Creepy - I Saw Him Go & Unblinded

Episode Date: February 6, 2025

I Saw Him Go ***Written by: Maya Wristen and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Unblinded ***Written by: Joshua Bryant and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***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.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. I saw him go.

Written by Maya Riston and narrated by Megan McDuffie. I was the last person to see him alive. That is, if he is in fact dead, there's no way I can say whether what happened to him killed him or not. But I know that no one's seen him since. I've been prowling new sights. and true crime forums for months. There's no way in hell the cops will believe me.

They've been hounding me for weeks now. I know you won't believe me either. But I have to tell someone. Just bear with me, please. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but I needed time to think of a way to tell this story in a way that makes sense. I still don't really understand it.

I don't think I ever will. It's like... It's like being a kid and creeping down the stairs at night to catch a glimpse of the scary movie your parents are watching. You're too young, have too little context, to understand what's supposed to be going on. As you rush back to your room, you're left with a single, terrifying frame of a contorted, screaming face.

I should give you context. So you understand why we were out there in the first place. It was a few months ago, maybe one and a half weeks before you got the call from the hospital, somewhere in that time frame. You know how I was back then, just not in the best headspace. I didn't really go out much. I was just stewing in my room, trying hard to justify my life, obviously to no avail. But sometimes I'd go hang out with this guy, Elijah.

He is, was a pretty chill guy. We'd meet up every now and then, just talk and smoke. We'd graduated the same year, but I hadn't really talked to him in school. I was shy back then, mostly stuck to my group. But since neither of us had anyone to hang out with that summer, we'd got to know each other. He was sort of short, lanky, and had a mop of mousy brown hair. We'd meet at this park and just... talk about TV shows, friend group dramas, the usual topics for teens that think they know more

than they really do. We'd been hanging out in that park for about a month or so when one day he started talking about hiking, of all things, which was weird. I mean, it never struck me as an outdoorsy type. He had these thick wire-framed glasses like you'd see in the 70s, and he always looked a little nervous, twitchy, like a deer. But now he was talking about this hiking trail he'd apparently heard of from some guys at work. The Widows Pass? I'd never heard of it before, obviously. I wasn't into hiking at all back then. I'm still not. According to him, it was a two-day round-trip trail up in Banff National Park that was supposed to have some great sights. I was incredulous at the thought of scrawny Elijah hiking for two days in the mountains, but he was set on it, said he wanted

to get a change of view or reevaluate his priorities or something. And he wanted me to come along with him, which is kind of crazy in hindsight. Hell, it was crazy even then. Like this guy I'd only known for a month or so was asking me to go out with him into the wilderness alone for 40 years. For 40, hours. Now, I'm not stupid. I know the statistics. Thousands of people go missing in the mountains every year. I should have said no. I was going to say no, but I desperately needed a change in my life. I thought, you know, maybe it could be fun, getting away from it all, just us in the woods. I could bring my sketchbook, get back into landscapes. Up until that point, I'd kind of given up on my artistic endeavors.

Elijah was thrilled when I agreed. Maybe thrilled isn't the best word. More like, relieved. He'd looked like he was expecting me to turn him down. Maybe I should have. Sometimes I wonder whether he still would have gone if I did. It doesn't matter, though. I agreed to join him, and that was that.

We spent the next week preparing, packing, and researching. I threw myself into studying wilderness survival, how to start a fire, build a shelter, purify water, all that. I also looked into the trail. I had a hard time finding anything concrete about Widows Pass. From what Elijah told me,

I knew that it was a relatively easy trail in between two mountains that opened off the highway and ended on the same highway about 30 kilometers north. I'd also found a single blog post made almost a decade ago be moaning the last kilometer or so, in which one had to scramble down a steep sort of gravelly incline to reach the highway. This lack of information worried me a little, but I was already in too deep.

You know, when you hype yourself up so much for something that even if it seems like a bad idea, you can't change your mind without feeling like you've let yourself down? Sunk cost fallacy. I'd committed to this. I wasn't about to go back on it. Well, a week later, and we were ready to go. I was actually excited about the trip, if not incredibly nervous. Not that I thought Elijah was like a serial killer or something,

but it was two whole days, alone in the wilderness. We'd packed as well as we could, but neither of us were particularly fit, and there was only so much we could reasonably carry in our packs. Elijah's father drove us for the hour or so it took to get out into the mountains and his old beat-up Honda Civic. I remember when he dropped us off at the trailhead, he leaned out the window and told us to enjoy ourselves, with a knowing sort of look. I'm pretty sure he thought we were dating. We weren't.

It was a little awkward, but we shrugged it off and started down the trail. I noticed that the whole ride there he'd been. and talkative, more so than normal, going on and on about some band he liked. But almost as soon as we arrived, he stopped. The first hour or so of the hike was completely silent. The only sounds around us were the rustle of the trees and the breeze and the crunch of our heavy footsteps on the dirt path. I remember thinking that it was a little strange, how quiet it was,

how odd it was that in mid-July there were no birds. It stayed like that for an hour or so, him walking in front of me so all I could see of him was his pack in the back of his head. Then abruptly he stopped. I nearly ran into him and I was about to tell him off when I saw what he was looking at. A few meters ahead, the trees opened up and there was just the most fantastic view. Twenty or so meters away, the ground dropped off into this valley, cradled on either side by these huge bluish-gray mountains. The canopy of the trees below was a deep green like I'd never seen.

It was all so vivid. This view alone made the whole hike worth it, and I turned to tell him so, but something stopped me. He looked sick. His face was pale. well, paler than usual, and he was frowning like he'd become very nauseous very quickly. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me nothing. I didn't believe him, but I didn't want to confront him either.

So I stayed quiet, and we began our descent into the valley. The heat of the midsummer day receded as we descended, which I was thankful for as it had been utterly sweltering, but the trees grew even thicker. When the trail became harder to follow, which meant that two or three times we walked off on what we thought was the trail, sometimes for over 20 minutes, only to reach a point where the foliage grew so densely that we had no choice but to turn back. We took a break a little past midday to have our lunch. I had a PBJ with celery sticks. It's funny what you remember.

Several hours in and we were moving at a snail's pace. well, I was, at least. Elijah didn't seem tired at all. He would walk ahead of me, almost until I couldn't see him through the trees, and then stop and wait for me to catch up. Over and over he did this, never keeping my pace for more than a few minutes.

As we'd entered the valley, he'd been possessed by this nervous, frenetic energy, which at the time I dismissed as him wanting to reach the clearing where we'd camp for the night before sunset. I found myself hoping that there'd be other hikers already setting up camp when we arrived. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable around him. It was only about six or so, but in the cradle of the valley, the light was fading quickly. The shadows deepened around us, and despite my exhaustion, I managed to speed up and keep Elijah's pace,

since, unsettled as I was about his change in behavior, I liked the prospect of being caught out there in the dark even less. I'd heard people say that when the brain lacks visual input, it will try to fill in the blanks, make things up. But I hadn't really understood it till then. There, as the light slipped away, I began to see things out of the corners of my eyes. The shadows seemed to undulate as I passed them. The trees had branches like outstretched arms. The last rays of the sun were fading from the valley as we finally burst into the clearing, which, until then,

had been completely concealed by the trees. I stumbled to a halt, dropping my pack, and falling to my knees in relief. I wanted nothing more than to stay there and enjoy my well-earned supper, but Elijah urged me to help him set up our tent. We'd decided that it would be easier if we just shared the one. My body ached with the kind of exertion that I hadn't put it through since my 10th grade phys ed class, but I struggled to my feet and together we managed to put it up.

Out of my haze of exhaustion, I realized that we were alone in the clearing. There were no other hikers to be seen. In fact, we'd been alone the entire way there. from the moment we entered the woods. And for some reason, that realization sent a chill down my spine. I watched Elijah as we sat outside our tent, eating our supper. His eyes roved around the clearing, searching every creeping shadow with an intensity that frightened me.

I would have been more worried about his increasingly erratic behavior, but he hadn't seemed like he intended to do anything. per se. Rather, he seemed to me like a man anticipating the arrival of someone or something. For the sake of my own sanity, I tried to assume that he was on the lookout for bears. We ate quickly, and I crawled into the tent with my eyes already half-closed. It took all my remaining energy, not to fall asleep before I'd even gotten into my sleeping bag. And moments later, I was out like a light. I can't say how long I slept for, but it was still dark when I woke with a start, coated in sweat.

It was utterly, deafeningly silent, save for the thunder of my racing heart. The moon was full and bright, and it shone through the canvas of the tent so that I could see Elijah lying in the sleeping bag next to me with some clarity. I can still recall the image of his face. Remember, as I turned and saw his eyes, wide and bulging in the middle of his face, which was pale and contorted in a mask of terror. When he saw that I was awake, he raised a single shaking finger to his lips. He lifted that finger then, and with an agonizing slowness, pointed to the wall of the tent directly behind me. My heart dropped into my stomach, simultaneously heavy as lead and beating so fast that if there had been any sound, I wouldn't have been able to hear it over the pounding in my ears. I sensed a presence.

That's the only way I can describe it. A presence. I couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, couldn't smell it, but I knew beyond all certainty that something was behind me. The sensation of being watched was utterly overwhelming. I was too afraid to turn my head, afraid that the rustling of my hair against the ground or the creak of a joint in my neck might shatter the stillness of the moment

and somehow doom us both. So instead, I bowled my hands into fists and focused on breathing as inaudibly as possible with a shallow little sips of air that left me feeling light-headed. I was waiting for this. strange nightmare to be over. I'd decided that it must be a nightmare because with his other hand, Elijah was clutching a knife to his chest, and it wasn't a kitchen or hunting knife. No, this thing was

something else entirely. It was difficult to see it in the dark of the tent, but the moon was high that night, and it shone dimly under the blade as if it were attracted to the metal, as if the blade wanted to be seen. It was huge. First of all, maybe 26 centimeters long and six across, thick and made of dark metal, maybe iron, but it was hard to tell in the moonlight. The blade was blunt and brutal with a jagged edge worn down from years of use, but the handle was pale, smooth and matte. Bone, I'd never seen anything like it. Elijah gripped this knife like a lifeline, so much so that I could see the bones of his knuckles through his skin. We stayed like that for minutes or hours, utterly still, like corpses.

Then, quite suddenly, a slight gust of wind passed through the clearing, and the spell that had descended upon us was broken. I opened my eyes and realized that it was light out. The sun was beginning to rise. For an instant, I fooled myself into thinking that it had been a nightmare. A strange bout of sleep paralysis. The terror that had gripped me had lifted so suddenly and with so little warning that it seemed almost to never have existed at all. That is, until I saw the knife. The very real iron blade that Elijah still held in his hands. It looked even crueller in the light of day. seemed to have been crafted with brutality in mind. For a while, neither of us said anything.

In a state of shock, I wandered around the clearing, looking for any kind of sign that anyone had been there, had stood outside the tent while I slept, but found nothing. There were no footprints in the dirt. None of our things had been moved. As far as I could tell, we were both just losing our minds. But I couldn't shake the image of that. knife? Where had he gotten it? Why did he bring it with him? What did he intend to use it for?

Use was the word that came to mind with this knife, not do. It seemed to be made with a specific purpose in mind. I made up my mind to ask Elijah about it as we had breakfast, mostly a meager assortment of the snack foods I'd thrown into my bag before departing. I wanted answers, and part of me was hoping that he would reveal it had all been one stupid prank that the knife was a family heirloom and he just thought it would be funny to scare me shitless in the middle of the night. So I confronted him about it, about everything. And I remember I was struck by how desolate he looked. His eyes, I remember his eyes the most. He wasn't wearing his glasses and so I could see fully how sunken in. they'd become. He had these huge, dark circles, like he hadn't slept in weeks, and it was like

he was looking right through me. He told me the truth. I have to believe it was the truth. Nothing else could explain what happened after. He told me he'd found the knife in a second-hand store while vacationing on the coast with his parents and was instantly interested. He was always into that low fantasy stuff, and this looked right out of the books he liked so much. He figured it'd look great on his wall, so he bought it for 30 bucks. What a steal. He brought it home, hung it above his bed, and for the first few weeks, that was that. Then he started having the dream. Short at first, a few fleeting seconds between one moment and the next, a flash of an idea of something, but nothing truly tangible, a glimpse of trees against a dark sky,

the feel of something heavy in his hands. Then these fragments began to coalesce, like pieces of a puzzle, into a scene. In this dream, he told me, it was dusk. He was standing in a clearing in the woods, mountains stood to his left and right. The tree line stopped very suddenly, forming a nearly perfect circle in which the ground was black and barren, as if scorched by fire. A man stood behind him, and somehow Elijah always knew he was there before he even turned to look. It was at this point he faltered. He struggled to explain to me what this man actually looked like. He might have had short, graying hair, or maybe it was long and blonde. Did he have piercing blue eyes or haunting black ones?

Looking at him was like catching smoke. The man reached out to Elijah, though, and he saw that he was missing two fingers on his left hand. He felt a sudden weight in his own hand and realized that he was holding the knife. It was shining in the fading light with something red and dripping. The man wanted the knife, wanted it back. He'd wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air,

The thing that worried him most, though, was that he'd begun to wake clutching the knife in his right hand, holding it so tightly to him that the grooves of its handle made indentations in his palm. This dream persisted for weeks, waking night after night, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, gripping the knife. He tried, hiding it under his bed, in his closet, tossing it in the dumpster behind the restaurant he worked at. He even tried to give it back to the store he'd bought it from. Each and every night, he woke exactly the same. He looked at me then, with such hopelessness in his eyes, frighteningly empty and lifeless. It was like looking into the eyes of a dead man. I still remember

what he said to me, even as the later hours of the trail fade into the recesses of my unconscious mind. He said, you have to understand that I tried. I would not be doing this if I had not exhausted every fucking option. I need to go to the clearing. I need to return the knife. We're here, and he knows it. I should have gone out and given it to him last night. I know it was him last night. He was waiting for me. After this, he fell silent, picking at the meager breakfast, but not really eating anything. I know hearing this now, you must be thinking that Elijah was suffering under some sort of mental break. I would too, to be perfectly honest, but you have to understand what it was like. The expression on his face when he told me about the dream, his manic determination

to reach this place, the strangeness of the knife, and most pressingly, the nighttime visitor that had finished with the wind. I could have maybe dismissed the presence in the night as a nightmare had we not both experienced it, had the terror of that moment not been so fresh and visceral in my memory. These things warmed their way deep into my brain, infecting me with a terrible, what-if? What if he was telling the truth? If I had been anywhere else, with anyone else, it would have been out of the question. But like him, I became possessed with this idea. The idea that this knife had somehow chosen him to return it to its rightful owner.

That it was his job. No, his duty to carry out this task. We left camp and carried on. I became fascinated with the scene he'd described in his dream, the imposing landscape and impossible man. I still have the sketchbook now. You can see pages, and pages, are filled with these kind of repeating themes. See, here I've tried to capture the mountains as they loom on both sides.

They... No, these aren't any good. They don't capture the scale. And here I've done hands, dozens of hands, all sizes and... angles, all missing the pointer and middle fingers. I don't like this one here. I tried to do a study of the knife, but Elijah kept it in his bag and I had to work off memory alone. It isn't sharp enough. This is nice. See here I sketched what I imagined the clearing he described looked like. It's not far off, but the ground just isn't quite black enough. It's too much like normal soil. We didn't have a map.

Did I tell you that? The farther in we went, the harder it was to see the path. I think we were the first people there in a long time, years maybe, but he knew where to go. He just knew. Even when the little dirt trail submitted entirely to the wilderness and there were only trees, he pushed onwards. Like there was a hook sunk into his chest, dragging him forward like a fish on a line. I remember walking.

My feet hurt so much, but I kept moving for fear of losing him amongst the skeletal trees. There were hallucinations, too, as we got closer. At least I think they were hallucinations. Some combination of the heat and the thirst and something else. Some bizarre, innate quality of that place. It got into your head. It made you feel like you were dreaming away. The air was thick and hot, and my head was constantly spinning, throbbing with blood.

The sun burned on my skin, slowly turning me a lobster red. I stumbled forward, left, right, left, right. There's all kinds of sketches, but I don't remember making them. It's all quite unintelligible, reaching hands and watching eyes, and shapes like mazes descending into wells of darkness. What I remember most, when I remember anything at all, is the silence. You'd think that in total silence you would hear nothing. You're wrong. Like the night before, the pounding of my blood in my ears, the creek of every joint and rustle of my clothing amplified tenfold against the absolute nothingness of the woods around us.

My breath was deafening. The hoarse wheeves of my lungs accepting and expelling air was louder than anything I'd heard before or since. I don't know where we were. I don't remember how we got there, but I know that there was something so horribly, viscerally wrong about that place that any sentient being would steer far, far clear of it. At that point, I don't think we could have been classified as sentient beings. He was muttering to himself, I think, but it seemed muted somehow, almost as if he was speaking underwater or from very far away. At first, I thought he was talking to himself, lost in his delirium like I was.

I realized now that he was apologizing. I was only faintly lucid when we staggered, at last, into the clear. It was exactly as he had described, just as empty and scorched, like a bomb had been detonated right there, annihilating everything within a perfectly circular hundred feet. That place was evil. Evil, there's no other way to describe it. Like witnessing the moment just after a terrible car accident, completely unable to look away from somebody's suffering. I have this image in my head, a perfect snapshot of Elijah holding out the knife in both hands,

offering it to the air. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his glasses are askew. He takes it in his right hand and with utter determination swings it down onto his left. The cut is clean. It drives through his middle and pointer fingers at the first time. joint and they tumble to the ground. Elijah doesn't even react, just stares at his hand, bleeding profusely in utter confusion, like he can't understand what he's just done. The blood drips down his hand and into the barren soil. The pressure building in my head threatens to crush my skull.

Then he is simply gone. Gone is the only way to describe it. One moment he's there, young and disheveled and afraid, then the ground turns and folds and swallows him whole, knife and all, hungrily, eagerly, like it tasted his blood and wanted more. Only then did I find myself able to move. I turned and ran. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't comprehend what had just happened, and I wasn't. I wasn't. in the state of mind to try. Maybe that makes me a coward. I don't care. I didn't notice it at the time,

but noise had finally bled back into my world. A strong gust of wind whipped the trees around me into a frenzy as I raced past them, and it sounded like laughter. I forced myself not to look back and see what was making those horrified, tortured cries. He presents, Unblinded, written by Joshua Bryant and narrated by Michelle Kane. I quit taking the pills after my therapist touched my knee. He knew how touch didn't feel right to me.

He did it anyway, and he did it intentionally. If I couldn't trust him not to touch, I couldn't trust him to prescribe me medication? I'd taken my chances with my own mind over the suggestions of someone whose intentions with my body are divergent from my own. Little did I know how deeply this one decision would change the course of my life. I walked out of his office with ice in my veins. I said nothing to the secretary on my way out, which wasn't abnormal, but I did look at her. She was staring at me, and she looked the way everybody looked to me back then. Featureless, eyes and mouth like smears of paint on a silicon canvas. I took a deep breath and went outside. It was too bright, and I searched through my purse with clumsy hands. My heart thudded slowly, and I kept thinking that

they should be there. My thoughts were sluggish, as always. Before my pills, I would have become very anxious over such a thing, and I knew that quitting would mean all that would return. But anxiety is easier to deal with than the infinite possibilities that arrive in my mind when I cannot trust someone. I shuffled the contents of my purse. My sunglasses were not there. Then they were, held in front of my face, accompanied by Damien's voice. He was laughing a little, asking if I had forgotten something. I snatched them up and put them on. I looked at him, and even though he was as featureless as everyone else,

just the fact that this was the face of the person I trusted made it beautiful to me. I didn't say anything to him. I don't like speaking, but I nodded. He handed me my favorite soda, the lid already loosened, and asked me if I was ready to go home. I nodded again. In his car, driving down the road, I thought of a thousand ways to explain to him what had happened. I wanted to tell him that I wasn't going to take my medication anymore. He took such good care of me. We had known each other ever since grade school, and we were in love. These were the reasons why I was conflicted. On the one hand, he would never betray me. But on the other, he wouldn't want me to do something harmful. to myself. It turned circles in my head. I couldn't come to a conclusion, like usual, and the minutes flew by. And back then, everything felt so shallow, so fast. I couldn't catch a firm

hold. Obliviously, concrete thought was impossible. I didn't end up telling him. Not from fear, I simply forgot. At home, I made dinner. He never ate. expected me to. I did it because of all he did for me. I don't have to work. He knew how hard it was for me to be around other people. He never pressed me to talk, even when I would go days without making a sound. He drove me to and from the therapist office. He paid for everything. So for all this, I cooked for him. I listened to him as long as he wanted to talk. I even wrote the most important things down so I wouldn't lose them. I made sure he could trust me as I trusted him, even if the manner of display was different. I wasn't a good cook. Again, my slowness made it very hard to pay attention, and I often

burned whatever it was I was making, or I forgot an ingredient. That night, I don't know what I did wrong, but it was bad enough that when Damien took a bite, he widened his eyes and brought his fingers to his lips. I moaned and put my palms on my forehead. He swallowed, then laughed kindly. He said it was okay. He was certain I would do better tomorrow. I looked at him. His left hand was resting on the tabletop. I reached for it, placed my fingers over his very gently. He turned his hand over and pressed his palm into mine. I spoke for the first time that week. Thank you for never lying.

I paused and remembered. I'm going to stop taking my pills. He was quiet. He shifted in his chair. I watched the swimming color of his face and clutched my thigh under the table. Yet he only squeezed my hand and asked if I was sure. I nodded and felt the tension.

and seeped from me. We finished dinner still holding hands. Later, and I mean over the course of the next few days, I began suffering. The shocks seemed to come out of my bones, streaking through my body and setting my teeth chattering and my eyes spinning. I sweated and trembled and staggered when I walked. At night, I was haunted by the most livid and horribly colorful dreams that followed no logic whatsoever. I would wake up screaming. Damien was there for me, though. His words, his voice, his presence and strength grounded me enough to weather that wretched storm. By the end of the week, all these miserable symptoms had subsided and sensations I had forgotten as even being possible began to take their place. The first one I had noticed was the depth of sound.

I could hear the songbirds in the trees outside our bedroom window, and their voices were not dull. They were crisp and alive, and I was aware of these things. I lay in the bed, listening, my lungs swelling with heavy breath. Then I noticed the heat of my own body held in by the blankets. I moved my feet back and forth, feeling the coolness at the eddard. the heat at the center. After many long moments, I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling as if for the first time. Beside me, Damien had sat up and was stretching. I sat up as well and whispered his name.

Surprised, he turned and looked at me. I hadn't truly seen his face since high school. Just before I had started taking my medication, he had been so vibrant back then, so smooth and young. But as I looked at him that morning, in the auburn glow of the rising sun, he appeared so wan. There were lines beside his mouth, dark and somber. His eyes dim and far off. His lips were pale as if weakened with sickness. He smiled at me still and asked how I was feeling. I had described it to him. Words falling out of my mouth so quickly it even astonished me. I could tell through the expressiveness of his eyes that he loved listening to me, so I didn't stop. I showered him with words like I had only now discovered the choi of speaking.

But all the while I observed him and the things he did. He moved with a trembling step, coughed frequently, became dizzy and had to lean on things often. but most bizarre of all was how his hand kept straying to his stomach, as if it was the source of his discomfort. Upon scrutinizing his midsection further, I began to see that something was stirring there beneath his shirt so furtively as to almost be imperceptible. I thought that perhaps, due to my sudden change in perception, I was somehow misinterpreting what I was seeing.

so I didn't ask him about it. Yet it still perturbed me and I found myself consumed with concern after he had gotten into his car and left for work. I watched him leave from the porch, wrapped in his robe, body tingling, with the rediscovered sensations of being outside on a chilly morning. The sun was brightening and the sky was a crystalline blue. The unease I felt was at war with the beauty of the waking world

I was absorbing, and I had to return to bed for an hour just to calm myself. At that point, I rose and got dressed, an experience that was also rife with newness that I marveled at. Afterwards, I went to the kitchen to begin thinking about what to make for dinner. Suddenly, another idea alighted on me. I could walk to the park. It had been so long since the last time I'd been there, and with my newly attained lucidity, I was certain it would be an incomparable experience. I was so excited with this that I put my shoes on Packward and nearly forgot my house keys all the way out the door. In the brisk mid-morning air, everything was almost bewildering,

but this was cut by an overwhelming sensation of liberation. I had never noticed the intricate beauty of life surging all around me. while I moved down a sidewalk and on that day it all made so plain by the brightness of the sun. I didn't even put my sunglasses on. For the first time in my life, the sun was not a burning disk to hide from, but rather an object of such wondrous scintillation that I felt ashamed that I had hidden from it for so long. That morning walk made me so hopeful for the future. And then I got to the park and things submerged.

It wasn't the place. The grass and the trees were lush and the songbirds lilted peacefully. It was the people. I hadn't been expecting anything, surely not an array of smiles and beaming happiness. Yet I was stricken by the dreariness and obvious pain I saw all around me. Faces were drawn in, eyes set deep in black rings. cheekbones prominent over sunken flesh, and every throat was labored by a cough. Their stomachs protruded against their clothes, while their hands, just like Damians, kept straying

here as well, indicating some sort of ailment. I avoided everyone and sat down on a bench alone. I was unsure if what they were carrying was contagious and began to notice that in these bulging stomachs, There was something that wriggled and writhed. My former sense of wonder was supplanted by a mounting dread that was quickly pin-pricking my skin with frigid beads of sweat. Something was horribly wrong with everyone and no one but myself seems to notice. I couldn't focus on nature anymore. My heartbeat accelerated. I trembled uncontrollably.

My breath was too shone. shallow and I grinded my teeth until I tasted blood. I fumbled with my purse now desperately trying to find my sunglasses to put them on. I pulled them out but dropped them onto my feet. How was it? That was enough I had to get out of there. I jumped up and tore down the sidewalk, leaving the park behind with the poor people there looking after me in confusion. I ran until I felt like my lungs would burst and then I staggered beneath a tree and vomited. I took a step back and sat down, hugging my knees to my chest and hiding my face and my hands. I wanted to scream. I wanted Damien to find me. My mind was awash with the enormity of what I had seen. All those people with their stomachs carrying something

twisted and alien. I had never known such a monstrous thing was happening to. to so many people. My medication must have blinded me, numbed me, and kept me from seeing the truth. Thoughts that I would have believed to be conspiratorial only a day prior were filling my skull and my anxiety was careening out of control. I was becoming faint. Black spots were marbling my vision and I realized that if I did not calm down, I was going to pass out. In public, with Damien nowhere near, I knew such a thing would be tremendously dangerous. I took a deep breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth. I tasted the tip of my pinky. I lifted my head and smelled fresh-cut grass and the exhaust of a passing car. I heard the traffic, the wings of a bird flying

overhead, the sound of my own heart. I touched my shoes, a tree root, the dirt, the dirt, the dirt, dirt, my face. Then I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was a woman standing on the sidewalk across the street. She was obviously out for a run, wearing shorts and a shirt that exposed her navel. She had stopped and was adjusting her earphones while looking at her phone. This woman looked very healthy, especially in comparison to everyone else. There also seemed to be nothing slithering within her stomach. I then questioned what I had seen earlier. Perhaps I was still suffering from side effects. My legs were shaky, but I had calmed down. I walked back to the sidewalk and was thinking about Damien. I was so confused and the only thing I understood was that I did not want

anything to be wrong with him. I heard the droning engine of an approaching airplane. It was a very loud, and upon looking up, I saw it was up flying close to the ground. It wasn't a commercial plane. It was smooth, triangular, and black as obsidian. Behind it, a single stream of vapor had been released, and there were tiny dark objects peppering this cloud. I watched in awe as the airplane passed, and the objects spiral downward.

For a moment, I thought it was beautiful. Those little round things like black sun, snow, descending slowly and drifting a little with the breeze. But as they got closer, I started to see that they had legs circling their bodies. My eyes widened and I pressed my hands into my mouth. I looked over at the woman who was still standing there, looking at her phone. She was completely oblivious. I began waving my arms at her. She looked at me, gave me a quizzical expression, and I pointed to the sky. She followed my finger, blinked, and returned her gaze to me. She shook her head and turned her attention back to her phone. She couldn't see them. And they were almost upon us. I looked all

around, considered running, but there were so many I knew I wouldn't be able to get away from them. I looked one more time at the woman, pleaded inwardly that she would somehow notice, and one of them then landed on my shoulder. I grabbed and felt its slick body in my palm. I didn't even wait to examine the thing. I crushed it and turned it to a sparkling powder that ran between my fingertips. But there were more scurrying all over the concrete like stone-colored cockroaches. I stomped on them, felt several rush up my legs, and I mashed them with my fists. They were everywhere. Each time I crushed one, they turned to that same powder that glittered lordly in the sunlight. My eyes shot back to the woman to see if she at least felt them.

But there was one scuttling down her chest, moving over her bare skin of her stomach, and she didn't even twitch. I watched helplessly as it got closer and closer to her belly button. Then it entered her. Its many legs parted her flesh before its body, squirmed inside and pulled the skin back into place behind itself. All she did in response was reach down and scratch, as if all she had experienced was nothing more than a mosquito bite. I was horrified and still stomping at the swarm that was attacking me. With my left hand, I covered my

own stomach, hoping that it was the only point of entry for these sinister creatures. Eventually, their numbers dwindled until there were none left, and I was left alone once again on the sidewalk. My breath came out in ragged bursts, and I reeled on my weak legs. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I saw that the powder the strange insects had been turned into was now evaporating into nothingness. I was exhausted, but was also terrified another black airplane would fly over, so I ran the rest of the way home. Once there, I slammed the door and locked it before throwing myself back into bed.

I crawled beneath the covers and hucked myself. The experience had rendered me inert, but sleep was out of the question. My thoughts turned again to Damien. He was carrying one of those things, and I knew I knew I had to do something about it. I made plans and discarded. them one after another. I knew I couldn't take Damien to the hospital, considering that only I could

see these things. The medical staff would think that I was insane. I couldn't go to the police for the same reason. I had no friends, no family. I was completely alone. Maybe I was insane. Maybe I was just hallucinating. Maybe this was all just a final symptom of getting off my medication. But of course, the alternative was just as likely. Maybe I was lucid. Maybe what I saw was actual reality. Maybe my medication was given to me with the express intent of keeping me from seeing these things. It would have been so easy to bury my head in a pillow and pretend that it was merely my own bereaved mind. I would have done that, if not for Damien. I couldn't risk the possibility that there was indeed a parasite crawling around inside him, draining him of life, aging him

beyond his years, stealing him from me. The hours ticked by and I was able to formulate a single plan, one that I was deeply dissatisfied with, but I couldn't come up with anything better. It was very dangerous. I knew that, and there was a chance that Damien wouldn't allow me to enact it. It ultimately hinged on him and the answer he would give to the one question that had defined our relationship until that day. I rested and ran it through my mind over and over again, trying to prepare for all directions it could take. When I had 30 minutes left, I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I got the bottle of alcohol out from under the sink.

I clipped my fingernails, washed my hands and arms in as hot of water as I could take. I went to the kitchen and got the pairing knife I always used. I knew it was the sharpest, but I still looked at the edge, turning the blade over in my hands so that the light danced upon the metal. I had used it so often throughout the years, yet this felt like the first time I had ever laid eyes on it. Sighing, I took the knife to the sink and poured alcohol over it. When I had everything ready, it wasn't long until I heard Damien unlocking the door. My heart felt like a rubber ball driveling down a corridor with walls closing in.

I focused on my breathing, and he called out to me. He sounded tired yet happy. I couldn't help the wine that rose out of my mouth. I'm in the kitchen, I replied. Can you come here? He rushed in, his shoes still on, jacket halfway removed, a look of alarm flashing over his sickly face. He asked if I was okay, and I smiled at that. He was always so caring. my eyes left his face and found his stomach. The wriggling thing was there, making his shirt strain against the buttons, making the fabric flow so that it pained me to imagine his skin beneath. I told him I was okay. He sighed in relief and finished pulling off his jacket. He folded it and placed it neatly on the counter before walking up to me. I stepped toward him with such determination I could see that it startled him, which was further exacerbated when I placed one of my hands on his shoulder. He froze and stared deep into my eyes. Before he could speak, I shushed him

and asked him to listen to me without an eruption. Then I described everything that I witnessed that day. I spared no details. I even explained my feelings and thoughts about it all. His eyes did not leave mine for a second. He didn't laugh or gas or even move his lips. But I could see the fright twist in his pupils. I saw what color there was left in his face, drain away, and I felt when he touched his stomach with a tentative hand. When I finished, I fell silent and tried very hard to stop my knees from knocking. He asked me if I thought it all was real. I told him I did. I asked him if he believed me. He looked at the floor, looked at my face. He reached out and ran his fingers along the arm that led to my hand on his shoulder. He said he did.

I went cold all over, knowing the time had come to ask the real question, the one that held everything up like the thinnest most brittle wire. My voice shivered. with it. Do you trust me? Without a second of hesitation, he nodded. I pulled his shirt up, exposed his navel, and brought the knife from behind my back. He grunted. I slashed him across the belly and moved with him as he scrambled backwards. I reached into the hot slit. I felt around my hands seeking and seeking and finding, that disgusting, slithering monster. I clutched it tightly, felt it thrash about as it violently tried to escape my grip. I yanked it free, and Damien sank to his heels, clutching at his bleeding stomach.

But I only saw him briefly. My eyes were consumed by the image of the grotesque worm caught between my fingers. It was long and rubbery, his skin bright with flashing spots that alternated madly with glittering colors. At one end it had four blooming lips that spread open to reveal tiny rows of serrated teeth. I slapped it on the tiles and held it down with one hand, found the knife with the other. I stabbed it and it shrieked, voice shrill like metal scraping. I stabbed it again and again and it did not bleed. As its writhing slowed, the sparkling speckles began to fade.

And when the creature was fully dead, it disintegrated into a pool of gray ash on the floor. I didn't waste time looking at it. I sprang to where Damian lay, pulling dish towels from my back pockets that I pressed against his wound. I looked at his face and saw his eyes dimmed in shock. I started to cry, but pulled my phone out anyway and began dialing 9-1-1. one. He reached out with a slow, cold hand to stop me. And a weak voice, he said, tell them I fell on the knife. It was an accident. Tell them. And I'll tell them that too. I pressed my forehead to his, closed my eyes and nodded. I called for an ambulance. We were. We were. We were a little bit of a

We waited together, alone before the world, and completely within each other's hands. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons. alike 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.