Creepy - In the Library

Episode Date: January 20, 2025

In the Library***Written by: Jerry W. Simmons***Old Bones Dancing***Written by: Simon Bleaken and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Revenge***Written by: Alicia Atkins and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***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. For your first story this evening, locked inside the University Library overnight, a desperate student seeking solitude for finals, finds more than just books in the dark.

Creepy Presents In the Library, written by Jerry W. Simmons. The library door is locked at exactly 2 a.m. although it officially closed a few hours earlier at midnight. The staff needed to ensure that any overly studio students were not left behind in the old six-story building. Come closing time, the lights were shut off over the long aisles of books and the metallic clink of the lock on the front door echoed throughout the halls. The staff headed home, bracing themselves for another busy day of managing the library during finals week. I crouched on all fours on the core sold carpet.

and peered through a row of encyclopedias, observing the nighttime security guard walk his rounds. I'd been in the library hundreds of times before, and the layout of each floor was engraved in my memory. In front of the massive wooden staircase, the sixth floor was laid out in a large, carpeted square. On each side were 40 horizontal rows of books stretched out over the far walls. A middle walkway a few yards wide serving as a path between the ancient collections. Several old-fashioned couches and chairs dotted the walkway, splotchy from age and neglect. On the back wall were several rows of vertical bookshelves in front of the large glass-pained windows that looked out over the darkened university. The security guard, a heavyset man of middle age, gazed lazily at the seemingly endless aisles of dirty old books and splintering bookshelves.

The shelves were at least eight feet high and seemed to dwarf the short man. occasionally he pulled up his phone, swiping mechanically without missing a beat in his step. As he continued toward the back wall, I scurried stealthily in the opposite direction, ensuring that I was well hidden. The guard saw nothing that piqued his interest as he approached the far-sided room. With a grunt, he did an about-face and headed back toward the stairs. He pulled out his phone one last time before descending. A small blast of air snorted out of a vent.

his nose as he chuckled at something on the screen. At an afterthought, he flipped off the light switch by the staircase with a practice movement before heading down the steps to the floor below. The overhead fluorescent bulbs above me shut off abruptly, encasing the entire floor in total darkness. The heavy footsteps of the guard clopped down the creaking stairs, slowly fading into the lower floors of the building. I smiled, reached into my backpack, and pulled out my headlamp.

I strapped the device to my forehead, internally laughing as I remembered my trip to the sporting goods store to purchase it. I was a far cry from an outdoorsman, and it felt quite awkward walking around the tents, guns, and backpacking gear. Thankfully, that dread floor deal was over. As the beam of my flashlight illuminated the ragged books around me, I felt proud of my worthwhile investment. I patted out down to the carpet of the middle walkway. searching for a chair that would be worthy of my late-night cram session. I passed over several unsuitable candidates, which included a couch with an old floral pattern that appeared to be dated from at least the 1960s.

Mildo had turned the green and red design, a sickly dark hue. I almost gagged at a large water stain that covered the entire right cushion. I continued up the aisle, eventually coming upon a faded red easy chair. It was relatively clean, especially when compared to my other options. I sat down on the sinking cushion and knew immediately that this was where I wanted to spend the rest of my night. Full of excitement, I grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it toward a darkened aisle of books, doing my best not to make a sound. Fortunately, the chair glided over the carpet with ease, and at last I was able to enjoy the fruits of my efforts.

walls of books guarding my sides. My hands shook with excitement as I pulled the textbook from my backpack. The cover of Fundamentals of International Economic Geography was lit up in its full glory beneath the beam of my headlamp. I took a long look at the plethora of books that surrounded me, the bitter sweet smell of aging paper wafting down the aisle. A smile of satisfaction crept over my face. Before I started my marathon as studying, I had to prepare.

I reached into my backpack once again and fished out my performance-enhancing medication. The Adderall bottle clinked as I twisted off the childproof cap and shook out two of the orange and white pills into my palm. The anxiety of quickly approaching exams crossed my mind as I meditated on the capsules I was holding. I shrugged my shoulders, the action visible to only myself. and shook out an additional two pills before popping them all into my mouth. I had told myself I would quit using this semester, and through great effort I had kept that promise. But it was finals week,

and I hadn't been able to concentrate for almost a month now. My asshole of a roommate was always playing video games at 3 in the morning, talking on the phone at a ridiculous volume or just being an annoyance in general. The library had become my only haven. Since finals have begun, each floor was packed. Even the scarcely used fifth floor was filled with the noisy students chewing gum, clacking away on laptops, and listening to music too loud on their headphones. That was why I'd hatched this scheme.

I would stay locked in the library all night long until it opened in the morning. No one would disturb me. No annoying roommates or chatty Greek life students. Just me and my books. All I needed to do was avoid the security guard who'd be lounging downstairs playing on his phone the entire time. I felt a rush to my head as the Adderall coursed through my veins. It felt as if I had drunk several cups of coffee. I flipped open the economics textbook and began to vigorously scan the pages.

Topics like inflation, supply, and demand all raced through my brain. The hollowed words of the book were lit up in angelic glory by the glow of the headlamp. My mind had never been clear as the yellow highlighter glided gracefully over every single important idea and key term. Darkness and silence surrounded me in my solitude. The only audible noise was the rustling of textbook pages in my low breathing. My pupils expanded as the sentences in the book forced their way into my brain, effortlessly organizing into compact and understandable concepts. That drugs were certainly doing their job.

But something felt off. My heart palpitated quickly as breath came out in my nose and liberated snorts. The words of the textbook became blurry, seeming to slide around in a jumble on the white pages. I blinked quickly, trying to shake the slush in my brain as sweat gathered in beads on my temples. Overdose was now the only thought that zoomed around in my brain. I reached into my bag and brushed my shaky hand against the Jack Daniels bottle hidden inside. I ripped off the top and took a swig. The harsh liquid burned my throat and caused me to sputter.

Bracing myself, I took another long draw before replacing the cap and throwing away the bottle. Immediately, a feeling of bliss and mellowness overtook my body. The edge from the Adderall was still there, but now to controllable level. I took a deep breath. relieved that I had avoided what could have easily been a dire situation. For a moment I sat in silence, putting the pieces of my mind back together. With no time to waste, I picked up my highlighter and got back to studying. The next few hours were a blur.

It was as if the book's information was being fed into my mind at warp speed. I popped a few more pills and occasionally took swigs from the bottle to keep the high at equilibrium. At a certain point, I couldn't deny the unmistakable urge to piss. The inevitability of the situation didn't even cross my mind during my careful planning process. I was annoyed at myself for forgetting to factor in something as simple as a bathroom break. The nearest bathroom was on the fourth floor, which meant that I'd have to risk walking down the stairs. I doubted that the security guard was making his rounds, but I was terrified by the prospect that he decided. decided to actually do his job.

The last thing I needed was a conduct violation. Being caught with the whiskey alone was enough to get me suspended for at least a semester. Frustrated, I set my book down and adjusted my headlamp. I pushed all negative thoughts from my mind and walked stealthily down the aisles of books. The headlamp, my only beacon in the dark. I could see the vague outlines of the chairs and couches as I emerged in the middle walkway. but hardly enough to keep from tripping over them. A chair popped up right in front of me

and I had to keep from shouting as I stub my toe on a hard corner. I stood a moment in the darkness, tongue and teeth, fighting to hold back the deluge of curse words struggling to force themselves out of my mouth. Then I heard rustling. It was undoubtedly the rustling of the books pages. The sound came directly from the aisle of bookcases I just exited. confused, I peered into the darkness beyond my headlamp.

I strained my ears to see if the sound would be repeated. There was nothing. Satisfied that I was still completely alone, I began to creep down the wooden staircase. I ensured that I gripped the guardrail firmly, gingerly taking each step to keep the old wood from creaking. As I approached the bottom of the stairs, I was surprised to see that there was a pale blue light emanating from somewhere in the darkness of the face. fifth floor. My immediate thoughts went to the security guard, but I quickly discounted those concerns. It'd be odd for him to be up here with all the lights turned off. I adjusted the power of my headlamp to its lowest setting. The bright cone of light wane to a dim, ghostly circle

that only stretched a few yards ahead of me. Cautiously, I stepped off the final step and walked into the carpet of the fifth floor. This floor was arranged in a similar manner of the second floor. This floor was arranged in a similar manner than one above. The rows of splintering bookcases were identical, as well as the carpeted middle walkway. Further ahead, I could see the blue light. A curious sound accompanied the haze, typing. The rhythmic clicking echoed in the darkness, finding its way through the aisles of old books and right into my ears. My focused mind latched onto every keystroke, and each one seemed to drill its way into my skull. It was maddening.

Although I was terrified of being caught, I felt compelled to discover who else was with me and what I had assumed would be an empty building. I shuffled down the middle walkway, the dim headlamp illuminating the seemingly endless aisles of bookshelves. As I approached the back wall, the source of the light revealed itself. Several yards away,

table was pushed against the stained brick of the far wall. A figure sat with its back to me, hunched over a laptop. The otherworldly pale glow of the screen gave their lanky frame and almost otherworldly appearance in the bleak darkness. The keyboard clicked away incessantly. The stranger either not noticing my presence or too involved in their work to be bothered. Something about the whole scene made my stomach churn. Was it possible to the same?

there was another student who had the same radical idea as me? I could hardly believe it. My initial thought was to turn tail and gather my things, perhaps even an attempt to dash for the back door if I could get past the guard. There was something about being alone in that huge, empty, and dark six-story building with a stranger, which felt altogether unsettling. However, if I were to introduce myself, We wouldn't be strangers.

Right? I resolved to face the stranger who sat alone in the darkness. I crept forward, miles of the books passing by my sides, my unease increasing with each one. The keys of the laptop clicked away at a maddening rate, the volume of the sound climbing as I approached. As I neared the stranger, my headlamp illuminated the back of its head. A balding and blotchy scalp gave way to a few strands of wispy gray hair that trailed down to almost shoulder level.

The skin on the back of the neck was pale and pasty. An old, ragged tan suit clothed a stranger. The tattered patches on its elbows reminiscent of an old-timey professor. The stranger didn't seem to hear my footsteps shuffling on the coarse carpet. It continued clicking away, entranced by the blue-combed. computer screen like a wizard gazing into an orb. I shuddered as the light revealed overgrown nails mashing against the keys. Hello?

I stammered. The clicking ceased abruptly. I gulped. Slowly the mysterious stranger turned around to face me, the old wood chair creaking as it did so. In the faint light of the headlamp, all its ghastly features were revealed in stark detail. A bloodshot eyes were burrowed into its pale face. The mouth slacked and opened to one side, eyes wide as if it had just seen a ghost. The dead eyes grew wider as they focused on me, the lamplight making the whites of them

radiate in the darkness. The stranger began to howl like an animal, screeching, screaming in a frequency that sent chills down my spine. The light and the headlamp flickered for a moment, then went dark. I'd let out my own scream of sharp terror and shut my eyes against the howling banshee that I'd stumbled upon. When I opened my eyes, this stranger was gone. My headlamp was functioning, illuminating the empty desk where it had just been sitting just a moment before. The rickety wooden chair was pushed neatly beneath it. Purely on instinct, I turned and bolted for the staircase, rushing up the steps two at a time and nearly stumbling as I approached the sixth floor. I cranked my headlamp up to its

full power, sprinting down the aisles of books. At last I arrived at the aisle where I'd hidden my belongings. With only my headlamp to illuminate the way, I stumbled toward the old easy chair and my backpack that sat on top of it. The vertical shelves at my sides full of dusty old reference books seem to reach all the way to the ceiling. I felt nauseous looking up at them. My head churned from my harrowing experience, and the shelving did nothing but given me a pervading sense of claustrophobia. I stuffed my belongings into the backpack with trembling fingers, taking one final swig from

the whiskey bottle, hoping to bring myself a bit closer to sanity. My mind attempted to rationalize what I'd seen. Was it another student? A professor? Was it all just a figment of my imagination? There was no way to be sure. The only thought that I felt certain of was that I had seen something sinister. And that something had struck terror into my soul.

I ran sweaty palms through my hair, feeling fresh perspiration sticky on my forehead. After a moment of trepidation, I slung the backpack over my shoulder and followed my headlamp down the tunnel of forgotten books. Upon exiting the aisle, I turned to the right and crept down the middle pathway as quietly as possible. I didn't know if there was something else waiting out there for me in the darkness, and my headlamp could only shine so far. I maneuvered past the couches and chairs, jittery at the passing of each one, terrified that I'd seen my apparent stalker casually sitting at one typing away at its laptop. I'd looked diligently to my sides, briefly shone.

shining my light down each aisle of books, hoping not to catch the glint of pale skin and bloodshot eyes. Each aisle just contained nothing more than ragged books which stretched for yards before fading into blackness. I was halfway to the staircase when the stranger appeared before me, revealing itself from between an aisle of books to my right. It lurched out of the darkness. Its lanky form slouched forward, crooked neck bent toward the aisle of books, books across from it. I froze as my headlamp illuminated the stranger's wispy hair and tattered clothing. The fear stuck in my throat. Only my own shallow breathing and the shuffling sounds of the stranger's bare feet on the coarse carpet could be heard. It carried on ceaselessly to its destination,

lumbering forward, seeming not to recognize my presence. Then it stopped halfway. Slowly it wheeled to its left with the jerking motion of a wind-up toy with loose gears. It stared directly at me. Bloodshot eyes peered straight into mine as the stranger's slack jaw turned upwards into a sinister grin. It raised a withered hand. Thin like that of a terminally ill patient, blue veins protruding from the pale skin. The hand motioned for me to follow.

follow. Without warning, the stranger turned to its right and lurched toward the aisle. Within moments, it had disappeared between the rows of ancient books. Terror anchored my feet into the carpet. Despite feeling the desperate need to rush down the stairs and escape, I was captivated by a sick, compelling urge to follow the stranger. It was less an urge of curiosity. It was lessen urge of curiosity and more like something along the lines of inevitability. In my soul, I knew that there was no other choice. Sheepishly, I treaded toward the yawning mob between the bookcases. I turned the corner and peered down the book-line tunnel.

My headlamp only illuminated a few yards ahead, leaving me no choice but to move forward. Anxiety crept up my neck as I stepped over the threshold of the aisle. Slowly, little by little, the headlamp revealed more. A sense of dark foreboding overtook my body, and I couldn't escape the feeling that I'd fallen into a trap. And there it was before me again. This time with its back turned, the stranger was muttering something in a guttural tone under its breath.

The light mumbling echoed down the aisles of books with ease. voice rose higher, more agitated as its shoulders moved up and down. The sounds all ran into each other as the stranger began chattering in spurts like a sprinkler. It jerked its neck to the side, flailed its arms wildly, and arched its back to a point which shouldn't be possible. It continued like a contortionist, vertebrae cracking and popping until its lanky form had doubled over all the way, and it was facing me upside down. Palms on the floor. With a scream, it rushed towards me like a spider, howling maniacly.

Saliva dripped from its lips. The image hearkened to a primal fear that I'd never be able to explain. Without hesitation, I turned around and dashed for the end of the aisle, sprinting down the coarse carpet, trying not to trip. Decades of forgotten books rushed by my side. sides, adrenaline and fear simultaneously coursed through my veins as mad clacking was heard just a few yards behind me. At last, I escaped the aisle and burst into the middle walkway. The stairs no more than a few long strides away.

I didn't make it three feet before the thing grabbed my backpack and pulled me to the floor. With menacing slowness it dragged me back toward the dark opening between the shelves. I struggled, kicking my feet, fighting. for survival. The thing howled with the light of my futile effort as it pulled me closer to its layer. With the strength that I didn't even know I was capable of, I pulled one arm free from my backpack, but was dismayed to see that my left arm was still caught. With a scream, I dislocated my shoulder. Pain rushed through my body, but the adrenaline and sense of preservation were stronger. I leapt up and rushed to the stairs, the painful arm flopping at my side.

The thing let out a cry of anguish, and I heard its rapid footsteps on the carpet scuffling directly behind me. By some divine grace, I reached the stairs. My leg stretched toward the first step, but I overshot the mark and tumbled forward. For a moment, I was suspended in mid-air. Then I felt the wind pushed out of my chest cavities as I hit the landing. A rush of pain went through my body as my head smacked violently on the hard wood. Through blurry vision, I saw the things slither its way down from the top of the stairs, down to greet me, a sick smile on its face.

Then? I saw nothing. I awoke dazed on the stair landing, bright fluorescent lights overhead shining directly into my eyes. I lay on my back. Palms upturned to the ceiling. Drearily, I observed my right hand as the fingers twitched involuntarily, curling and uncurling without any input from my brain. My heart palpitated heavily in my chest and breathing was a chore.

The thought of movement of standing up and facing my surroundings went through my head. Unfortunately, mobility didn't seem to be an option. My eyes adjusted to the disheeing light. To my surprise, the security guard stood over me. He yelled a cell phone at the side of his face, gesticulating anxiously and speaking rapidly. With a grunt, he put the phone away and shouted down at me. He got down on one knee and snapped his fingers inches from my nose. I blinked rapidly as the guard went in and out of focus.

Beads of sweat dripped down the lines of his worried face. I closed my eyes for a moment. I opened them and saw a paramedic sporting a clean crew cut crouched over me. A pair of sporty sunglasses sat poised on top of his head. An oxygen mask had been placed on my mouth and fresh air was forcing its way into my lungs. The paramedic held my hand in his own, two fingers against my wrist. He shook his head like a disappointed parent. His vital signs didn't match up with his expectations.

Another paramedic walked up to the scene and patted his partner on the shoulder. With a smile, he revealed the empty Adderall container and fully drunk whiskey bottle. Both snickered and shook their heads. How is that possible? I knew there was no way that I'd taken so much. These and a thousand other thoughts raced through my brain as they strapped me onto a stretcher. A thick blanket was thrown onto my miserable form. Someone jabbed IV tubes into my arms, but I didn't feel a thing.

Everything was too numb from my apparent overdose. Weightlessness overtook me as both paramedics hefted the stretcher. I was helpless to protest as they wheeled me around and proceeded to go down the next set of stairs. I took one final look at the top of the staircase, which led to the sixth floor. The stranger was there. The fluorescent light perfectly ill. illuminating his tattered clothes and thin strands of white hair. His mouth hung slack, revealing a dark cavity full of diseased gums and missing teeth.

A drop of saliva dripped down his dripping lip. We made eye contact. The slack mouth turned upward into the same sinister grin. Lines on his pale and sunken flesh pronounced in the light. Fear penetrated my heart and had been able to be. began hyperventilating. The paramedics set me down. Urgently, one of them reached into his gear bag and pulled out a syringe. They jabbed me with a sedative, and the last image I saw was that of the stranger, gazing at me with its savage grin and bloodshot eyes, my eyelids closed,

and I drifted into a restless sleep. For your second story this evening, a desperate mother ventures into a cursed churchyard to uncover the truth behind her son's terrifying transformation, confronting horrors buried for decades. Creepy Presents Old Bones Dancing Written by Simon Bleacon and narrated by Michelle Kane.

Cal, damn it, pick up if you're there. It's Laura. You know I hate these voicemails. Come on, come on, please, pick up. Fine, just listen. I'm in a real trouble here. I need your help. Okay, look, I'm just going to lay it all out in case, well, just in case I don't get to tell you later. But call me the second you get this message, okay? I could really use. a friend right now. I'm scared as hell. Right, where to begin? Okay, so there's an old ruined church on the edge of Averton and everyone avoids it. You may have seen it the last time you visited. It's an ugly old mess. The graves are intended, all swallowed up by weeds and spindly shrubs. Through everything that grows there is stunted and strangely yellowed, like it's all diseased or something. You know, it's funny now that I think of it. Crows and birds never perched there. In fact, nothing goes there. I don't even think there are rats or mice in those tangled ruins. It's all a real mess. The broken and sun-bleached boards of the church have warped badly over time,

and the walls lean dangerously. Yet nobody has thought to try and tear it down. And nobody has ever tried to repair or renovated. I used to think it was probably just too expensive or too far gone to save, but then I realized that nobody talks about it or even seems willing to acknowledge its existence. Well, none of the adults anyway. I've discovered that all the local kids whisper about it, fearfully, furtively, in those kinds of hush tones used for secrets or things too dangerous to be said too loudly. I kind of think everyone is just hoping time will tear it down and fix the problem for them. Anyway, there's a story about this place, probably why everyone's so scared of it. At night, when the wind whistles and howls through those splitting boards, you can sometimes hear a strange

sound, like a loud clicking, almost if someone were dragging a stick along a fence. It's loud, though, you can hear it all over town. The kids call it Old Bones dancing, and they say that on nights like that, you should lock your windows and never look in the direction of the shadowy church. Oh, and you should absolutely never go near it, especially at night when that sound is happening.

Things are, I don't know, supposed to be moving around underneath those old graves or something. Nobody seems to be quite sure, but only that it's not. a very bad idea. Okay, right now you're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this, and is there a point, yada, yada, yada. Well, yeah, there really is. See, I only found out about this place from Ted. Can you believe I've lived here seven months and have to learn this shift from my kid? His friends at school told him all about it and scared the crap out of him.

He wouldn't sleep. He was so clingy, especially at night. I've never seen him so scared. My kid is no coward. At least, well, he didn't used to be. But Cal, you didn't see him. Oh my God, he was so changed. He was shaking and pale eyes like saucers. He wouldn't leave me alone and he wouldn't touch his food.

I've never seen him so scared. Finally, I coaxed the truth from him. Turns out some of the other kids had dared him to go to the door of that old church. And Ted, not wanting to seem afraid, and not knowing anything about the stories connected to it, did just that. Only he didn't just go up to the door. He actually went inside, at which point the other kids ran off screaming.

Ted wouldn't tell me what he saw or what happened. But when I asked him, I could literally see the color drain from his face. Thankfully, it was a still night, no bones dancing, so to speak. But Ted just lay there, too scared to close his eyes, like he was listening in case that sound came. The next day I went to the school, tried to raise it with the principal, thought they could have a word with the kids spreading this stuff. But they wouldn't acknowledge there was an old church. They wouldn't even discuss it with me. That's when I realized they were scared too.

Hey, Cal, it's me again. Machine cut me off. Where was I? Right. Yeah, so the school was no help. They seemed as scared as my son. I tell you, I've never felt so alone. I kept him home the next day, and I called in sick. He was like a listless, washed out ghost all day. Probably lack of sleep, but while it was more than that, it was like something was missing from within him. like the vitality and life had been drawn out of him. I was worried he was ill, but he wasn't running a fever and had no symptoms of a cold or virus. It got much worse as night were on. He just huddled on his bed, covers clutched tightly. Then a little after ten, that awful sound started up outside,

drifting across the town. It should have been faint given how far the house is from that church, but it was so clear. It might as well have been someone running a stick down our fence right outside. And I ran in to check on Ted, and as I came to the bedroom, I saw him just sitting there, glazed eyes staring blankly at me. His mouth was open, and that awful clicking sound was coming from his throat. Jesus, it was terrifying. I don't know how he was doing it, I don't know how anyone could make a noise like that, but I ran to him and I shook his shoulders. I didn't know what else to do. It was like he was in a trance. As I shook him, his head lobed back

and his eyes rolled back to the whites and that sound, my God, that sound. I panicked then. I didn't know what else to do. I thought he was having a seizure. I ran to the phone in the hall and called the paramedics, I was only away for a few minutes. By the time I got back, he was sleeping. He seemed normal again. The paramedics arrived a quarter of an hour later and checked him over. They said he seemed fine. But he was by the time they got there. They didn't see what I did. They didn't hear that awful noise or see his eyes all rolled back like that. I had no one else to talk to, Cal. I felt like I was going out of my mind and I was sick with worry about Ted. That's why I did what I did. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. I went out to the old church. I went to see what might have affected

my kids so badly. Most of all, I think I went to prove to him and to me that there was nothing out there to be afraid of. I know what you're going to say. Yes, in hindsight, it was stupid. So, stupid. But please just hear me out. I made sure he was sleeping, and then I took a flashlight and went outside. I know, I know. Why didn't I wait till morning? What was I thinking? Well, that's the thing. I wasn't. Not really. I was operating on panic and adrenaline, and I didn't want anyone to see me going over there, so I figured it was best not to wait. I kind of had second thoughts as I approached it. I parked across the street and all I could see was the outline of the place looming up, black against the light of the moon. Jeez, it was eerie. I could understand why everyone stayed away. I almost drove straight home, but, and I thought of Ted.

The fear on his face, I needed answers. I heard the old bones dancing as I got out of the car. That surprised me because there wasn't really much of a breeze. It was a hard. It was a hard. horrible sound, even worse up close, a hollow wailing, like some desolate howling whistle, and behind it that odd clacking. The shadows in that broken graveyard were deep and seemed to shift and flit as I approached, and the smell on the breeze, I can only figure that something must have been rotting in the undergrowth, something fresh, I mean, not the bodies under the ground. The gate creaked as I pushed it open. The path beyond was buried beneath old leaves and twisted, stunted bushes had grown out of some of the graves. The branches coiled like arms,

frozen in agony. You're going to say that I'm letting my imagination get away with me, right? But they were. I mean, that place was like something straight out of one of those old Eggerel and Poe movies that Roger Corman used to make. What made it all were? was the fact that the rotting stench was coming from those bushes, from the dark fissures in the ground around those graves where they had sprouted up. But there couldn't still be anything down there to stink like that, right? Some of those graves are over a hundred years old and none of them are newer than 70. The thin howling grew louder as I neared the door and by now I was properly shaking. The clicking was worse too. Before it had seemed to be coming from,

from one source, but now it echoed around me. My bravado and resolve were crumbling fast. I fixed Ted's face in my mind, though, and that's what kept me going. I had to understand what had happened to him, and I guess if I could tell him that I'd done it too and nothing bad had happened to me, well, maybe, I don't know, maybe that would help him in some way. If you're about to tell me I hadn't thought any of this through, don't bother. I'm already way ahead of you.

At least I am now. Oh, hold on. I think, Cal, you need to get a machine that takes longer messages. Or, better yet, just pick up if you're there. I need a real person to talk to you right now, damn it. So where was I? Hey, wait, do you hear that? It's coming from outside.

Jesus. I don't know if you're not. you can hear it, Cal. But it's the old bones dancing again. It sounds so close. It's hard to believe that's coming clean across town. It's like it's right outside. God, it makes my skin crawl. Now I know what I know. Now I know what it is. I better tell you what I saw, what happened, just in case. Okay, here goes. So I walked through that tangled, overgrown graveyard, and I opened the door to that old church. It wasn't even locked. Anyway, at first, I couldn't see much of anything. The windows were boarded up and inside was as

dark as a tomb. I could taste the dust in the air, and I knew this place had been closed up for a long time, probably full of mold and who knows what else. It smelled rotten. That's all I knew for sure. Then I remembered the flashlight I was holding. Can you believe that? that? I was so spooked I forgot I had the damn thing in my hand. I turned it on and paned around across rows of filthy, half-collapsed pews to the altar at the far end, which seemed to have something on it. On either side of that altar were two doorless black spaces that must have led to rooms beyond or down to the basement maybe. So I made my way further in. I went slow. I wasn't sure if I trusted the floor not to give way.

I know it was dumb. I could have gone crashing through, but you know why I had to do this. I couldn't turn back. The old bones were still dancing outside. Still that horrible, cracking click, that strange, desolate wailing. Only now I could hear something else rising up around me, like it was coming from under the floor. If I say muffled voices singing or, don't know, shanting, Would you think I was being melodramatic? I stopped at that, listening. I was afraid there were people below me, a lot of them by the sound of it. Had I stumbled upon some kind of cult, Satanists or something?

Squatting down in the bowels of this old place? I mean, you hear stories of stuff like that happening, and of people being targeted who have seen too much. I got really scared then. I mean fearful for my life scared and I started to edge back toward the doors. Slowly, carefully, in case they heard my footsteps on those old floorboards. But that was when I noticed the movement all around me. Not people, not anything like that, but shapes were moving in those shadows,

things that crouched and scurried into the deeper darkness, things that waited behind the rotting pews. I turned my flashlight on them before I knew what I was doing, but somehow now it didn't penetrate that darkness anymore. Only lit the eyes of whatever was out there up like pale yellowish lanterns. I heard something hiss, and the boards creaked as those unseen things crept closer across the decaying floor. At that, I ran. As I burst out of the doors, I saw glisting hands groping up out of those deep, fissures around the graves. There were dozens that I could see, and probably more that were hidden from

my view. And as they moved and reached and flexed, that noise filled the air, that awful snapping, cracking of old bones dancing. It was everywhere now, that sound. And only then did I realize it was rising up through those fissures from the ground underneath, as if an army of dead things was moving down there. A pale yellow vapor rose with it from all around the graveyard, faintly luminous, coiling and dancing in the air like it had a life of its own. The vapor followed me across the street, stretching swiftly like immense spectral fingers of shifting yellow fog. But by then I was inside my car. I drove faster than I ever had before. I didn't dare slow down until that fog and that church were both well out of sight. I guess I'm lucky I didn't get a ticket.

I got back home about half an hour ago. Ted was still asleep, thank God. He looks so peaceful. I was so shaken, though. I didn't know what to do, so I poured myself a large Jack Daniels. Then another, just to take the edge off my nerves. That's when I called you. I didn't know who else to turn to.

So, what do you think? Call me when you've listened to all this. I need to know. I can't face this alone. And you know what else? I've been thinking about that mist, that weird fog that followed me across the road. It was like it was alive, like it was hunting me.

That got me wondering, what if Ted breathed in that vapor? What if it got into him? Is that why he's acting so strange? Maybe it's the whiskey talking, I don't. Wait. Hold on, there's something going on outside. What is that?

Jesus, it's the ground. The ground in the yard outside is cracking. I can hear the sounds rising up from it. I can see that yellow mist coming out. Can you hear that? For God's sake, what is it? Ted! He's standing among the rising plumes of vapor.

He's grinning at me, but I don't think it's him. His eyes, they don't look right. There's more of that yellow mist coming out of his mouth. It's everywhere now. It's filling the whole yard. Cal? Cal, what do I do? Ted is walking toward the house and the mist.

The mist is coming with him. He's opening the door. It's getting inside. For your final story this evening, the sound of cicadas is often met with disappointment and irritation. But what happens when those emotions turn into fear with the realization that the sound is the least of your concerns? Creepy Presents Revenge Written by Alicia Atkins and narrated by Nicole Goodnight.

In the South, we have a lovely tradition. of deep drying anything. We'll batter and fry anything from catfish to butter, rattlesnake to Oreos, and beyond. Hell, there's even a running joke that we'd even fry carpet, though I have yet to see that one myself. A few years ago, though, however, some folks in the South started deep drying something utterly horrific. They started deep drying cicadas. That's right, those hard-shelled buzzing-sounding, prehistoric-looking bugs. I don't like cicadas on a good day, let alone facing one down on a plate. I'm not sure if people started eating them as clickbait or if it actually tasted good to them.

Apparently, they have a flavor similar to an almond. Makes me shivered just to think about that correlation. Regardless, I remember that in one year in particular, it was growing more and more popular. That same year, there were these special cicadas that apparently only come out every 20 years or so. I just remember them screaming louder than the usual that year. See, that's the thing with cicadas. Along with the loud buzzing noise they make, they also admit what sounds like a scream. Think of the background noise in most movies set in the South.

You get enough of them together in the woods, buzzing and screaming in unison, it damn near drowns out the sound of every other natural living thing in the woods. That year, they were so loud that I could hear them through the windows of my car over the roar of the engine in whatever podcast I was listening to. Throughout the spring and summer months, I saw more and more videos on how people were prepping and eating their cicadas, deep-frying, sauteing them with cheese like a damn jalapeno popper. It was trending much to my same.

surprise. Normally in my area, you hear the buzz of cicadas until the middle of July or so, before they inevitably trail off like the end of a lot of 90s songs. But not that year. That year, they just suddenly stopped, sooner than expected. Admittedly, I was grateful at first, since those insects in particular are annoying and creep me the hell out, but they never just stopped like that. I'm sure some entomologists noticed it, did a study on it. If they did, it never really went anywhere. With the rides of social media, news tends to get saturated. and buried at times. It didn't even ping on most folks' radar until the next year when we stepped out to hear the

sound of crickets, bullfrogs, and no cicadas. It's one of those things that until you focus on the sound, you don't realize it's missing at first. But when you finally pinpoint that noise or lack thereof, it becomes almost deafening. Like when a forest all of a sudden just stops making noise. It was a curiosity that soon turned into a media frenzy on some local news. No one, no matter how rural you lived, were hearing this. cicadas. Entomologists looked for them in the trees underground. It was like they just

disappeared, like a mass extinction event. Then, in May, four years after that, when most people were outside enjoying the sun and summer activities, the kids out of school and the parents could take the kids out of school and the parents who could take the time off, they could hear a faint but familiar buzzing. Thing is, it wasn't just being heard in the south, though, but in most states, in the north, the west. Not near as loud as usual, and there was, still no sign of the hard-shelled creature, but it was clear that after an unusual hibernation, we once again had cicadas. Strange events started happening around that time as well, though. There are some reports of people hiking and coming across small animal bones, picked clean among

the kudzu. I know what you're thinking, that it's not that uncommon to come across animal remains in the woods. You would be correct, but what made it strange was the sheer amount of bones. You'd be walking for 30 minutes and see the bones of squirrels, small deer, hogs, coyotes just scattered everywhere. It didn't stop with the woods, though. People started reporting the same thing in the city, this time in their own backyards or porches. People would go to sleep with their dogs tied up outside or their inside outside cat lounging outside only to awake as the new owner of skeletal remains. People were scared, and scientists were scrambling to find an explanation. We didn't connect the dots until it was far too late.

One day in July, that time of year when most people are outside in pools, having barbecues, riding bikes, just enjoying the gifts of summer, it all came to a head. That sunny Saturday morning, I was laying in bed, checking my phone and just being lazy in general. I noticed it seemed like it got a bit dimmer outside, like when a big cloud covers the sun. I didn't think anything of it until the scream started. I hesitantly got out of bed making my way to the living room to take a peek outside and had to do a double take. Outside across the street at the McCrae's house, I saw a dark, swirling mass. Parts of the carnivorous cloud would break away engulfing any new victims that came out to see what the fuss was about. The mass was currently surrounding Mr. and Mrs. McCray, a discarded reusable grocery bags spilled on the ground before them.

They were both swatting the air around them bleeding from thousands of little wounds on every exposed surface of their skin. I didn't understand what I was seeing until I used my phone's camera to zoom in on the dark cloud. It was a swarm of cicadas. I had never seen them act like this before, almost like a hive mind, let alone actively attack someone. Hell, from what I could remember, they don't even have mandibles to bite. More people stormed outside to see what the commotion was, while the McRae's Tadler cried in the shut door,

seeing but not understanding why his mother was now collapsed on the ground, unmoving, while he sat in a hot car. I wanted to run out there myself to help in whatever small way I could, but the hive would break off the more people headed out, preparing for the next feast. I stood there, shell-shocked, as more and more of my neighbors were ravaged by the cryptic insects. By the time I broke out of my stupor, most of the screaming had stopped, replaced by the roar of buzzing. The afternoon came and went, and the now-evolved insects were leaving nothing behind but the bones of my friends and neighbors. That was three weeks ago.

Before the internet went down, I had seen reports of similar cicada. attacks happening all over, from Alabama to Montana and beyond. The government declared a lockdown and have been radio silent ever since. I keep hoping that the wretched bugs will have their fill and go back to the trees and underground, if only temporarily, but they show no signs of stopping. I don't know how long I can stay here. My original plan was to wait it out, see if they shriek away at the first cold snap, to make my way further north and hope for the best. I don't think I'll last that long, though. You see, the cicadas are playing the long game, it seems. They're growing restless the longer we stay inside. Safe. I found one in my house today. I'm not sure how it got in,

but I killed it quickly. It seems they're not immune to death with enough force. Problem arises when the swirling cloud of insects engulfs you. Too many to fight off. So, I've made the foolish decision to make a run for it. I'm gathering every flammable spray that I have laying around and, with any luck, I can use a makeshift flamethrower to have a fighting chance of reaching the car. At least this way I can go out fighting rather than waste away inside, counting down the hours until they swarm inside to collect their due. I suppose it's only fair. In my mind, we wouldn't even be in this mess if we had just left the damn cicadas alone. After all, nature always finds a way to adapt and exact its revenge.

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