Creepy - In The Glow of the Campfire

Episode Date: July 6, 2026

In The Glow of the Campfire (starts at 2:15)***Written by: Tom Moran and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Content warning: domestic abuse***The Burls (starts at 36:57)***Written by: Ryan Peacock and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Everything is Fine (starts at 1:05:28)***Written by: Emily Smiley***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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

Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Lainey Bug, Nicholas Waller, Melanie, Leslie Hecker, and Keith Folks. All patrons get immediate access to our ad-free feed and all of our past Sunday and Wednesday episodes to listen to without commercial interruptions. These episodes are also available in advance to all patrons. And everyone gets a shout-out as thanks for support. If you'd like to donate a little bit more to the show, you also open up tiers that include up to four new weekly bonus episodes on top of our regular episodes, as well as immediate access to our entire bat catalog of over 1,700 Patreon exclusive narrations.

Whoa. All right, that number surprised me a little too. To see how you can support the show and get even more content, please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. And a quick thank you to everyone who's been sending in their 31 days of horror stories. Spots have been filling up quicker this year than ever before, so please get your stories in ASAP before we run out of space. Okay, first up. A teenage girl reluctantly goes on a remote camping trip alone with her father after a devastating family argument,

only to realize that the growing sense of dread she's been fighting may be warning her of something far worse than she imagined. from writer Tom Warren and narrated by Danielle Hewitt, Creepy presents in the glow of the campfire. I've often heard people who suffer traumatic experiences, and I mean the real, dark, nasty stuff that leaves a permanent, oily, inky stain in your life. Say the day began like any other.

When I was younger, mom and I used to curl up on the sofa in our pajamas to binge watch true crime shows and play a little drinking game. Not with liquor as I was too young, but with shots of pop. Each of us taking a sip when one of the talking heads used that phrase. Giggling like children to cope with the heinousness of the crimes described, and to mask the serapionese we felt being two women, alone, late at night. The wide, dark world outside and all of its horrors.

Seeking entrance as we waited for Dad, our great protector, to return from work. I won't begin my story like that. That morning, I awoke from a terrible nightmare, so potent that it left me teary-eyed and shaken for several minutes. Even after I had showered, dressed, and crammed down my breakfast. I tried to remember what horror my subconscious had conjured that had left me so shaken. But any scenes or emotions remained in the periphery of my consciousness, bluttering away from my mental grasp, like the dying embers of a camping. fire drifting into a starless night. I made my way downstairs to find mom busying herself in the

kitchen, the way she does when something is bothering her. She reminded me that we were heading out camping after school, and that I needed to come right home, no dawdling with my friends. In that instant, the lingering dread from my dream and the anxiety surrounding this ill-advised mini-vacation coalesced into raw panic. When my parents first proposed the weekend trip, I assumed it was an attempt to rekindle their relationship. After all, we hadn't been camping in years, and those were happier times,

before the shouting, the tears, and the creeping, ever-present threat of real violence. The thought of being trapped in the wilderness with nowhere to escape while the two of them bickered, was just too much. As I stumbled towards the door that morning, late to the bus stop as usual, I paused in the doorway and watched my mom as she labored at the stove, making my dad an omelet, her overlong concert tea,

a threadbare remnant from her youth, hanging just above the hem of her pink shorts. While the contents of the pan sizzled, she scooped up our catmister boots from the island counter and stroked his fur. God. That picture of her is burned into my brain. A potent after image I now use as a mental screen saver for better times. Not knowing why, but so glad that I did.

I said I love you, to which she offered a small, sad smile and told me not to miss the bus again. Had I missed the bus, would it have happened? Would this be a totally different type of story? I don't know. That day I flitted from class to class. My thoughts scattered and clouded by a lingering unease. Then, during third period, my skin became hot and my nerves sizzled with nervous energy, as if experiencing a prolonged adrenaline rush.

My body, one click away from a fight-or-flight response, despite no tangible threat. Years ago while walking home from a friend's house just down the street, I was overcome with the most intense feeling that someone was following me, that I was in imminent danger. But as my panic welled and my pace quickened, I couldn't identify a cause. Later, it was all over the news.

A little girl, around eight, disappeared from the neighborhood while out playing in her yard. They never found her. That day, I learned not to ignore my gut. The feeling persisted until, finally, I finished my last period, creative writing class with Mr. Neville, and the bell rang, sending my classmates bolting from their chairs, shouldering their bags as they chatted, excited for the weekend. I forced a smile as I said goodbye to my friends, agreed to text if I had service, then spilled out of the building with the hordes. There was a single text notification from my mom, and as I stumbled onto the bus, I clicked on to the bus, I clicked. The message.

Felt my stomach royal. Dad and I had a fight. I'm going out for the weekend. He's taking you camping. I fired off my reply, ignoring the tears welling up, argued that I didn't want to go alone with him. Why couldn't I go with her instead? It's for the best.

Love you. Mom and dad had been arguing, or more accurately, "'Mom and dad were locked in a year-long war. "'It was obvious that their 16-year relationship "'had passed its expiration date, "'and both were too stubborn to be the first one to admit it. "'Each clutching to the past transgressions,

"'like a hand of cards, neither winning, "'each too prideful to fold. "'Sure, I'd begin to suspect "'that it would be better for them to go their separate ways. "'Especially after one of their recent spats "'resulted in a shattered casserole dish. "'Its crimson contents splashed across the kitchen like the fallout from a murder, as well as a fist-sized hole in the hallway drywall.

I could still remember the happier times. And the thought of us ceasing to be a family, of me splitting time at different homes, left me gutted. But in the end, I was mature enough to recognize that it would be for the best. When I stepped off the bus, I discovered Dad sitting at the top step of the front porch. A cigarette between his pursed lips, a stained ball cap, hold low on his brow, obscuring his eyes and masking his expression. He stood, licked the butt of his cigarette into the lawn, and approached his truck. He coughed, asked if I got Mom's text.

Yeah, just let me drop my bag off. I began before he interrupted with, Bring it with you, he replied. I ignored his directive, brushed by him as I continued up the two steps to the front door. I just need a few. Hey, we don't have time to waste we're heading out now. I've got all your stuff packed up and in the truck already. Even stopped at the store and bought food and any toiletries we might need.

We want to get a move on if we're going to get the camp set up before dark. Sun sets at seven. I paused. My hand outstretched. My fingers curled around the doorknob, fighting the compulsion to ignore him. To retreat inside, just to spite him. I often wonder how the outcome of that weekend would have changed had I gone with my instinct and entered the house. Instead, I made my way to the truck, tossed my knapsack in the back with the camping supplies, and climbed into the seat.

The cloying smell of old cigarette smoke and spearmint made it difficult to breathe, and I cracked my window. Dad slid behind the wheel and adjusted his ball cap, exposing his eyes, puffy and bloodshot. I tried not to stare. Understanding now, how bad this last fight must have been. Understanding now why mom was not there, why dad was acting so strangely. I realized that this was the moment when dad would tell me that they were calling it quits,

that although they still loved each other, they were no longer compatible, and were going their separate ways, blah, blah, blah. Whatever excuse they came up with, with. It didn't matter. This would be the end. However, the discussion never came.

Although throughout the first hour of our drive, with country playing softly over the truck's tinny speakers, he inhaled like he was about to say something important. Before the words became lodged in his throat, where did Mom go? I finally asked, staring out the window at the smudge of passing trees in distant hills, twisting the silver heart ring mom had given me for my 13th birthday. It had become a nervous habit.

Dad frowned and turned off the radio. Your aunts. Is she staying for the weekend? I think so, he muttered, tapping a pack of marlboroughs against his thigh, sliding out a smoke and placing it between his pursed lips. Must have been one hell of a fight. I managed after a moment.

I turned to face and, him studying his expression. Mm-hmm. His reply was simple. But his expression? He looked lost. We drove on, Dad chained smoking the rest of the ride. The hum of the engine and the rumble of the tires over the uneven and cracked pavement

providing the soundtrack to the awkward, suffocating silence between us. We arrived at Camps Gadetamuch, around four, and Dad eased into the empty gravel parking area. pulling into a spot beneath two towering oaks, their massive limbs, bereft of foliage, but stippled with green buds. Although we had visited several camps over the years, Camp Skadetamuch was always his favorite, as it was in a popular spot, which meant fewer campers,

fewer chances for an interaction to turn contentious. When I was younger, I overheard my parents discussing why many avoided it, whispered concerns about missing campers and hikers from mom. Dad arguing that it was idiots who wandered too far off the path, becoming lost. Friends at school spread hushed stories of vicious murders and beastly maniac that stalked the woods. This piqued my imagination, and my 10-year-old brain conjured the legend of a supernatural killer prowling the forest at night, moving through the trees like wind, stalking campers before snatching them away, devouring them in some dink cave-like layer.

I even wrote a story about it for school, in which a family of campers was picked off one by one, in increasingly grisly ways, a story that my teacher, Mr. Johnson, presented to my parents with equal parts pride and concern. That year we camped at Wachusitz instead. Dad turned the truck off and placed the keys in his pocket, took a deep breath before saying,

Let's go find a good spot. He stared through the windshield at something only he could see. With that, he opened the door and slid out of his seat. I followed, and I was about to close the door when I noticed it. Dad's revolver sat on the car seat. Its nickel-plated finish catching the gleam of the setting sun, momentarily blinding me. The weapon had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been passed down from my pap pap when dad turned 18 as a sort of right of manhood.

My father carried it with him wherever he went, and we were accustomed to seeing it on either his person or around the house. He had always brought it when we went camping. I looked more closely, my breath catching in my throat. The muzzle, stippled in a dark, rust-colored matte stain, one that looked as if it would flake off if scraped by a fingernail. I've always had a bit of a morbid outlook, possibly due to my lifelong obsession with true crime and real-life horrors, you know,

mass murderers, serial killers, and other monsters that hunt in human skin. This tiny blotch could have been caused by any number of things. Innoculous reasons that didn't involve murder. Catch up. Mud? Paint. Heck, just a few weeks earlier, Dad had used it to dispatch a deer that he had found wounded

at the side of the road. But despite my attempts to rationalize it as something innocent, a dark suspicion had taken root. And I knew just how to prove, or disprove it. Dad, I need to use the bathroom. I said as I reached into the back of the truck, grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the shopping bag, and made my way through the waist-high tangle of brush

and into the surrounding woods. Concealed behind a tree a few dozen yards away from the clearing, I pulled my phone from my pocket, watched as my father busied himself at the forest's edge, and opened the contact that said Mom and tapped it. Please, Mom, answer. I begged as I waited for the click of a connected call in the sound of her voice. And then it happened. Dad glanced around him to see if I was watching before reaching into his pocket and producing a phone.

Mom's phone. The one with the soiled pink case with the fading I love you lettering that I gave him for Mother's Day the year before. Dad glanced at the screen frowning before slipping it back into his pocket. A cry escaped my lips, and I raised my hand to stifle the sobs racking my body, hoping he didn't hear, unable to accept the mounting evidence. Why would he have her phone? And when did he take it?

An even more sinister question came to me, one that made my stomach churn. Where was Mom? I knew that I had to stay calm, that I couldn't afford to tip my hand and reveal that I knew something was wrong. I slipped my phone back into my pocket, turned and ran the sleeve of my jacket over my eyes to wipe away the tears, and thanked God that I hadn't worn any makeup today, as bleeding mascara would have surely given me away. It was then I noticed him. A figure stood on the hill above me, just inside the tree line. its lanky frame nearly silhouetted against the murky sky.

Long black hair hung in clumped tendrils to its waist, blowing in the chilled breeze and masking its face except for one red eye. Although it was difficult to be certain, he seemed to be naked. His bone-white skin nearly glowing against the dark backdrop of tree trunks. Impossibly thin. Skeletal, really. It's sinewy musculature, reminding me of photos I'd seen of mummified remains. The Camp Skadetamooch killer from my childhood.

Almost exactly how I'd imagined him. I froze, unable to move, not sure if the man had spotted me or not, praying that he would just wander off. You okay in there? Dad called from the woodline, and I turned for a moment to face him. Coming. I shouted. I turned back and the figure was gone,

and I wondered if he'd ever been there at all, or if the stresses of the day had me seeing things. My mind drifted to the stories about missing campers as I rushed away from the scene and back to our campsite. Did you get lost? Dad asked as I approached. Why do you have Mom's phone? It came out like a sneeze, abrupt, and with no warning.

I was startled to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I expected shock for him to stammer as he tried to come up with an excuse that didn't implicate him in something terrible. Instead, he sighed, reached into his pocket and withdrew it, handing it to me. Here, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but she threw it at me after she texted you. Before she stormed out of the house. She left it on the floor, and I picked it up and was going to be. going to give it to you to give back to her. I took the phone, ran my fingers over the spider-cracked screen and hit the power button. The screen glowed, an almost incomprehensible mosaic of pixels,

the app's unreadable. His story made sense. How bad was this fight? I asked. My face hot, embarrassed that I could suspect him of something so horrible. He didn't speak, just raised his stubbled chin, revealing his red-rimmed glassy eyes. His expression one of total heartache. I nodded, swallowed down my own hurt. It took us about an hour to set up camp. Dad built the campfire and helped me unload the truck and set up the tents before we set off to gather kindling. I walked in the opposite direction, more to escape the painful awkwardness gathering between us, stopping here and there to sweep up some dried branches for the fire as I meandered through the leafless forest, my mind drifting to my childhood.

Times when mom and dad were happy and in love, and I was young and oblivious, and we were a family. Before the fractures and the escalating unquiet. I was heading back to camp when a bit of color that didn't belong caught my eye. I moved further into the grass, at first thinking that I had encroached onto another's campsite, ready to apologize. The simple blue dome tent, much like mine, its flap partially opened, the interior dark, sat in the center, looking inoculus until I noticed the ragged holes through the flap.

I approached, stepping over a long-dead campfire, the charred remnants of logs strangled by dead vines, and peered into the gloom. Jump-backed when the dying sunlight highlighted the dark brown stain stippling the interior and splattered across the shredded sleeping bag. The site had been unoccupied for quite some time. But why had it been left here? And the stains.

It seemed obvious to me that they were blood. Who did they come from? A rustle in the woods just a few yards off, something large, and then a low growl. I turned from the deserted campsite and made my way back. I returned to camp just after dark to find, Dad crouched around the fire, the smell of bacon and ham wafting from the pan he held above the roaring flame. There's another tent out there, I said dropping the kindling. I didn't mention the blood. He froze, his eyes growing wide, lips pursing. More campers? No, it looks like it's been there

for a while. It's pretty ratty, and the fire's overgrown. His expression softened as he turned his attention back to the fire. He explained that there had been a flood a couple years back and some people had to evacuate, that there are probably a few old campsites around here. Here, he said handing me a plate before cracking another egg into the pan. Breakfast for dinner. My favorite. And an obvious olive branch from Dad. We ate in relative silence, neither knowing what to say. Dad staring off and passed the fire into the encrouching twilight, likely agonizing over how to begin the conversation, I guess. I decided to help him out.

So, what happens when we go back? I asked between bites. We can't go back. In the glow of the campfire, his features look distorted, menacing. I paused, the eggs now feeling mushy and unpalatable in my mouth. What? I mean, we can't go back to the way it was before. You realize that, yeah?

I nodded, still unnerved by his choice of wording. I needed something to wash down the lump of food caught in my throat. So I stood and made my way to the cooler, opened it, and grabbed a drink. Inside were over a dozen bottles of water and soda. What I didn't find was any more food. Although we were supposed to be camping until Sunday, Dad had only brought enough for dinner. What were we supposed to eat for our next several meals? Why wouldn't he pack more?

Because he doesn't plan on us living that long. The intrusive thought hit me like a gut punch. Grabbing a cola, I closed the cooler and returned to my seat, trying to remain calm despite being at the edge of panic. I told myself I was being silly, that this was just another misinterpretation, that I was struggling with the imminent end of my parents' marriage, and my imagination was working overtime to create a villain to blame.

fabricating fantastical nightmares to avoid dwelling on the very real one I was living through. Just beyond the brushline, a thin, pale form stood between two trees observing our camp. I leaned closer, watched as it extended an impossibly long arm, its fingers, each terminating in long, black claws, clutching a tree. What, Dad said as he turned to follow my gaze. Someone's in the woods. There's no one else out there. We're completely alone. He stood and marched to the clearing.

While he explored the brush with his flashlight, I moved to his pack and grabbed the sheathed buck knife he left beside it, secreting it beneath my jacket and the waistband of my jeans before he turned around. Must have been a dear, he said as he sat down, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his bag, and took a deep swig. I knew that with each sip. he would be even worse company. Alcohol fueled his ill-temper.

I decided that it was time to take my leave. Dad didn't seem to notice as he took another swig from the bottle. I slipped into my tent and zipped the flap up behind me. I spread out my sleeping bag, but I had no intention of sleeping. No, there was too much on my mind. I took Mom's phone, ran my fingers over the case, wished I was with her instead.

The feeling of being in the path of catastrophe had lingered, intensified, and I struggled to remain calm, to keep my fight-or-flight instincts in check. Something was terribly wrong, but what? Sure, Dad was acting strangely, but I was misinterpreting the signs. Was he just wrestling with grief from his ruined marriage? The phone buzzed in my hand, startling me. I dropped it onto my lap. The bump must have jostled something, as the part of the screen became clear, displaying a single text message before it turned black.

I blinked, unable to believe what I'd seen, covering my mouth as the tears formed. It was from Claire, my aunt, and the all-caps text read, Where are you? I kicked out, pushed myself away from the phone as if it were hot and could burn me. Apparently mom had intended to visit my aunt, but she never made it. The contents of my stomach writhed like eels as I considered a plausible explanation. Did she get caught in traffic? Was she injured in an accident?

Did she ever leave the house? From outside the tent, the silvery clink of an empty bottle being dropped and quiet sobbing. An idea came to me then. I had my phone and was searching through my apps before I lost my nerve. Before the part of me that wanted to pretend like nothing was wrong, shut it down. Last year, Dad installed cameras in the house after a series of break-ins on our street. Although he never paid for the subscription that would allow him to save recordings, we were able to access an app that showed the live feed.

The last time I had used it, I was trying to see if I would beat my parents home after I stopped off at Timmy Brinkler's house on the way home from school. My pulse pounded in my ears as I touched the icon, twisted my ring on my finger as I waited for the app to boot up. After the title screen, it switched to a series of tiles depicting still images of several rooms. I pushed to one for the kitchen, held my breath as the image materialized. At first, everything seemed normal. Then I saw the single shattered dish on the floor in the overturned stool. And just like that, my mind quickly.

cracked with it. I chose the next view, the living room, and clutched both hands over my mouth, choked back the scream that exploded behind my clenched lips. Mom sat on the sofa, wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw her, appearing by all intents and purposes, to have knotted off while watching TV. If not for the gaping hole in the back of her skull and the mosaic of gore splattered on the wall behind her. Her shoulders slumped, her head down, her jaw slack and drooling red. Facing the floor below her were a puddle of something dark, and glistening stained the carpet, bled out onto the hardwood.

Mr. Brutes crouched at the edge, innocently lapping up the mess. I don't know how long I stared at the stagnant image of my mother, willing her to get up and move. Unable to accept that she was really gone. Incapable of accepting why she was gone, who had taken her from me. I struggled to breathe. The tent closed in around me and my arms and legs felt heavy, waited. My thoughts are dizzying jumble. I'm next. The gun. The last meal. The remote location. It all made sense now. The thought spurred me into action, and I closed the app and dialed 911. As I waited for the call to connect, I listened.

Outside the tent, an eerie hush had fallen over the forest. Absent was the whisper of the breeze through the bare treetops or the chirps of crickets. When the dispatcher picked up, I turned my back to the entrance of the tent, cupped the phone and whispered that I was at Camp Skadetamuch. And my mom was dead, and someone was trying to kill me. Before I could give her any more information, I heard the soft crunch of approaching footsteps, and I slipped the phone still connected into my jacket pocket.

I remembered the knife and I pulled it from its sheath, held it out in front of me like a talisman, like it would do anything to ward off the hell approaching. I knew ache? Dad's slurred voice was little more than a whisper. I held my breath, worried that he would hear my rabbit heart thumping. Silence. Then I watched, transfixed, as a shadow fell over the tent.

As the flap rippled, the zipper pull swinging pendulum-like, as he ever so slowly pulled it to the side. Obviously trying not to wake me, so the coward could finish his sick plan without looking me in the eyes, without seeing my pain and terror, like he had with mom. I coughed, hoping that the sound would deter him. It worked and the zipper stopped. Honey, I'm so sorry, he sobbed. You have to believe me.

I love both of you so much. I just, just... Then nothing. Had he walked away? Was I wrong about his intentions? The second. Seconds ticked by, and I realized that I was holding my breath. The 911 dispatcher's muted voice hummed from my pocket,

and I twisted to grab my phone, this small adjustment and posture saving my life. A metallic click. Then four loud pops, searing pain in my shoulder-blade and above my ear, something warm and hot running down my cheek as I tumbled deeper into the tent. My ear's ringing. I put my hand to my shoulder, winced as my feet. fingers brushed the wound and felt my head, relieved to discover a shallow furrow, despite the

blood pouring from the gash. A strange calm settled over me as I kicked into survival mode, my mind unwilling to register that I had been shot, that it had been my dad pulling the trigger. More sobbing as the zipper moved again. Dad, checking on his work. I gripped the knife, coiled up and prepared to strike. As the flap fell, I sprang forward, kicked out as hard as I could, catching him in the chin, knocking him backward, the gun flying from his hand. I leapt from the tent and hit the ground running without a sense of direction, colliding with a thin sapling before bounding off into a gap in the brush. The moon above doing little to light my path. The only sound, the crunch of my footsteps, and the thudding of my heart in my ears. Dad tackled me from behind.

Mounted me as I squirmed to get away, the searing pain in my shoulder pushing me to the precipice of consciousness. Wrapping his hands around my neck, he squeezed and leaned in close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my face. Smell the liquor that fueled his assault. I'm sorry, he blubbered, gritting his teeth, plumes of his breath rising like smoke from his nostrils in the cold night air. Something shrieked in the distance, an animal-like and primal sound.

My vision closed. My eyes teared. And I felt the last of my consciousness slipping away. Then a splash of heat across my face as a spurting smile opened up beneath his unshaven chin. Dad's eyes bulged and his body shuddered as if struck. and he rolled off me. His mouth working, but, emitting no words, only a wet gurgle. Standing above him, its claws slick with blood, its pale flesh seemingly a glow in the moonlight,

stood the Camp Skadatamooch killer, just as I had imagined him all those years ago. His stringy black hair parted, revealing two red eyes like dying embers, an impossibly wide and jagged mouth of sharp teeth. It grinned, nodded at me, before turning its attention to Dad. Jesus was all that Dad could muster before it was upon him. Its claws slashing and gouging over and over,

sinking into him before reappearing full of glistening coils, tossing them aside, rendering him both figuratively and literally gutless. I watched Dad's grisely. end with a sense of detachment, as if I was watching a movie play out before me. I pushed myself away from the carnage and sat against the trunk of a tree, as the pain from my wounds, both physical and psychological, became too much, and I mercifully lost consciousness. I don't remember anything after that point. The circuit breaker that protects my mind from overload,

having apparently popped. According to the detective who interviewed me later, an older, heavyset man who reminded me of my grandfather. A park ranger had found me back in my tent, covered in blood, and kept me warm until the police and emergency services arrived. As luck would have it, the police were already looking for both of us.

After sending her text, my aunt called the police and requested a wellness check. One that led a rookie. to discover mom's body. They found most of dad just beyond the campfire. His remaining hand reaching up in defense. His body completely opened up in void of contents. His head nearly hacked from his neck.

When the story finally reached the news, the police concluded that he had been mauled by some animal, possibly a bear, a miraculous happenstance considering that he was planning to do that to me if he had lived. Being a juvenile, my name was omitted from the articles in my face blurred news reports. But it didn't take long for the word to spread in my tiny town. For the other kids and teachers to start talking.

I didn't have to listen to the noise for long. Once the investigation was closed, I moved in with my aunt, a saint of a woman who had spent the last several years supporting me in my recovery. The reports never mentioned the feral man I had described, or the fact that I was found clutching my father's knife, or that while performing the autopsy, the coroner had discovered something deep in my dad's abdominal cavity. My ring.

And next, a wildlife photographer's routine assignment in the wetlands uncovers an impossible pattern hidden among the ancient trees, leading to a discovery that forever changes how he views the wilderness. From writer Ryan Peacock and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant, Creepy presents The Burles To Kyle Vidal

at Conservationonterio.ca From Nico Lee at Conservation Ontario dot CA Hey Kyle I got your voicemail earlier today

I'm sorry I wasn't able to call you back at the time I hate doing this by email but maybe it's better this way It's easier to get my thoughts out like this than in person. It feels easier to write it all down than to have to say it over the phone. Ask me to explain this on the spot, and I don't think I could ever find the words. Hell, I'm not sure that the right words even exist.

I understand if you're upset by my resignation. I know I told you that this job was everything I wanted, and I wasn't lying. when I said that. But I need you to understand now that I cannot go back into the woods. I won't. You asked me about what happened to me the other day, and I feel I owe you an explanation.

But it's harder to articulate than you could imagine. It's not so much what I saw out there as what I've been seeing. It's what I now know. know is out there. It's not an easy thing to just explain. So, I'll start at the beginning. Do you remember back in late June, early July? You sent me out towards Port Rowan to catch some pictures of the wildlife in the wetlands. Honestly, I was happy to get the call. I've always liked that area. And I'd like to think I know.

it pretty well. I meant it when I said I didn't mind spending a few days out there. I don't think enough people really appreciate the beauty of the wetlands in Lake Erie's coastal basin, but I do. I've been out in that area enough to know where to set up to get some decent shots. There are some decent paths consistently used by wildlife out there, and they haven't changed much over the years. I followed one of them down into this gorgeous area of marsh that's good for catching photos of smaller wildlife, such as frogs, bugs, turtles, and even some snakes. Every now and then, you'll even get some deer in the area. I set up a spot nearby where I could sit undisturbed and take my pictures. On my first day out, I got lucky and saw a small group of deer. I saw a small group of deer out near the edge of the water around sunset.

I remember that they had passed in front of a dead-looking tree with twisted bark and a massive burl that bulged out of its midsection. Do you remember those shots? I think I sent them to you either that evening or the evening after. You should be able to see the tree I was talking about in the background. Normally, I wouldn't bother. bringing up the tree at all, since normally it wouldn't exactly be noteworthy. I've seen burles like that before. They're interesting, but nothing special.

Sure, this one was one of the bigger ones I've ever seen, but even that isn't all that special. I can't say I paid all that much mind to it until a few days later when I came back to that spot. I'd set up some of my trail cameras in the area while I'd been out there on the first day, so I'd come back to pick them up. I was admittedly kind of hoping I could get some more good sunrise shots as well, although I remember that the marsh seemed a lot quieter than it had been before. I noticed it when I was heading down to collect the cameras. Not going to lie, I was kind of.

Kind of disappointed. Like I said, I really liked that area. And I was a little surprised to hear absolutely nothing except my own footsteps as I went back out there. No birds, no animals. Come to think of it, I don't even think I heard any crickets buzzing in the area. There's a really distinct line between the comforting silence of the forest and just absolute dead silence.

And I remember thinking that something was wrong, although I honestly couldn't take a guess as to what. Once I had all my cameras, I ventured back out into the same part of the marsh that I'd been in the other day, hoping I'd find something. But I just found more uncomfortable silence. Writing this down, I remember now that I didn't hear a single other sound

besides the plop of my own boots in the mud. I'd found a vantage point to wait around for a bit and was hoping that whatever had scared everything off would pass. But I must have been out there for about 45 minutes before I gave up. It was while I was out in the marsh that I know noticed that tree again. Maybe if everything was normal, I wouldn't have paid it any mind. But since there was nothing else around, it really just seemed like the only thing I could

really focus on. Looking back at it, I wish I'd thought to take some pictures of that tree. But the idea honestly just never crossed my mind. It was splintered, as in mostly just a pile of broken splinters. Have you ever seen what happens to some trees when they're struck by lightning? The force of it just sort of blows them apart. The tree looked like that. I recognized some of the twisted bark on the sagging branches that were still intact,

but most of the trunk was just straight up gone. So was that massive burl. Now, considering how I compared that tree to one that had been struck by lightning, the answer as to what happened seemed pretty obvious. If it looks like it got struck by lightning, and it's been a particularly rainy summer with a lot of thunderstorms, Well, on paper, that sounds like some simple math. But I'd been in the area over the past few days.

We didn't have any thunderstorms. Hell, we hadn't even had any rain so far that week. Look, I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it at the time. I just mentally noted it as something weird before moving on with my day. I think I just dismissed it as lightning without thinking too hard about it and went about my day. Once I realized that there was nothing to photograph in the area, I went back to my motel to take a look at all the footage from my trail cams. You've probably seen the highlights of that footage.

There wasn't a lot there, but I did catch some really cool clips of a story. small group of deer heading up from the marsh. Then, there were a few clips where the camera was either set off by birds or squirrels. None of those were really usable, so I just deleted them. Honestly, most of the footage I got was pretty standard. With the exception of some of the last clips from Camera 4, See, camera four was the one closest to the marsh. I'd set it up about 15 meters from where I'd been taking my photographs,

and it watched the entrance to the deer trail. Most of the footage I got from it wasn't any different than what I'd got from the other cameras. There were those deer, I mentioned, some birds, squirrels, and one dragonfly who tripped the motion sensor. But near the end of the clips, there was one that was, well, it was really weird. The footage was timestamped around 3 a.m. The morning that I'd gone and picked up the cameras. This was about eight or so hours before I'd actually picked up the camera.

At first, it just looked like something small had tripped the motion sensor, although I couldn't get a good look at what. I rolled the footage back a couple of times, looking for a squirrel or a bird or something. It took me a while before I actually noticed there was something moving through the trees in the background. I watched that footage more times than I can count, and I still can't get a good look at exactly what it is.

But I know what it isn't. It isn't a deer, it isn't a squirrel, it isn't a bird, and it isn't a bug. Whatever it is, it blends in really well with the trees surrounding it. Well enough that it's hard to get a good guess as to the shape of it. But from my best guess, it was standing at around nine or ten feet tall. I think it was walking upright, although it also seems to lurch downward near the end of the footage and start crawling. In the footage, I can see it coming from the right side of the camera frame, crossing behind the trees a good 15 feet away from the camera

and ducking down to crawl before it slips out of frame. I've attached the footage to this email. I don't know what I expect you to do with it. I think it might be best you don't share it. I don't think it definitely proves anything. I'm sure people will claim to see all kinds of money, things out there. And that's just going to muddy the waters.

But I've been doing this for a long time, Kyle. I know the animals that live in this area, and that was not one of them. I still don't know what the fuck that thing was. Not for sure, anyway. Maybe that's for the best. I never really made any connection between the splintered burl and the thing I saw on my trail cameras until a couple weeks later.

I've got a friend who does some hunting up north named Roger. I don't see him all that often, so when he's in town, I'll usually go out of my way to grab a beer with him and shoot the shit. Our conversation almost inevitably turned to our time out in the world, since we both shoot animals in our own ways. And I'd mentioned having seen something odd on one of my trail cams. Well, as soon as I'd mentioned it, Roger just had to see it for himself.

I was still sober enough to drive, so we went back to my place and I dug up the footage on my laptop. The first time I played it, Roger just sat, there intently, keeping a close eye on it. Then, when I pointed out the thing moving in the background, he asked me to wind it back a bit. I did what he asked, and we watched that specific clip a few more times. Roger's eyes followed that thing very carefully,

and I could see him squinting, trying to figure out just what the hell. hell it was. He never seemed to come up with an answer that satisfied him, though. Eventually, he asked me to roll it back a bit farther, and I did. He asked me if these videos had sound. I told him that they did, and I turned it up so he could hear it better. That's when I finally heard it. About 15 minutes prior to that sighting of whatever it was that had a on the camera, there is a sound. Even with the volume all the way up, it was faint. But I felt sure that I recognized it. It was the sound of something falling, a tree. I could hear the distant crack as the wood was stretched and broken, and I could hear the rustle of leaves as they fell.

Something somewhere in that area had taken down a tree, and my mind immediately turned to that tree with the swollen burl that had been torn apart that day. Roger remained silent as he listened to the sounds of the tree being destroyed, a strange look on his face. His eyes were narrowed in thought, and I waited for him to speak. At last, he asked me if I noticed anything funny in that area when I'd collected the trail camera. Naturally, I told him about the tree I'd seen.

When I did, he got a really strange look on his face. It was then that he told me his own story, about finding a splintered tree in the woods, and I'll relay it here as best I can. Roger had been out hunting about a year or so back. He'd gone out with a couple of friends, just like they had a few thousand times before, so it really shouldn't have been any different. Only I guess, this time, it was.

They had a cabin out in the woods where they'd slept and taken care of their kills, and there was this tree not too far from it. They passed it on their usual trail into the woods. Now, this tree had its own massive burl that was almost as big as he was. He said he considered taking an axe to it just to see how much he could get for it. A good burl can fetch a lot of money, although he also said he'd never considered it that seriously.

Anyway, he is a good burl. and his buddy had gone out for the day and spent most of the day in the woods. On the way in, they passed the tree with the burl and hadn't thought a thing of it. They'd had a fairly normal day out, and his buddy had shot a ten-point buck. They were headed back when he said he heard a sound through the woods. The sound of splitting wood, followed by a falling tree. Now, Roger and his buddy hadn't known what the hell was going on. They weren't sure if someone had cut something down,

or maybe some old damaged tree had finally given out. Either way, the impact didn't really affect them, so they just continued on back to their cabin. Then, when they were headed up the trail back to their cabin, they saw it, broken wood all over the trail, and the tree that used to have that massive burl tipped over. He said that the way it had fallen had just barely missed the roof of their cabin. Neither of them could really figure out just what the hell had happened.

According to Roger, it was a perfectly sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, so there was no way in hell it could have been lightning. According to him, it just seemed as if the tree had just blown up. All that was left of the burl was some splintered wood, and he could have sworn that he saw a new path leading into the woods as if something big had ventured off in that direction, although he never said he saw anything out. there. He and his buddy had ultimately just shrugged their shoulders and carried on.

They were back home again the next day, and neither of them could figure out just what had happened to that tree. I can't imagine that either of them cared that much either, well, until Roger heard that same sound of splintering wood in my footage. We spent a good chunk of the night looking over that footage, I'd captured. But the best guess we had was that it might have been a distant bear. I don't think either of us believed that for a second. Whatever it is was too big to be a bear. But we didn't have a better answer. Eventually, I let Roger have my couch and drove him to the house he was staying in the next morning. We didn't talk about the things we'd seen. We didn't talk about the things

we'd seen in the woods. Despite all of this, I really wasn't against going back to the marshlands around Lake Erie when you brought it up. When you asked if I could go back, I meant it

when I said I'd be happy to. I knew I'd seen something weird out that way, but it wasn't like I had any real reason to be bothered by it. Honestly, I figured that the mystery beast Roger and I hadn't been able to identify was probably just a fluke, and I didn't think too much about the splintered trees.

There was probably a thousand rational explanations as to what caused those. Pressurized moisture in the burles, causing them to pop, maybe. I suppose it held as much water as any other theory I had. I didn't go out to the first. the same spot I'd gone to last time. It had been awfully dead before. I figured I might have better luck elsewhere. I tried a few different places throughout my first day there.

Didn't stay long in most of them. Some of them I'd been to before. Anything of note you should already know about. I sent you the pictures. I set up some trail cameras, too. along the most promising-looking spots I'd found. Most of them ultimately turned up some interesting finds, but one, camera six.

I'd run across another tree with a burl while I'd been following a deer trail that I'd found, looking for a good place for a camera. It wasn't the best spot, but the burl reminded me of the one I'd seen a few months back, It was swollen like a tumor and had almost completely swallowed up the entire tree trunk. Some part of me wanted to move on, find a better spot, and let whatever this was, lingering in the back of my mind, go. The rest of me wasn't so sure, and I figured, well, what the hell did I have to lose by indulging myself a little?

Yeah, I know it was a long shot. I know it might not have been the brightest idea, but it made sense at the time to set the camera up there. I figured that in a worst-case scenario, I'd have some unusable footage, and I'd need to rely on my other cameras to get something good. In a best case scenario, maybe I'd finally figure out what was going on with those burles. I honestly wasn't expecting much.

In my best case scenario, I'd probably have some video evidence of a lightning strike or some weird but otherwise perfectly mundane natural phenomenon where the tree just explodes for some goddamn reason. More than likely, I doubted I'd actually. see anything at all other than a tree with a pretty big burl in it. Nothing all that special. Honestly, I wish that's all that it was. I truly do.

I came back about two weeks later to pick up the trail cameras. The other cameras were fine. You got the highlights from those. But I never sent you anything from cable. Camera 6. When I returned to the spot where I'd set up Camera 6, I was greeted by the sight of splintered wood and a collapsed tree, just about the same thing I'd seen in that marsh a couple months back. I remember staring at it in complete awe. I honestly hadn't expected to catch anything, but, well, there it was.

The splintered tree told me that whatever it was, I'd been wondering about, was right there on that tape. And I couldn't have gotten it back to the car fast enough. I actually waited to collect my other cameras just to get to a place where I could set up my laptop and watch the footage back. I stopped off at the nearest Timmy's I could find, plugged the SD card in, put on my headphones,

and started speeding through that footage. You know what I expected. I don't think there's a single thing on God's green earth that could have prepared me for what I actually saw. I've debated whether or not to send you the video. I don't know if anyone else should. see what I've seen. I don't know if other people should know what I know,

because if they did, then like me, they won't be able to set foot in the woods again. If they knew what came out of that goddamn tree, they'd be as afraid as I am. I know that if you saw it, you would probably hand in your resignation too. I tell myself that, if we've gone this long without disturbing whatever it is that's out there,

then maybe we can do it forever. Maybe what I found was a fluke. I got lucky to run into this not only once but twice. After all, I've never heard anyone else describe anything like this, not in legends or anything else. Maybe it's better that people not know about them, because then they're more likely to leave them alone. They won't go looking for them and risk angering whatever is out there.

I don't know if that's a noble mindset or a crazy one. Shit, I don't know much about anything anymore. All I know is what I saw, On that video was the birth of something greater than us. I know that the ungodly skeletal thing that tore its way out of that tree snarling and hissing is not something that we can fight against. I knew it as I watched it free itself,

ripping through the bark of the tree and splintering it with its raw strength. I watched it tumble onto the ground, exposed bones made of something that looked like twisted and gnarled wood, although it must have been something much more durable. I watched it pick itself up and look around, trying to make sense of the world it had found itself in before on all four. it crawled off into the forest, leaving only its distorted whales. The whales quickly faded into the distance, and a heavy silence set in, as if every animal in the woods knew to avoid that area and what had just been born into it.

What I saw on that footage, Kyle, it looked a lot like a human baby. or at least the bones of a baby. But whatever it was, it was new. It had just been born into this world. Whatever it was, it was just a baby. And I can't stop wondering what it will become when it's all grown up. And finally, a therapy appointment forces one patient to confront a reality that no one else seems to see.

From writer Emily Smiley, creepy presents, everything is fine. He sits in a chair, gray microfiber, slightly understuffed. Akea, probably. He waits. I shift on the couch. The plethe freaks. He taps his pencil eraser against his notebook. Thump, thump, thump.

What brought you here today? The room reeks of a frieze and cheap cologne, synthetic ocean breeze and old spice. Thump, thump, thump. The stent of the room lodges itself in my throat. My eyes water as I struggle not to cough. It's not my first time, you know. The words squeeze out of me, a pointless, defiant, wheezing whisper.

Doing this, I waved my hand in the air. It looks like I'm trying to cast a spell to banish him. If only. Dump, dump, dump. How long has it been? Suddenly I feel like I'm in a confessional, enclosed space, dark wood paneling, old white guy with too much power. Forgive me, Father, for we all have sinned.

I shrug, trying to shake off the claustrophobic doom. A couple years? His pencil scratches across the paper, a fingernail pulling at a dry scamp. And how have those years been treating you? I sigh. The world is on fire, so not gross. I guess. What do you mean by On Fire?

He puts air quotes around On Fire. I don't know why. And I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I never have good ideas. Of course therapy wouldn't be any different. I look out the window. Glass pops like gunshots across the street. Ruby, golden, and amber flames erupt from the windows of the

elementary school. The mulch on the playground turns to ash as the swing sets crossbars drip yellow, orange, molten steel. A forge. Thank God it's after school hours. I still can't unsee the first time. Never sated, the flame stalked toward their next victim. A blue Chevy Malibu. The windows are down. Dum. Dum. Dum. My therapist is wearing a a blue button up covered in little rainbow trout or some shit. A kitchen timer in the shape of a tomato ticks beside him. His name is Greg Daniel. I'm not a fan of Greg, or his shirt, or his timer.

What do you mean by On Fire? He repeats, and there are those air quotes again. His pleaded khaki trousers whisper as he crosses his legs one over another. I look back outside, flames everywhere. At first they lick the car, testing, tasting. Then like a dog on a bone, the fire lunges and devours the microfiber interior. The windshield cracks, pops, shatters, dense black clouds stream out of the Chevy, stretching toward the sky. I turned my attention to a jogger in pink shorts bouncing down the grungy sidewalk.

her black ponytail swishes from side to side, brushing her shoulders in an even tempo. Like Greg, she doesn't see the fire, the danger. She just keeps jogging. I know what comes next and I want to look away, but I can't. I never can. Aeganizing heat? I say. The Malibu explodes, navy blue and cross.

home car parts are shrapnel. The driver's head mirror slams into the joggers right cheekbone, crushing her upper jaw. Molars fall from between her lips and bounce into the char grass. She notices me staring from the window. Blood pours from smiling lips. She waves. I wave back. Endless destruction.

I continue. An airborne wheel. rim slices the jogger's belly. A pear-shaped organ tumbles from her and flops on the sidewalk. Her intestines follow, but remain attached. They jaunts behind her as she continues on, slightly deflated balloon animals slapping against the concrete in her wake. Blood splatter paints her feet and ankles. Bile rises in my narrow throat. Acidic, painful. Greg doesn't. notice the jogger. Instead, he writes something else down. And the fire is what brought you here? The fire is half of what brought me here. I don't use air quotes, because the fire is real.

It's all real. Another quick glance out the window tells me the Malibu's explosion is bound to set off a chain reaction. The flames coming off the car continue to rise. Dirty smoke billows, thick, covering the sun's glaring light. But I know better than to expect sirens. What else brought you here then? I miss Greg's thumping eraser. The starving fire reaches its scouring fangs towards the next car in the parade of parallel parked vehicles, a silver BMWX3.

It's Greg's, I think. He grips his notepad a little tighter as his pencil flies across the page, jotting down more notes. I wonder why he needs to take so many notes. I can summarize my mental health in one word. Fucked. More jotting. More diagnoses.

More pills. Greg's tomato dings. That's our time. He slaps a hand on the bright red plastic fruit, slicing it. He grabs his briefcase and drops his pencil and pad of paper into it. I have another appointment across the city, so I need to jet. I stand facing the window. Another explosion shakes the building.

I bite my lip to keep from screaming as a silver car door slams against a double-pained window. A cracked spider web spreads across the glass, distorting my view. The door falls onto the sidewalk with a crunch. I trace the cracks with my fingertip. A smooth glass is unusually warm. warm. Greg doesn't move. Doesn't notice the cracking glass. Doesn't see the damage to his own car. Same time next week. I turn around and nod. See you then. He opens the door, waiting. The implication is obvious. Now get the fuck out of my office. I get the fuck out of his office. The hallway smells like

mothballs and mildew. Mold, too, maybe. Hard to tell. It all blends together into a musk of despair. Greg walks toward the elevator. I choose to take the stairs. It's five flights, but I prefer to avoid the awkwardness of sharing a small space with him. Something about it makes me not want to be too close. Besides, this cologne is truly appalling. I get into the lobby. and see him pause before crossing the street. It looks left. It looks right. I hold my breath.

Maybe he sees the bloody sausage-shaped splotches on the sidewalk. Maybe he notices his missing car door. Maybe he sees the flames. He walks across the street. Maybe he hears the jogger's uterus squelch as it squishes beneath his Louis Vuitton and brogues. I step outside. Greg mimes slipping his car key into an invisible lock.

My heart sinks into my gut. He pretends to open the door. The BMW's leather seats are a mess of melting hide in red-hot metal. The rubber of the tires have become one with the asphalt. His graying hair and polyester window trout shirt are already aflame. His skin sizzles. It smells like home. grilled steak, barbecue pork, and scorching summer heat.

Greg's fogged. He grabs the thermos from the cup holder. The plastic slides around his burning hands, trapping his fingers against it. He doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps going about his day like nothing's wrong, like his body isn't melting, like his world isn't on fire too.

My therapist twists the key in the ignition. The engine clicks once, twice, three times. It's overheated. If it catches, it won't last three blocks. I look down the sidewalk and consider following the jogger's bloody trail. See how far she got. But I think better of it. I know what lies at the end of that particular path.

Greg twists the key again. The engine turns over. satisfied in his ignorance he drives away a plume of smoke follows I turn my back on both the joggers and Greg's trail and walk along the sidewalk as the city continues to catch a beam of sunshine filters through the gray clouds and black smoke my neck stretches

skin pulling we're all fucked 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 Share-A-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.