didn't really have the time to waste wandering all the way downtown for a chance of purchasing these things. And I knew that in Oxen like this could probably take hours. Not to mention shipping, handling, and all the other hidden fees that could easily attach. I put in my information, but I wasn't expecting much more to come of it. I was just about to close my laptop and consider the whole thing a lost cause when the seller DM me again. Hey, sorry about that automated message. It's meant to weed out the wishy-washy wannabes. So you think you want these hunks of junk?

Ha ha. I was relieved to be talking to a real person, but still wary, especially the way they talked. Do they have all the parts, including audio recordings? I typed back. Yep. Everything is all here. Just nobody really interested in them. Truth be told, they were going to the auction, but I figured it would be easier to sell them outright to avoid the hassle of having to haul them back here if they don't.

Made sense. I was sure that things probably weighed about 100 pounds each, probably a little more. Since they weren't put together, that just meant extra trips. The auction's Friday. Could I come look at them tomorrow and decide? I asked. That would be perfect. John gave me a few more details, like how to find a storage unit, the pass code to get in,

and recommended I bring a small van to haul them in. Then he took the listing off Facebook, promising he wouldn't sell them to. anyone else. I probably won't be there when you come by to check them out, by the way. Is that okay? I hesitated, thinking maybe this was a scam to try and make me look like I was trespassing or something. The property has cameras, so I know you won't break shit.

I can verify everything financially through PayPal, too, if you make a decision. He added. He drove a hard bargain. So I caved. The storage unit itself was a sore thumb off the main highway. probably owned and operated by a single person by the looks of it. I punched in the code John had given me and the old rickety gates slowly slid open, whining as it did.

Most of the units looked like they were either abandoned or destroyed. Further worrying me that maybe what I was going to buy wasn't as spectacular as I had hoped, and this whole afternoon it had indeed been a waste. The unit in question was wedged on the second aisle right next to a pothole, with a lock hanging off at halfway. I took a breath and lifted it up, expecting to be disappointed. Much to my surprise, though, it looked like the pictures I'd seen online were accurate. Lodged amid the rest of the metallic parts were several different animatronics,

all of which looked like they had just been tossed in here without a second thought. I did a quick check of the parts to make sure everything John had told me was there, and then started to pull them out of the unit and out of my flatbed truck. Not exactly rolling in style, but probably headed to better conditions of being trapped in here for the next 20 years, I figured. The pirate was mostly intact, save for the head and one of the arms, which was exactly what John had warned me about. I think the arm rolled down the slope of the unit, so if you dig you can find it, he had said. Once the bigger parts were on the truck, I did just that. And that was when I saw that there was actually.

a third animatronic in the mix that he hadn't even listed at all. This one looked like it was a much better shape. It was a big, unpainted, and unused male animatronic with no clothes on it that looked like it would probably come off either Tomorrowland or the Main Street because it was in such good condition. The minute I saw its uncolored gray eyes, no hair and weird toothy smile, I knew it would be perfect for the door greeter of my attraction. I moved the rest of the junk aside and pulled the animathe.

I was a monotronic out, carefully placing it on the flatbed and using my rope to tie it down since it was all in one piece, and then try to decide if I even had room for the president robot. Somehow I convinced myself to leave it, figuring that the newer animatronic was a better deal, and since the agreement with John had been for two, I told myself I wasn't stealing. It would all have to go to a scrap heap eventually anyway, so I was really doing him a favor, and he was doing me one too, I decided. Once I was sure the animatronics were snug in the truck bed, I shot down a message. Went ahead and grabbed the bots. Sending payment now, I said as I drove out of the storage unit. On the way to the haunted house, he shot me a message back, thanking me for the buy, the usual friendly closure for any seller, and I turned my phone over and put it on silence

so it wouldn't be distracted while I backed up. My plan was pretty simple. I was going to put the pirate robot in one of the prop walls. So when tourists passed by, the headless thing would pop out, see its lines, and maybe wave its hook hand. The colorless one was a different story, though. It looked so creepy and so lifelike. I knew it had to be near the front door.

Maybe I could get out a wig and paint its eyes blue, tell folks it was my evil twin, and I thought to myself as I put the truck in park and began to haul them inside. I laid the pirate parts out on my kitchen table and immediately spotted the audio box, deciding to tinker with it first after I set up the naked bot in the corner. I took a good look at the machine,

impressed with how well it was made, and noticed a few switches on the back, which I guessed were the motion controls. I switched them all on and off a few times to see if any of them worked, but no dice. Thing didn't even make a whisper. Then I sat down and started to work with the wires. Then my phone buzzed.

It was John. Hey, did you just decide to get the pirate bot? You didn't need to pay me for both if you were only getting one. I put the phone back down, realizing that it wouldn't be long before he found out I had taken the newer model. But did he even know it was there? Maybe. Maybe not.

Sorry, I figured since you went through so much trouble, I would just pay it forward. Thanks again, I responded. Back to work. Or so I thought. My phone buzzed yet again, seconds later. Did you take anything else from the storage unit? Crap. Now I have to explain myself.

But still, I tried to bluff my way out of it. Is something missing? Sorry I forgot to lock it back up. I can pay a little extra if something was stolen. Okay, that should keep him off track for a little bit, I figured. There was a third animatronic. Wasn't meant to be sold. Did you see it?

Double crap. I needed to talk my way out of this. Look, I didn't think it was a big deal. That's why I left the other one. Sorry. But I think this robot's in better shape. Again, I can pay extra if it's worth more. I looked up at the colorless robot,

wondering why I'd been in this storage unit at all if it wasn't for sale. A flurry of text popped up from John. No, that one wasn't meant to leave the premises. Where are you now? I'll come pick it up. Did you turn it on? Don't. And one more that was a little worrisome.

Not safe. The paired voice box finally got to working at the same instant. A blood-curdling cackle filling the room and making me jump a little. Looked at the messages again, both confused and creeped out by John. and I hate to say it, but his last text made me decide to put the naked bot over in my closet out of the way and not staring at me while I worked. Maybe it was because it was getting late, but after that weird conversation, I didn't like the way I was looking at me.

Once I put it up, I kept my focus on the pirate bot, trying not to let John's bizarre messages freak me out. When my phone buzzed again, this time a call, I was sure it was going to be John announcing he'd someone. I'll fall my haunted attraction. Private ID. Nervously, I answered and put it on speaker. Hey, boss, are you okay?

What time do I need to get there for setup tomorrow? Pierre, one of my maintenance men. I was called from some landline. I can't tell you how relieved I was to hear from him. Uh, six is fine. Maybe a little earlier. I got some new bots only to help with, I told him. Sounds cool.

See you then. Click. I rubbed my eyes tiredly and yawned as I checked the time. Way past sleep. Whatever was going on with the other bot at after wait till morning, I told myself. I stood up and admired the pirate bot, pleased with the progress I'd made on it. But what he really needs to make him complete as a prop sword, I thought to myself. Just one more thing.

I walked over to the storage unit and opened it up, rummaging through my equipment, and I'm pausing. Wait, where was that other bot? I took a step back and then saw it was leaning to one side over in the hallway. That's not where I put it. Is it? I sighed, realizing it was too late for me to remember, and I grabbed the prop sword,

trying to not let my half-a-sleep brain get the better of me. I placed a pirate sword in the hand of the bot and took another step back, grabbing my phone off the counter and taking a snapshot of it. As I did, I got a few more worrisome texts from John. If turned on, make sure it doesn't go anywhere. Keep an eye on it until I get there, but not for too long. Shoot me your address in the morning so I can come get it ASAP. Did you leave?

Are you safe? And one more that made me feel uneasy standing there. We'll trick you. Don't listen. Now he had officially creeped me out. I decided to block him. I turned back towards a hallway, looking at the leaning naked bot. Just standing there, it's colorless eyes looking straight into my soul and weird ass teeth gleaming in the dim lights.

Maybe I should just fucking go home, I thought to myself. But then I reconsidered. If this thing was valuable, John might try to break in here and take it. it from me. I decided to go get my small dolly so I could wheel it into my office and lock it in there. And it's not that I was buying into his creepy message as much,

but I kept my eye on the robot for as long as I could until I turned a corner and went downstairs. My traction is a total of three different stories, by the way. The basement being the most popular for obvious reasons and also the most cluttered. pushing aside a few of the prop ghosts and ghouls I found the dolly and started heading for the stairs I was halfway there when I tripped over something on the floor and crashed down

Christ I shouted at the top of my lungs as I rubbed my head from where I'd bumped against one of my old medieval nights then I heard a voice from upstairs hey boss you okay pierre what was he doing here so early I got up and hauled the dolly upstairs answering back. Yeah, I just nearly killed myself, but other than that, I'm fine. As I got back to the main floor, I set the dolly aside and looked around. I didn't see Pierre anywhere. And I didn't see the robot where it had been moments ago earlier. Then I heard his voice again, but it definitely sounded different.

Sounds good. It was coming from the hospital. hallway where the robot had been. Pierre, if this is a prank, I swear to God, I'll fire you. No response. I took a step into the hallway. Pierre, God damn it, you better answer me right now. I'll get you.

What the fuck? I took a step back into the main room, no longer feeling safe. I went over to the pirate bot and reached for the prop sword. Holding it right in front of my body as I moved towards a hallway. The first room on the right was a bathroom, followed by the ticket counter, in the hallway to my office. I stood a few meters away from the bathroom and kicked the door in, keeping the prop sword right at eye level. The door swung open and closed just as rapidly. Empty.

Next was the ticket booth. It had a room for an employee to squeeze in and hide behind a sheet, perfect for scaring little kids as they came in. Not so gray now that I was apparently hunting a haunted animatronic doll. I stuck the edge of the sword into the curtain and gently pulled it aside trying to see anything. It was too dark, so I had to actually physically step into the booth. Nothing. Where the hell was this thing? I cautiously moved down the hallway toward my office, my heart beating out of my chest.

There was a silhouette just in the doorway, and I could see its color. flawless eyes. Except they weren't so lifeless anymore. Now they were bright and sharp blue. I didn't even fucking hesitate. I came toward it, swinging the sword quickly and rapidly as I smashed it back into my office and toward my closet. It spied out some stinky purple blood as it clawed at my face and I shoved it as hard as I could.

It was pushed backward. I felt its cold, lifeless skin touched mine. And I thought for sure it whispered. something just as I crammed it into the closet and slammed the door. Quickly, I slipped my desk over to it and pushed it against the door. I stood back, taking a breath and trying to figure out if I had just gone crazy and attacked a lifeless doll or something entirely else that happened. Then on the other side, I heard scratching.

Hell no. I pushed the desk as far against the door as I could and then reached into my pocket and got my storage keys out. Latching it tight, I took a step back to see if it was. would hold. I jump back a few feet. Nope. Time to get out of here. This morning, I've had a chance to compose myself, have a little coffee, and jot down as much detail about the incident. I don't know. I guess I could file a police report or something. After I left last night, I told myself it was all a strange

fever dream. Walking into the haunt, I heard the soft sound of footsteps and stood still. Pierre? That you? I shouted out. He popped his head around the corner and waved. Hey, boss. You okay? My entire body relaxed and I walked down the hallway.

Better now that I've seen you, I said. I whipped out my phone and decided to unblock John, and Pierre swept up. You need to come pick the stem up. I messaged as I opened my office door. On the floor, it's how bits of the strange blood the thing that spewed out on me scattered across the closet. The closet that was now open, it got out, I thought. Pierre, did you go in there? I asked, cautiously stepping towards it.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. Some guy showed up and said he was going to take care of whatever was in there. He shouted from the other hall as I crept the door open. I saw what little was left of the bot, mangled and destroyed. Oh, hell no. That's not good enough. I sat and decided to call John. It rang a few times as I paced the room.

I've been trying to contact you, he said. Same in the speech and just come get the rest of your shit. I snapped. I will as soon as you give me your address. John shot back. I clenched the phone hard and froze in place. What? I thought you came by this morning.

My eyes darted down the hallway. I didn't see Pierre anywhere. I heard John take a breath. Give me your address. Then I heard a voice from behind me. Hey boss. You okay? For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents.

The Grey Lady of Westwick. Written by Shadows in the Light. 23, and narrated by J.V. Hempon-V. Van Sant. John Watkins warmed himself by the fire crackling in the grate. Orange embers scuttled over the logs, clutched at the brick, stole away like a timid lover. He listened to the low hum of the men talking. It was soothing to hear the murmuring in the low-lit drawing, as gentle laughter and the clink of ice against whiskey tumblers lulled him into calm. John looked at his own glass, swirling the last of the murky liquid round the base. His vision blurred a little as he watched it ripple. He was drunk. And yet,

he'd promised Sarah he wouldn't get drunk tonight. Not again. She loathed his late nights out here in his countryside retreat. When he'd come home stinking of spirits, climb under the covers and tug at her sleeping form, seizing bunches of her nightdress in his hand. Sometimes she would wake, but more often she would stay asleep,

unconsciously brushing away his advances, the way she brushed crumbs from the way she brushed crumbs from the, kitchen floor. Perhaps she thought he was having an affair. Maybe she was suspect of his late nights, his heavy drinking, his aloofness. How he wished he could take her here and prove it to her that he wasn't. He wouldn't be surprised if she followed him sometimes, gotten her little Ford Fiesta and tailed him across the coiling country roads, through the thick wood, up to the clubhouse. It wouldn't shock him at all to turn around

and see her peeping in at the dark window. Her little elfin face screwed up with the passionate concentration it requires to catch out one's spouse. She'd done it before, after all, followed him to his office after hours. That time, though, he really had been screwing around, literally. He supposed, standing in solitude by the fireplace, that she was right to be suspicious.

After all, he did cheat on her, lots of times. But these days he hired women, none of the ones worth having looked twice at him now, with his folding skin and a pouch of a stomach. Far easier to hire someone for the night. That way, you got exactly what you paid for. But still, he did not cheat when he came here. No women allowed. That was the only rule.

Anything else goes. You must be joking, man. We can't really be having this conversation. Regan Hinchcliffe's voice trailing above the others, as usual, bouncing off the walls like a tennis ball. Regan was younger than most of them there in his mid-30s, a tall man with striking angular features, which more often than not were twisted into a look of,

derision. He was always exquisitely dressed, and his voice had a way of carrying through buildings. He was a lone shark of some description, but a semi-respectable one in an office. John did not particularly care for him. He was splayed out on a sofa facing away from the fireplace, and John could only see a large blonde head and arms gesticulating wildly. I am most certainly not joking. The reply was uttered by Alan Mitchell, a quiet man with beady eyes and glasses, not usually the center of controversy, who owned a successful agricultural business in the Northeast.

Well, then. I think you're a fool. Hinchcliff swigged his drink, signaling that this was the end. Mitchell blinked his beady eyes, clearly debating the merits of defending himself against such a character. Watkins! Hinchcliff suddenly turned 360 to face John, bringing in the cavalry. His face was rosy with the warmth of whiskey. Come and have a seat. You look like you're enjoying yourself far too much over there.

John didn't much want to, but acquiesced nonetheless, for, if he didn't, Regan would almost certainly come and stand beside him instead. Sitting with him was Noah Simmons in an armchair, a grave elderly man who'd been in the club before most of them were born. His eyes shut, such was his engagement in the conversation, and Maximilian Nichols, an academic from Oxford, who came out to the country on weekends to get extremely drunk and illuminate his companions on topics of which they knew nothing,

and he knew everything. Opposite them was Mitchell in a love seat, earnestly blinking his beady eyes. John noticed a lot of the other men had moved away from this little crowd and had formed pockets in the darker corners of the room, avoiding the company of the eccentrics. He sighed, listening longingly to far-off sounds of a pool table

and roars of laughter taunting him from another room. I'm surprised that you, of all people, would be so quick to dismiss such a phenomenon, Hinchcliff. Mitchell said in a low voice. Regan turned his sharp nose toward the armchair. They had returned to a subject he had wordlessly already put to bed, and he was incapable of hiding the fact that it irked him. Me of all people, he asked. Why?

Considering the legend and considering your past history, My past history. A shadow passed over Regan Hinchcliff's face. John's curiosity, despite itself, was piqued. May I ask, gentlemen, what you are actually talking about? All the heads flashed towards him. Mitchell and Hinchcliff were glaring at each other, so Maximilian Nichols nobly took it upon himself to fill him in.

They're talking about the Grey Lady of Westwick. Who? The Grey Lady of Westwick. It's a local legend. Who is that? Maximilian puffed himself out like a blowfish, the way he always did when he was about to enlighten the rest of the room with a nugget of stimulating information.

Local legend around here states that if you drive down the Forest Road after midnight, then you might see the Grey Lady of Westwick. She is, according to folklore, a witch who seeks vengeance on men. In the versions I've heard, she's a vampire, chimed in Mitchell, until Nichols shot. him a look that silenced him. And, continued Nichols,

she only seeks vengeance on men who have wronged women. Wronged women? Yes, you know, wife beaters, serial killers, adulterers, that sort of thing. You can't seriously lump in adulterers with serial killers?

Regan protested. I wasn't. Nichols continued. She does. She's said to have no preference. What a load of complete and utter bullocks, said Regan. And I'm surprised at you two for believing in it. I don't believe in it, Nichols disputed. I'm just interested in local folklore.

It's been a story since the 1600s when a man who'd killed three women in the area was allegedly set upon by the Grey Lady as he walked down the forest road. He lived to tell the tale, and in doing so, was scared so thoroughly that he confessed, to his crimes.

But very few afterwards have survived an encounter. So how do you know if you come across this supposed gray lady? Asked John, intrigued despite himself. He'd driven through the Forest Road a thousand times after nights at the club. He'd never heard any talk of a gray lady. yet in this ancient dark room with the fire burning in the grate he couldn't help but be absorbed by the ridiculous story well mitchell and i have obviously heard different accounts but she is said to take many forms think of mermaids luring sailors to their death She has a magical allure which entices men to her.

But you'll know it's her because, obviously, she'll be wearing grey. And in every tale I've heard, her teeth are yellow and rotting. Why? Because once she's killed her victims, she feasts on them. There was a silence for a minute. Then Regan burst out laughing. And you really believe this, Mitchell? He asked between Gaffa's.

You really believe that down the forest road, that verdant area where I'd take my family for Sunday hikes? You really believe that there lurks an immortal... cannibal vampire intent on seeking revenge on those of us that might occasionally look twice at our secretaries? His laughter was uncontrollable now. It seeped into the crevices of the room. John found himself smirking a little. I didn't say I believed it exactly, but Joseph Wickham went missing three weeks ago, and his phone was found in a ditch on the side of the road. Nothing else of his has been found, not even his car. John furrowed his brow. He remembered Joseph Wickham, a greasy fellow who looked like a car salesman,

who rarely came to gatherings at the club. John had never spoken with him. John Wickham's missing? John asked. Yes, he was here three weekends ago, said Mitchell. He stayed Friday and Saturday night, and he went back late Sunday evening as he had an early morning meeting. We'd been drinking all day, so he didn't get to leave until after midnight. A few days later, I got a call from the police.

His wife says he never made it home. After an extensive search, all they found was his phone in a ditch and nothing else. Joseph Wickham's disappearance is not a mystery. Regan declared topping up his glass. In the process, he topped up John's as well. He knew he was drunk enough, but he didn't protest. He's been shagging his PA for three years now. And he's a confessed gambling addict with a shedload of debt.

Christ, is there anyone here he hasn't asked for money? It's pretty clear that he wanted to disappear before his wife found out about the PA, or before either of them discovered that he couldn't afford to buy them tiff. any bracelets anymore. Case closed. Wickem would never have disappeared voluntarily. Mitchell insisted. He was working on his gambling problem, going to meetings. He wasn't financially destitute, not in the least. So, logically, your only assumption is that he was murdered by the Grey Lady of Westwick. No, but I'd say there's more to this than any of us realize.

Wickham loved his wife. He adored his little boy. He wouldn't choose to disappear. Laugh all you want, Hinchcliff. There's something suspicious about his disappearance. A silence descends over the group. Nobody was really sure what to say. And so, in his usual Frank manner, Regan started a new topic of conversation about a new experimental restaurant opening in London where diners were blindfolded and subjected to an unknown taste test.

The Grey Lady, and the disappearance of Mitchell's friend, were swiftly forgotten about, as other men drifted into the circle to debate the merits of such a restaurant. John found himself contributing, but couldn't help glancing at Mitchell every now and then. He said nothing, staring forlornly at the fire, maybe wondering why. In this camaraderie of brothers, no one seemed to care about the whereabouts of his friend. Perhaps by extension nobody would care if half the club went missing. It was a secretive place, and the men rarely admitted to their membership out in the public sphere. If they came across each other in a work setting, they would nod, perhaps even smile.

But to acknowledge each other in a friendly way was unheard of. In a way, it made sense that nobody cared about Mitchell's pal. It happened outside these walls, in another world entirely, to that of the devil-may-care, cigar-smoking, booze-quaffing debauchery of the club. John decided not to be concerned with it any longer. What was the man to him, after all? Eventually, the evening began to draw to a close. One by one, the men yawned, rose from the sleepy fireside, stretched their limbs, and disappeared into the shadows.

Most were staying the night, and John began to wish he had secured a room. Usually, he preferred to go home and sleep in his own bed. He was one of the lucky members who only lived a few miles away. But tonight, he felt compelled by the fire, enticed by the dancing flames in the grate. It was warm here, a four-poster bed away from his wife seemed just the ticket. But the house was booked full, and he sighed. He would have to brave the roads. By midnight, the only men left in the drawing room were John, Hinchcliff, Mitchell, and Noah Simmons,

who seemed to have spent most of the night drifting in and out of consciousness. Regan was holding court, but as the embers started to dim, and even John's eyes, began to flicker. Hintcliffe seemed to sense there was more fun to be had elsewhere and made a move to leave. I'm heading up, all, he said, he glanced at Noah Simmons dozing. Should we wake him? Best not, said John. He hates to be stirred. I do hope you and I are past our quarrel. Hinchcliff patted Mitchell on the shoulder. Of course, Mitchell replied. Hinchcliff seemed to be reassured this was the case, and went off merrily to bed.

But any other man would realize he wasn't being sincere. I'm sorry about your friend, old chap. John offered his condolences to Mitchell. It was only polite after all, even if he wasn't. Mitchell turned to him suddenly, looking rather desperate. You believe me, don't you? He said, staring at John with a fierce intensity, John was only used to seeing in his wife.

I know there's a part of you that believes me. You didn't deride me like the others did. I know you do. Mitchell, I know you're upset, but we can't do anything about your friend. I know you believe in me, John. She's out there. She's out there waiting. Wickham's death was foul play. I know it was. He was my friend, and nobody cares what happened to him. Wickham's been murdered. As he uttered murdered,

almost shrieking at this point, Noah Simmons was jolted from his slumber. He coughed, blinked two sleepy eyes, wiped a spot of dribble from his chin. Mitchell was breathless, his face scarlet. John had no idea what to say. Are we the only survivor? Simmons observed the empty room.

I believe we are, John said, levely. Mitchell was staring at his hands. Well, good for us, Simmons said. Anybody care for a game of cards? John left the two of them to it, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. He'd always hated rash displays of sentiment. To show any sort of emotion was in John's book a terrible weakness. He understood Mitchell's concern, but for God's sake,

the man had only been gone three weeks. From the sounds of it, he was a shady character, too. Whatever his friend wanted to think, there was simple evidence to make the case for a voluntary disappearance. John found his car in the grounds, smoothing his suit as he slid onto the cold leather, slickly switching on the ignition, and feeling it purr into existence.

Maybe he should have refused Regan's replenishments of whiskey. He wasn't fit to drive, really. But it was very late, and tomorrow Sarah's parents were coming in for brunch. God help him. So he needed to get back and spend a decent night in his own bed. As he set off down the drive in the cold night air, he wondered idly if he could entice his wife into making love to him when he got back. Somehow this was doubtful.

Sarah barricaded herself at night, literally and mentally, often insisting their young son slept in with them, or putting up a wall of pillows as she complained he rolled into her. And John was usually left either unsatisfied or forced to go down to the computer, furtively huddled over pixels at 11 o'clock at night. after she discovered his affair a couple years back, things went from bad to worse, instead of addressing their biggest issue, Why do you think I've gone to someone else? He bellowed at her in a row.

I have to get it somewhere. She'd shut herself up even further, almost closing off that part of their life complete. That's why it was easier to hire companions. Sex was something which John felt he could deal with efficiently and without any interference from his spouse. Wives, at this stage in his life, were there more in a nursing or maid-like capacity. Desire had become entirely irrelevant. He considered this revelation as he drove out of Westwick Village and was embraced by the thick foliage.

It was late autumn starting to grow cold, and the bones of the trees look spindly and old as the ground claimed their flesh. The road, in comparison, seemed overstead. Uffed. Armies of leaves marched along with the car, dancing like flappers in front of John's headlights. John loved the Forest Road at this time of night. It was deserted, and he could think. He usually turned the radio off, so it was just him and the dark of the lane, cruising, round the twists and turns as though he were on a racetrack. That was when he saw her. The shock of it, at first, nearly made him skid off the road.

But then he realized how foolish he was for letting his friend's fancies take hold of him. She was just a girl. shivering beside a battered mini cooper on the side of the road, she seemed in the glow of John's lights to be little more than 17 or 18. She was huddled in a large mustard coat, a scarf wound her so thick that her chin dissolved into it. Her eyes were big ovals. John was reminded of,

the expression deer caught in the headlights, and her black hair was cropped short in a pixie cut. She looked fearful, but she was waving him down nonetheless. Excuse me? She waved a thin arm like a conductor. John was struck again by how young she looked. Could you help me? He parked his car.

in front of hers and wound down his window. Are you okay? He asked. My car's broken down. Her eyes filled with tears as John climbed out of the car, feeling a little like a predator encroaching on its lunch. You poor thing. Do you want me to have a look at it?

It's completely dead. Her accent was soft with a local lilt. The words oozed from big bow lips. John felt a mad urge to reach out and touch them. Have you rung anyone for help? He was hovering by his own car, not trusting himself to go any further. My phone is dead, too. Tears spilled from her eyes down her cheeks.

Oh, look, don't be upset. Where do you need to go? Do you live around here? Yes, well, sort of. About 20 minutes away, near Highbury? Well, that's a perfect coincidence. I myself live five minutes from Highbury. At this she glowed, smiling for the first time. Oh, wow, really? Is there any chance? I know this is really cheeky. Is there any chance I could snag a lift? Of course.

How about you leave your car here, and you can come and pick it up in the morning? Do you live with anyone who might be able to give you a lift here tomorrow? He was hinting to see if she had a boyfriend. I live in a house share, so, yeah, I'm sure one of my roommates could take me. So, no-liven boyfriend then, and a house share suggested she was older than she looked. All good news. Well, I'm happy to take you, he said. Thank you very much.

She stepped towards him. John stepped back instinctively. I'm Mona, by the way. Adam, King. Best to give a fake name, King implied power. Adam had strong biblical connotations. John had done this before.

Nice to meet you, Adam. As she slid into the passenger seat next to him, John caught the smell of sweet peas, her perfume. He wondered, if she had ever been schooled on stranger danger. She didn't seem to be at all phased at the prospect of hitching a lift with a man she'd never met on a dark country road. Still, John reasoned, there was no need for her to be afraid of him, was there?

They set off down the track, and John switched on the radio. classic FM. Tinkling notes of a nocturn drifted into the dark of the car. So, where are you from? He asked her. Lived around here all my life, she said. She was smiling at him. He could see her in the mirror.

I've been out visiting a friend at Westwick, and I stayed a little bit longer than I intended to. Why was that? Who was her friend? Oh, she's just a bit upset because she's been dumped. I told her that single life is by far the better option. She seemed to cheer up then. It was like she was spoon-feeding him the information he wanted.

Do you mind if I smoke? She asked. Of course not. He did mind, rather. This was a brand new car, but he rolled down her window, and she courteously lent out of it, rings of smoke curling into the darkness.

The trees bowed over them as they passed. John felt invincible, from the cold air, the pretty girl, the glow of alcohol. He felt too invincible. He moved his hand to her thigh. He hardly realized it himself until it happened. His hand was resting calmly on her leg. Yet she did not flinch.

Another good sign. You know, John said, pushing himself. further. We could always stop for a bit, if you wanted. There are some nice walks around here. That sounds lovely, she said. John was astonished. He had not expected that. The last girl he'd propositioned like this, a young sales assistant on the floor below his, had threatened him with a restraining order. This was wonderful news. Do you know these roads well, Mona? He asked. His hand was still on her bony thigh, peeling into the flesh. She was wearing tights, like a schoolgirl. Oh, yes, I've been down these roads hundreds of times. Well, it will be

nice to have a bit of a stroll in the night air. She nodded. It's a bit hot in here, Adam, she said. Do you mind if I take my jacket off? Christ, it got better and better. The window was down. It certainly wasn't hot. Absolutely.

He tried not to sound too delighted as she peeled off. her scarf and shimmied out of her heavy coat. Underneath was the curve of her perky breasts, covered by the wool of a dress that clung to her slim frame like cling film. I like your dress, John said. Thank you. We'll stop in a minute. He wanted to find the right place.

somewhere dark and secluded. Yet, something was stopping him from pulling over the car. Something was niggling at him. He couldn't work out what it was. So, Adam, the girl said, winding up the window. Are you married? He couldn't very well lie. He'd been an arse and forgotten to remember.

move his wedding ring. Yes, he said. But it's an unhappy marriage, I'm afraid. We barely communicate. I'm sorry to hear that. I'm not that sorry. My wife and I, we don't have the kind of relationship we used to.

So when I meet a pretty girl, I'm afraid I get a bit over-excited? She was smiling again, coquettishly. Yet there was something off about her. John couldn't think about what. A minute ago, he had been looking for a secluded spot to have his way with her. Now he felt uneasy.

It was that stupid story Maximilian had. told him. Absurd. An old hag who spends her time luring men into a trap. How ridiculous! Had he said the Grey Lady of Westwick was an old hag? Suddenly, John felt queasy. He could feel the warmth of the girl next to him. Was she stroking his leg? He looked down. Yes. This sort of thing didn't happen. It didn't happen. It was all too easy. Was it? He thought of Sarah, waiting for him back home. He liked to pursue women. Of course he did. But half the time they weren't interested in pursuing him back. He always went for the younger ones, the pretty ones, the ones who wouldn't have him. Surely a man could be forgiven.

Surely, surely nothing could be out there waiting for him. Seeking vengeance. He glanced across at Mona. She was a tiny thing. Just a slip of a girl. Pull yourself together, man. Stop being so. ridiculous. When shall we stop? She asked brightly. She licked her lips. John was torn between

his desire to touch her and his desire to get out of the woods and away from his thoughts. Are you sure you want to stop? Her face fell a little. I thought you did. She had a straight,

shaking, heart-shaped face. Desire won out. John pulled the car over, shaking off his silly imaginings. He turned to her. Her face was white in the glow of the moon. She was as flawless as a painting. "'You're very beautiful, you know,' he said. "'Thank you.' The compliment took her off guard. Instead of smiling with clothes lips as she had been, she smiled properly, showing a row of pearly teeth. But, no, her teeth were not pearly. They were yellow and crooked. Almost like the teeth of Jesus Christ. What? What is it?

and suddenly, having been so blinded by her beauty, he noticed the color of her dress. It was gray. There, in that shady spot under the trees, the true nature of the woman opposite him dawned on John Watkins. You're her, aren't you? His voice quivered in terror. You're the gray lady. You're the witch. I don't know what you mean, John. The awful teeth glinted at him.

He hadn't told her his name was John. I'm getting out of here. He turned the handle of his car. But then she was on him faster than a cat, faster than a bullet out of a gun. You're going nowhere. She hissed in his ear. In her hand, John realized, with horror,

with the glint of a kitchen knife. It was all too quick, quicker than a flame catching a light. He didn't even get the chance to scream. She came to meet her down a lonely train. just as the clock in her car struck 3 a.m. Is it done? The girl was leaning up against a style, smoking. Yes. Do you want to see the body?

No. The woman shivered. It was terribly cold now. Do you have the rest of the money? The girl asked business as you use. Her voice was thicker than when the woman had last met her. Yes, of course. The woman handed over the next installment of cash.

She'd put it in a sack, her son's trick-or-treating bag, like a robber. She still couldn't believe any of this was real. Did he... Did he suffer? She wanted to know, yet she didn't. Do you care? Of course. The girl sighed, hopping off the style.

Far away, in another place, a wolf howled at the moon. What was it he did again? I lose track. A fair, was it? Yes, at first. Then it was prostitutes, lots of them. He had a whole other bank account. She felt tears prick. Hot like fire.

She forced them away. He tried it with me. The woman's heart thudded. She wasn't surprised. She hired the girl in that mind, of course, knowing from his search history that he liked the younger ones. But still, it ached to be told that in his final minutes he was yet again betraying his marriage vows. Do you really care if he suffered?

The girl repeated the question. The woman considered this. No. No, I suppose I don't. The girl pulled out another cigarette. The golden light was so. startling in the dark lane. Smoking will kill you, you know.

Oh, I know. It's wrecked my teeth. Dentist nightmare. She flasked a set of yellow tombstones at the woman. I'm getting dentures soon. She blew smoke into the air. It really was very late. So, if...

That will be all. I'll get my team to dispose of it. Of what? The body? Right. Yes, of course. Thank you. Good riddance to him, I say.

He was a piece of shit. Don't you shed a tear over him. With that platitude, the two parted ways, like the dispersing of a cup. The woman walked back to her car feeling... Feeling what exactly? Guilt? No.

He'd had it coming. He'd had it coming for a very long time. She turned back and watched the girl's gray form disappearing into the blackness, already on her phone. Probably making plans for someone to... to collect John's body and do whatever they needed to do with it. No, Sarah Watkins realized as she walked back to her car on the Forest Road. I do not feel guilty.

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