Creepy - I Found it in a Field & Wet Feet

Episode Date: December 28, 2023

I Found it in a Field***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Wet Feet***Written by: J.M. Plumbley and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. I found it in a field,

written by known of consequence, and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. Nature is home to many a splendor thing. You never know what you're going to come across walking through the woods, even if you've been to the same place a thousand times. Most of the time, it'll probably be the same thing, but every once in a while you see something new.

I've been to this park more times than I can remember. So many that I don't need a trail map anymore. I wouldn't go so far as to say I could make it through here in the dark, but in the day, I have no problems. Admittedly, I have contemplated the idea of coming out here at night, but the park closes at sundown, and I don't want to risk getting arrested for trespass. I've lived in the same house for nearly 20 years, but I've been in the same area pretty much

my whole life. This was the first park my parents took me to when I was a toddler. I've had a few birthday parties under one of those pavilions. During high school, a bunch of friends and I came out here and had an elaborate game of capture the flag in these woods. This place has had a major impact on my life. I don't live downtown, but I'm not on the outskirts of the city either. It's more the outlying areas that are primarily home to suburbia than anything else. There are small parks here and there with playground equipment and walking trails, but this isn't your run-of-the-mill park. L.H. Heim Park has the typical park equipment for kids,

and some barbecue pits, pavilions, and restroom facilities. But that only makes up for a small part of the park. There's about a hundred-plus acres of wilderness with trails, a dry riverbed, and one outlook point with a third. 50-foot drop-off. It's surrounded by neighborhoods and businesses, but this one patch has been preserved from modern developments. It's a nice place. Not necessarily to unplug because there's decent cell service, but you can appreciate nature out here. Now that autumn is here, the leaves are

changing colors and nature is getting ready for winter. It's one of the few places around here where you can actually get away from the sounds of traffic and people. Sure, I pass others on the trail, but for long stretches, I get some isolation. The dry riverbed is quite a marvel. I like to go down there and walk where there used to be water. There are smooth stones and exposed rock that would otherwise be covered with dirt. There's one spot, probably where the river had been at its deepest, that people refer to as the rock formation. It's a drop of about 10 feet and creates a half circle before it levels out. In the center is a V-shaped pattern cut into the stone by water that hasn't flowed in about

a thousand years. I haven't measured, but the slope is probably around 30 degrees, and perfect for lying on. I've taken naps out here on that thing. If you're really quiet and open your mind to the majesty of this place, you can hear the sounds of trickling water echoing through the ages. A few hundred yards to the east is a thicket of trees, so dense most people can't pass through. There aren't any trails leading into it, so most won't travel that way. But I'm not most people.

On the other side is a field of tall grass, only half the size of a football field. But it's the least disturbed spot in the entire park. I like to lay in that field and stare up at the clouds for hours on end. Typically, I only come to Hime Park when I don't have a lot. anything else planned for the day. Today I decide to bypass the rock formation because there's some people already there, and I come out here to get away from people. I managed to make it into the thicket without being seen, and make as little noise as possible. It's not hard because that bunch of teenagers are being loud enough as it is. Part of me wants to be irritated with them, but I did the same thing

when I was their age. I finally come out of the trees, but the field isn't as empty as it normally is. There aren't any people there, but there's something in the field. It stands at least six feet tall, an odd sort of monolith in the middle of the clearing. It's an old door, the kind that looks like it would be right at home off the kitchen of an old farmhouse. Of course, that would only be the case if that house rotted away over time. There was never a building here. Yet, this wants me to believe it's been here for a century. High school and college students come to Heim Park all the time. People are always riding the trails on bikes with those small cameras on their helmets.

On multiple occasions, I've seen people with cameras using the park for photo shoots, of one kind or another. There's even been a few times where students were filming a short movie for a class project. I wouldn't put it past a college student to put something like this out here for photography or an art assignment. but there's no one here as far as I can tell, and I look around. I walk closer to the monolith to get a better look, all the while keeping my eyes open for anyone coming into the field.

The wood is very old, covered in moss and stinking of decay. If someone made this thing to look like this, they did a damn good job. But I have no idea how it was done. Aside from using materials that were already old and rotted, I have no clue how to fake that smell. Or why anyone would bother, for that matter. Unless this is a showpiece.

No one that sees a picture or watches footage of it could possibly smell that musky, earthy rot. The windows are dirty and hard to see through, but I can make out the curtains on the other side. Fabric is old with a floral pattern, but the colors are so faded. that I can't say what kind of flowers they're supposed to be. The knob had been polished brass at one point, but, like the rest of this disembodied door and frame,

time had faded the polish with scratches and dirt. There is absolutely no way this thing had been here for a century like it looks. All the times I've come out here, there's never been anything man-made in this field. And it's too big for me to say I've missed it. The damn thing is the only thing in the field taller than the waist-hide grass aside from me. I reach out a hand to touch it,

for a brief moment wondering if I'm seeing things, but it's as solid as it looks. At most, I thought it was made of cardboard or something lightweight that could be easily carried through the trees. Giving it a little push, it doesn't budge. Then I give it a harder push, but get the same results. Well, aside from some moss coming off on my hands, As far as I can tell, this thing is solidly planted on the ground, almost like it's rooted to the spot.

How in the world did someone get this thing in here? It's way too heavy to carry in, especially with the dense trees surrounding the field. You sure as hell can't drive a truck this far into the park. And even if you could, there would be some kind of unmistakable trail leading to this point. The thought makes me realize something I previously missed. With a grassy field like this, even walking through it once will show evidence that something has been through there. It's a light kind of trail, a slight parting of the grass that you can see if you know what to look for. I hadn't seen any such disturbance leading up to the door from the way I came.

Behind me is my own trail, and looking around the back of the door, the grass looks completely undisturbed. I'd believe the trail of a person or two coming through here would disappear after a few hours, if the winds are good. However, even carrying this thing in here would leave a more definitive trail. Yet the only indication that anyone's been in this field, in the last week, is my trail. And the winds aren't strong enough to erase that from the grass. Come to think of it, I was here last week, too. Now, granted, I spent a lot of that time at the rock formation, but I still came in here. I hadn't stayed all that long in the field. But I was here long. But I was here long. long enough to know that this door hadn't been here. So really, what gives? As I'm examining the

door, it occurs to me that this thing seems a little darker around it. Not like night is coming on earlier than it should, but almost like the door in the surrounding area is cast in shadow. Looking up at the sky, I see a few clouds, but none between me and the sun. So why do things look darker when I'm right next to it. Taking a few steps back, I see the world brighten back up. The door itself is well lit, but still slightly imposing. Taking a step towards it, things at the edge of my vision begin to shade again. I do this a few times, and every time I get closer to the door, the more shadow there is at the

edge of things. I really don't know what to make of this. There is no reason for this door to be here, nor a clear indignant. occasion as to how it got here. Unless it was dropped in from the sky, but now I'm just talking crazy. Then something jarring happens. There's a knock at the door. The knock is so loud and unexpected that I jump back like five freaking feet. I'm far enough away that the shadows have chased back again. Quickly I run around the door to see who just scared the crap out of me. But there's no one there. Looking around again, I don't see any of the shadows. I don't see any of the

anyone running away or crouching in the grass. I am completely alone with this creepy door. I get in close to the door on the back side and look for anything that could have made a knock. But there's nothing here that could have done it. The only difference between this side and the other is the curtain is on this side. And so are the hinges.

I guess that means the door opens this way. As I'm inspecting the frame for speakers or anything that would account for the noise, the knocking comes in. again. What really freaks me out is that I swear the knocking came from this side of the door. The only problem with that is, I didn't knock, and I'm not seeing a damn thing that would account for the noise. Once again, I run around to the other side, but there's no one to catch in the act. This is like the most bizarre game of ding-dong ditch. I may not be all that fast when it comes to running,

but I'm not that damn slow either. This is starting to go from freaking me out to pissing me off. I hate not understanding things, and this has me quite flummoxed. I'm just about to turn the hell around and leave this stupid thing alone, but there's a third knock. This one is even harder and louder than the two previous ones. It's so damn hard that the door in its frame shake from the impact. Even if there was some kind of contraption on this thing creating the knocks, there's no way it would be strong enough to make the door rock back and forth. I pushed on that thing hard and couldn't get it to budge. Unsure of what to do, I step up to the door and reach a handout.

The knob is right there, and I don't see any kind of lock. Still, I'm not about to open the door. I was taught better than to open doors for strangers. In situations don't get much stranger than this. Instead of opening the door or calling out who's there, my knuckles wrap on the glass three solid times. It sounds lighter and higher pitch than what I heard before, meaning whoever knocked was hitting the wood and not the glass. In response, there are three more quick knocks,

but this is more like a pounding than what I did. Something brushes against the curtains, and I dart my head around the frame. There was no wind to move it. And of course, there's nothing on that side to disturb it. What the hell made the curtain move? Back on this side, I see a tiny sliver of space between the curtains.

Getting right up to it, I strained to see through the dirt and grime, not expecting to actually see anything more than a field beyond. Though, things look awfully dark through the glass. The harder I try to see the darker things get. At first I start to think there's something black pressed against the glass. But when I looked at it earlier, there'd been nothing between the glass and curtains. Usually when someone does something this strange, there's a point to it. As far as I can tell, there's no point to this.

Not unless there are hidden cameras all over the place filming my reactions for some dumb-ass reality show. Something starts beating at the door, and hard enough that it shakes the frame. The knob twists and turns like someone's trying to open it from the other side. I don't bother looking to see that no one's there, but keep my eyes on the gap in the curtains. There's clearly movement. But the damn curtains aren't see-through enough for me to see more than that. Move the curtain so I can see you, damn it! I grumbled at the door.

The last thing I expected was for someone to hear me. The curtains are pushed aside, and I see the image of a person on the other side. Not a still frame, but there's an actual person behind the door. I do poke my head around the frame this time. But there's no one there. Is the window actually a monitor, and I'm being pranked? That would actually be the best case scenario. I move the curtains out of the way and palm the glass.

There's no monitor anything on this side. All I feel under my hand is old, hard glass that desperately needs some window cleaner. Returning to the oddity, I look closer at the individual on the other side that's clearly not really there. For the life of me, I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. I know I've never seen clothes like that worn in this century. Maybe a hundred or so years ago, but not now. There's a lot of long, dark hair, but the person is moving so frantically. I can't see much in the way of details other than deathly pale skin.

Whoever or whatever that person is. They seem to finally see me. Those eyes lock on to mine. And for once I get a sense of detail. People don't have black eyes unless their pupils are so dilated that they're practically saucers. This isn't like that because there's no white in those eyes at all. It almost looks like the person doesn't have lips either, but it clearly has a mouth. I don't see any teeth as it opens and closes, but there's a muffled voice coming through the door.

It sounds like they're shouting. but the distortion is so bad that the volume isn't coming through. For that matter, I doubt those words are in English. There are certain gestures that are universal and can break language barriers. I see a few of them through the door's window. Hands clasped together in a pleading motion. Frantic glances backward at something getting closer. Then, of course, there's the occasional fumbling at the doorknob.

After another failed attempt to get it open, they try to get me to open the door for them. I instinctively reach for the knob, but a thought occurs to me. I've been trying to find any proof that this is some elaborate ruse, but there's been no evidence to support that. This person is clearly in distress.

But if I open the door, there is no telling what may come through. For all I know, this is some kind of psychotic murderer trying to get away from an angry lynch mob. Wait, am I actually contemplating, this being a door to another world? Am I, a rational, sane human being

actually thinking that this isn't some kind of trick? There's no such thing as magic monsters and parallel worlds. This is nothing more than a stupid prank trying to get a cheap laugh at a stranger's expense. Well, screw you asshole. I'm not falling for it. With that in mind, I reach out for the doorknob and turn it.

I was right about the door. not being a lock. I was wrong about absolutely everything else. The stranger comes flying through the door running right into me. We both go tumbling to the ground. I push the heavy body off of me and look back at the door. Unbelieving that just happened. Looking through the door, I'm not seeing the field beyond bathed in sunlight. What I see is a dark space that looks like a field but at night. There are bodies at the edge of the field, and I pay. pick up on orange glows. Holy shit.

That actually is a lynch mob. There are dozens of people with torches and pitchforks rushing at the door. At least I think they're carrying pitchforks. My mind may be filling that part in. I don't even get to my feet. I scramble for the door on my hands and knees reaching up and grasp the knob, yanking it back toward me. I slam the door shut long before the first of them can reach it.

My eyes are glued to the window as they pound away at it trying to come through out of rage instead of desperation. Their faces are distorted with such anger, the likes of which I have never seen. These people seem possessed by something evil, something with a need to destroy. They hit at the door with tools, but none so much as scratched the glass. After what seems like minutes but is probably more like seconds, they use their torches. This elicits a response more than anything else they've done. Smoke starts drifting off the wood, but it doesn't seem to be burning. I couldn't be more confused, but then I see the smoke actually is coming from around the door between the gaps in the frame.

Before long the glass cracks from the heat, and the door itself is covered in flames. The angry mob stands back as the flames lick up the sides and engulf the frame. By some miracle, the grass around the door doesn't catch fire. I'd been worried this oddity would spread to the field and consume the park. But it isn't even hot. It's almost like the flames don't really exist on this side of the door. I look around for the person that came through, but they're gone. You're welcome.

I muttered to no one. It's possible that I'd just saved whoever that was from being burned at the stake. The least they could have done was say thank you. I feel movement on my chest and look down. There are bugs of me from where the stranger touched me. Quickly I swat them off of me, repulsed by their presence, and freaked out that I hadn't noticed them sooner. I'd do a little shuddering dance to shake off any that are on me that I haven't seen.

Once I'm satisfied, there are no more bugs on me. I look to the door. But it's gone. There's only a patch of dirt on the ground where it once stood. whips of smoke drifting off it. I reach a hand down to that dirt, but there's no heat. The park is safe from catching on fire, but I can't help but wonder.

What did I just release into the world? I should probably keep an eye on the local news. Creepy Presents Wet Feet Written by J.M. Plumbly and narrated by Owen McKeown. Sharp eye watched Lightheart struggle for air. He struggled with her.

The rot had traveled all the way up her thighs now, pink at the top, then red, then green gray, and then down at the stumps of her shins on the pine needle-strewn rock, black. Into the silence, Grandmother said that it would be best to kill her now. That Lightheart's miraculous survival of the Murfolk had not been a blessing. as if they all didn't know that. All fourteen souls on the island had known that the moment Lightheart dragged herself ashore trailing red behind her. She was already too far gone. She would not survive as Grandmother had to move herself with her hands and soak her scars in the sun when they ached. No. The clan did their best to save her, but everyone knew that Lightheart should have been smarter.

she should have let the sea fill her lungs and perished fast like so many others before her but a light heart hadn't she knew how much this would hurt sharp eye she wanted to say goodbye they'd said goodbye a dozen times these last few days but it wasn't enough sharp eye said goodbye many more times now but lightheart no longer looked at him instead she stared at the gray waves face warped into Eryctus. Sharp eye gently cut her wrists, but her fear never faded. He faced the ocean, too, and bared his teeth. Grandmother told him, as she had always told him, that revenge was not a thing to be had against the murfolk. This, too, was the thing all fourteen souls on the island knew.

A long time ago, after their forbearer's plane had tried to escape the big flood and fallen out of the sky, there had been attempts to fight back. It was natural to try. Avoiding the water was not an option. In the half-square mile of rock and cave that composed the island, there were not enough edible plants to keep them alive, nor were their animals. Bugs made themselves scarce. Even birds refused to alight there. But in the ocean, fish teemed. The forebearers saw the silver scales glinting out in the water just beyond where they could wade in. They cut down two of the island's eight trees, and they dug out canoes.

They fished in the cold sea. It seemed unnatural that fish would come here when nothing else would, but the clan fed happily because it was eat or die. The first time long webbed hands dragged someone screaming out of their boat, no one could comprehend it. Where had the three Murph Boat come from? Why did they only take the feet? Why the cruelty of both feet at once?

There were no answers, but then it happened again, and again. And of course, the forbearers felt that they must respond. Since when, Sharp eye wondered, had the clan stopped feeling that they should respond? But he already knew grandmother's answer. It was the grim story they'd been told since they were children. a warning passed to every member of the clan. The forebearers sent their strongest fighters out on both of the island's canoes, three to each.

Each person was armed with the sharpened remnants of the plain. Though they outnumbered the mur folk two to one, they were not careless, for they understood the clan's fate was at stake. It had long been observed that the bigger and more tempting the school, the more likely a mur attack, so the soldiery paddled to the center of the biggest one, bright under an unusually clear sky.

Then they waited. They floated for so long that those on the shore could see the pale one's skin blister on her shoulders and nose. Six of the best people on the island, and then, all at once, six bone spears bursting through chests, through throats. They were pulled under so fast that there was no time for screams. Unmanned, the precious canoes bobbed away and disappeared at sea. sea. The clan had not even known the murfolk had spears. The clan, grandmother said,

still did not know what the murfolk had, nor what they could do. Generations after that defeat, any wink at aggression was met with instant death. The murfolk allowed only one person per boat. Grass nets were permitted on the water but not metal. This had been accepted long ago. It had to be accepted to keep starvation from wiping them out, and starvation was the greater threat. After all, the Murfolk did not cut off someone's feet every time. They did it selectively. They did it, Sharp Eye thought, just enough that they could get their trophies without their supply of humans running out. Grandmother reminded Sharp Eye that they still had much to live for out here on the rocks.

Their island was small but beautiful. Here, the weather that had battered the mainland of their forebears miraculously tamed to a whisper. Murfolk, notwithstanding, they did not have to work hard for food or water. There were few trees, but plenty of fast-growing brush to build fires to cook their fish and keep them warm. And if they didn't live long? Well, they lived richly. They covered the caves in paintings of ash. They nursed their beloved children.

They passed down their stories. They made music and love. And the Murpho could be survived, so long as you gave them no cause to move beyond your feet. Grandmother was proof. She reminded him of this, too, voice low as the breaking water, eyes steady behind the strings of her hair,

carefully empty of the horror that dominated Lightheart's face as she squirmed out of the waves. But Grandmother's hands betrayed her, rubbing the darkened knobs at the ends of her. shins, fingers pressed too hard into her skin. Sharp eye remained silent. Grandmother might be proof, but she was the only proof, and he had seen her suffer for it, keeping prisoner the details of her amputation, offering the clan all the information

that would help it survive, and none that would tempt it to give up. Those details burned her, kept her from sleep, sapped her of warmth. They prevented her from being able to return to the water ever again. They were details Lightheart had learned. Lightheart, who had the best voice in the clan, the only one with songs beautiful enough to blot out the never-ending hiss of the surf. Lightheart, whose absence left the island as quiet as a man submerged. From Grandmother, Sharp Eye knew only that the Murfolk had fins to swim

and eyes to sea and hands to wield their curved bone bone. blades, that they were too strong to out muscle and too difficult to spot before it was too late, their tails and arms transparent, their torsos and heads, the gray of the waves, that there were three of them, maybe less now after all these years. That was all. He asked her for more. Grandmother cursed him, throwing dirt into his face, and then pulled herself away. There were fourteen souls on the island and five trees. Each tree was important enough that it might be considered a soul itself.

Lightheart had always greeted each variegated trunk with as sunny of a smile as she greeted her clan's folk. She said it helped them grow. It took one tree to build a canoe and one generation for a tree to grow full. The trees were the clan's life source, their seeds, needles, and cones a source of food in their own right, and there would only way out to fish to bring back enough to survive. The clan could not afford to waste them. But sharp eye thought, scrambling up and down the island's three rock hills to consider every last one. Old knee twisted too badly to be useful, shooting star and short finger

too small that the clan could not afford to waste itself anymore either. And it was too easy to be wasted, exposed out on the water. He reached the highest point on the island and stared at cresting whale, trunk wide as his shoulders, solid and warm against the cold sparkle of the ocean below. This is where he and Lightheart used to meet. They would lay together in the fallen needles before sunrise, the scent lingering for hours in Lightheart's soft, dark hair. Cresting whale was the biggest tree the clan had, a bulwark against the marred. folk's eyes, which might be on them at any moment. The cave and the small valley afforded the only true privacy. On the water it was worse. There, no human could hide. This had been borne out in a number

of early experiments where the clan tried to fish in the dark or in the fog, were covered in ash to blend in with the color of the sky. It made no difference. Out there, on the open boats, the murfork saw all. They read every human expression and intention as easily as if they were humans themselves. But they couldn't see through the hills, and they couldn't see through wood. Sharp eyes suspected their spears couldn't pierce wood either. The other concern was the tipping of the boat. The canoes were easy to overturn, and the murfoke did so often. A different, larger boat might not be so easy. A different, larger boat might encourage all three of the murphoak to gather in one place to try to upend it. It might make them an easier target. But to build a larger boat,

to execute the plan forming in the bright fires of Sharp Eyes' mind would require the clan to use every viable tree that remained. It would also require the use of both of their canoes. If he failed, any who survived Might have nothing left to build with for a generation No way to fish It didn't matter Were they really living, as grandmother claimed, If they existed in perpetual dread?

If the best of them, The ones who could work the knots from Sharp Eye's neck With her strong fingers, Who could soothe grandmother from the darkest of her night terrors, Were dragged into the brine and hacked apart on a whim? Sharp Eye cared not about it. the fish. The fish were nauseating. The fish were soaked in the blood of their people. Sharp Eye said so that night, voiced down, crouched low by the smoldering fire. His kinsman leaned

closer to listen to his plan. The rain whispered outside the cave, adding water to their stone bowl, water to augment the Murfolk's domain. Sharp eye turned to grandmother. He did not ask for her blessing, only if it might work. Barely visible in the dim orange light, grandmother refused to reply. Sharpye put it to a vote. It was greed upon five to two with grandmother abstaining, and the six children, too young to merit a say. They had to be secretive.

If the Murphoak discovered their plan, it would end before it began. But Sharpie had planned for this, too. First, they needed a reason to cut down more trees, to change the skyline without raising suspicion. To do this, Sharp-I enlisted the children to stand where they could be seen from the water as if trying to soak in the weak sun and to shiver uncontrollably.

A couple leaned into the ruse, using ash to darken the space under their eyes and appear especially ill. Sharp-eye and his allies staged, shouted arguments on the shore. Then, with carefully set grim faces, they split one of the canoes into pieces to carry up to the cave out of the Murphoaks view. Here he enlisted the children again, this time to keep a huge brushfire burning,

as if they were burning the pieces all while staying out of sight. Meanwhile, his friends propped the woods safely up against the wall and began to build. Sharp eye conducted a chorus of mournful wails from the mouth of the cave. Then, out in the open, he and the others cut down, green dancer, the second biggest tree on the island. They watched the waters for any sign from the murfolk. They remained quiet. Sharp Eye himself tested that calm, braving the rocking waves to fish for the clan alone. He came back unmolested. Grandmother snatched his catch from him and dragged it up to the rocks to smoke it with another dissenter. The third, lyricist,

had taken ill with fear, retching every few hours along the shore. He sat in the tide now, pale and shaking, seafone clinging to his ankles, cold pimpling his thighs. Sharp eye couldn't meet his eye, but he also couldn't keep his lip from curling. At least lyricist weakness helped make the clan appear ill. Lightheart might have helped him. They'd been friends. But lyricist was betraying that friendship with his cowardice. It was people like him that made Sharp Eye wonder if the clan didn't be.

deserve for the murfolk to take their feet. The second tree would be the most difficult to justify and might provoke retribution. Sharp eye readied everything else first. He recruited a team strong enough to brave the water, including two of the oldest children. Together they rehearsed maneuvers until they sagged. On moonless nights, he crawled through the rough brush to steal the last scraps of metal from the rusted wreckage. He whittled the rods that metal would feel.

into. He put on a show, demonstrating to the clan how the spears would work and watched the dissenters for any sign of appreciation. Grandmother just shook her head, not in denial of the possibility, but in anger. Sharp Eye was becoming angry, too. The clan might argue, but they always worked together. Now they were failing to unite against their biggest threat. Lightheart had been well loved. whose death would it take to make them finally see reason? How could it not have been hers? Perhaps they had already forgotten her. Lightheart's face was becoming strange,

even in sharp eyes memory, like a distorted reflection in the water. That made him even angrier. In the end, he did not care how the dissenters felt. Axe in hand, he climbed past the slender trunks of shooting star and short finger, eyes locked on waving branches of cresting whale. There was nowhere to avoid one another on the island, but grandmother and her friends tried. They went to the far edge as Sharp Eye cut their best tree down, refusing to so much as look at him,

palms on lyricist's back as he heaved into the brine. The battle day dawned pink and red. Sharp Eye was awake to see it, having sat up for the last third of the night to lay his hopes out before the stars. He was not even sure the craft would be seaworthy. Fearful of alerting the murphoke to his presence, they had been unable to test more than a twig replica. Sweat wetted his skin, cold and reeking of salt. Lightheart had loved early mornings. He tried to pray to her, but could not find her in a landscape stripped of trees so bare to the sea. The rest of the island woke inauspiciously.

death. He was lyricist. His rejection of all food had finally caught up with him. He was the first person in two generations who had not died at the Murfolk's hand. Sharp eye understood, suddenly, lyricist's reflex to vomit. But he did not. When the clan turned to him, he expanded his arms gesturing into the bloodied sky. Did Lyricist not die from the Murfolk, too, if he died for fear of them? And was that not a worse death? Their influence was spreading, poisoning even the clan's thoughts, poisoning, sharp eye pointed one finger, their relationship with one another. The clan stared back at him, grave under the clouds. They knew he spoke the truth. Lyracist's passing should not dampen their resolve, but firm it. The Murphoke must be faced. The clans

craft was ready. They were low on food. It was time to fish. Grandmother caught Sharp Eye's ankle as the clan dispersed. Sharp Eye braced for a rebuke. Instead, she exhorted him to use his new craft to flee. There may yet be other islands left after the big flood. There may be ones without Murfolk, where he and a few others could start anew, could keep the clan alive. She asked him, this, fingers digging into his calf until the flesh turned pale and veins bubbled up around his ankle bone. For the first time in Sharp Eyes' life, she did not hide the fear in her face. He could not do as she asked, would not abandon his family. He held grandmother tight and kissed her forehead, and then broke away to take his position. The Murphoke had not taken anyone since

Lightheart. They were overdue for another. That meant they would almost certainly be there today and would just as certainly take the bait of a lone fisherman floating out in the waves. Uncle had volunteered for the position, though it was unlikely to be survived. That was a noble death. Uncle paddled out. He hid his fear poorly, but that would not rouse suspicion. The Murfolk must know the clan expected them. Fear was almost compulsory. Sharby and his team of six would have only a few heartbeats to get the uncle's canoe once the Murphoke made themselves known. They waited, crouched in the tall grass, each with one hand on the circular raft, the pine still sharply fragrant. The two children carried paddles,

the adult's body-length shields held low. Seven spears nestled between the raft slats, as many as they'd been able to make with the leftover wood. They'd used the rest of the degraded plain metal for the knives strapped to their waists. Someone behind Sharp Eye was trembling, making the raft jump. Sharp Eye wiped sweat from his jaw with one shoulder. His tongue lay heavy and dry. Uncle started to scream.

Sharp Eye sprinted, his team in sync. One step, two, and then they splash into the water, clouding it with sand. The sun sparkled on the surface, violent, erratic, an uncle's canoe had tipped over, and he was clinging to it, pulling his dagger, and slashing at the narrow skull of the thing with its sword buried in his waist. Bones and veins threaded under the surface of narrow, transparent arms. Its back and head were opaque, but the exact gray of the water.

Its hair was short and white, and when it turned, its face was horribly narrow, slit nose, slit ears, slit pupils, silver eyes extending out in opposite directions, huge and round and knowing. Sharp eye began to understand what Lightheart and grandmother had seen. He and his warriors climbed aboard the raft just as they had practiced. It was hard to keep their balance with seven different people, the water a new and foreign element, paddle shafts, narrowly missing heads, and water was splashing up between the slats.

But the raft held, and his clanmates propelled it forward. And now the murr slipped under the surface, and sharp eye struggled to follow its trajectory, even though it couldn't be more than a man and a half deep without running into the ocean floor. And there, a flash of its bone knife. And there, yes, a body visible under the water, a mur tail as long as a canoe,

bones showing through transparent flesh like a hundred fangs. And then there were three of them, coming up fast, two with spears, and the only way out now was through. Sharp-eye yelled to take the shape. The team did, thrusting out their shields in an overlapping shell, a half-breath before a mer spear cracked against the outside. It hit hard enough to make the shield-bearer stumble and rock the boat, and then was yanked back so quickly that the bearer fell forward on the floor,

nearly knocking one of the children off. The others closed the gap, just as they had practiced, but another spear was on them immediately, wedging itself through the hole before it closed, drawing deep red lines across two different shoulders. The entire weapon was made of unbroken bone, like the tooth of an impossibly enormous predator. And what kind of power must the mur folk have

to take down something like that? And then the retrieved spear and knives were stabbing the bottom of the raft, wedging like spikes between the slats, eliciting shrieks from the fallen shield-bearer. Sharp I had foreseen this, too. That was why the raft was built triple thick and at cross angles. As planned, they had successfully caught the Murphoke off guard, so they hadn't swam for more weapons. But now it seemed like they might not need to. They were attacking so viciously that the raft still wouldn't last, especially since as one jabbed at their feet, the other two hoisted its far side,

trying to break it by force to tip his clanmates into the sea. Knees buckling, Sharp I gave a cry, and the team jumped as one to the opposite end, clobbering the raft down on the Murphoak's heads. They stumbled back just in time to keep the raft from tipping the opposite way. Sharp I cried again, and in a coordinated circle, irregular in the tight space, they picked up their spears. But here was another problem. If the Murphoke couldn't hit them through the raft, they couldn't hit the Murphoke either. Uncle saw it happen. Sharp Eye caught a glimpse of him through a momentary gap in the shields,

struggling back up into his canoe with a terrible expression. Blood smeared down the woods side. And then came Uncle's bellow, and the nose of the canoe smashed into the raft. Clanmates stumbled, cried out, fell against each other as the murfolk yanked the raft side to side. But Sharpye caught his meaning, and, moving his shield out of the way,

hurtled his spear just as the nearest mer rippled under the surface on its way to uncle the spear struck the shaft stuck straight up for one heartbeat two and then rolled away red clouded the water the raft stilled immediately sharp i expected some sound from the mur folk some keening but if they wailed no human could hear it above the water too it was quiet. To sharp eyes left, someone was hyperventilating. He fumbled to retrieve the cold mer spear off the floor, and then Uncle called out again, this time in surprise. The other two Mur folk were swimming away. Breathless, Sharp Eye shoved aside the shields, aside the couple clanmates that had started to cheer and screamed for the raft to follow, for spears to wrang down. His team scrambled to obey. Two paddled. Five, three. through, including Sharp Eye.

They could barely see their quarry. Three missed. Sharp eye missed. And then, there, 30 paces away, another cloud of red. Sharp eye crowed. The raft lurched forward. The final Mur released its hold on its companion in turn. Short hair haloed under the waves.

It had lost all its weapons. The last two spears shot into the water. Both missed. The Mur pulled its absent lips back from its teeth. It was too much like a smile, a mockery of warmth, of humor, of light heart. Sharp I had nothing but his knife, but he dove in to cut that smile off the Murr's face.

The cold sucked the air from his chest. The water was so much darker than he thought, the faint form of the spears disappearing into Merck. It was also heavy, like a nigham. net. He had never swum this deep before. This was a mistake. And then the myrrh was on him. It was huge down here, bigger than it had any right to be. Its silver eyes unblinking, mouth stretching, transparent tail curving like a storm cloud of bone and veins. Sharp eyes slashed ineffectively, a whirl, and now it had snatched his head, sharp nails burrowing into

his skin, crushing his skull with hideous strength. The mur was simply going to smash it in, a silent companion to sharp eyes bubbled shrieks. He choked on water. He wasn't going to survive. Lightheart hadn't survived. And then an explosion of bubbles around him and the pressure on his head released. Dark forms were diving in the water to help, his clanmates from the boat. Every last one.

The mur was fierce, muscled tail. lashing. It drowned three men and nearly drowned one of the children, but in the end there were simply more foes than it could meet. They paddled back with their dead and with the carcass of the smiling Mur. The clan rushed to meet them on the shoreline. Some cried. Others embraced. Grandmother hung back, perched on a rock, eyes bright on sharp eye. He cut off the fin from the Murr's body and knelt to place it before her absent feet. The celebration lasted three days. The clan took turns attacking the carcass.

They ran into the water and flashed pieces of metal at the sky. They stretched their toes. They buried their dead, four in all, including uncle, and erected cairns in their honor. They ate until they were sick, and they wrote songs to pass down with the story of their victory and their loss. The sound of them was sweet, even if lightheart's voice did not sing. On the fourth day, Sharp eye woke early to greet the dawn in her honor. It was still hard to believe they were free.

His heart did not feel freer. For all his efforts, the Mer's blood had not washed away his grief. It was if he'd never come back to the surface after jumping into the deep. The island felt cold and bare. He would have to survive to become an old man before he saw the regrowth of its trees. But the quiet promised healing. Sharp eye sat on the highest ridge

next to the stump of cresting whale and looked over the water. The breeze recalled lightheart's firm touch. The warmth of the grass echoed her kind greeting. She would not have him wallow. He had to press forward. He would be able to eventually. Up here, in the clear air, he could see the path.

The clan would take his raft and rebuild. With it, they could fish for longer, catch bigger game, make up for the wasted wood with more meat. Maybe now they could even get things they hadn't been able to get before. Peltz. Blubber. Real usable bone. And that wasn't the end of it. Perhaps, with time, they would even be able to take.

take grandmother's advice, to sail out to find more islands and all the resources and life they'd ever need. Sharp eye looked into the gold horizon, and he remembered his beloved, and for the first time in his life, he smiled at the sea. The sea smiled back. One by one, narrow heads rose out of the water. A hundred gray faces. Two hundred. Four hundred round eyes and a half moon army pointed directly at the island. And beneath every set, a dark mouth, bearing teeth. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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