Creepy - It Takes A Village & Shadow Cove

Episode Date: May 11, 2023

It Takes a Village***Written by: Paul Caseley and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Shadow Cove***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warning: sexual innuendo, oceans***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. 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 biocations of biocations. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. It takes a village, written by Paul Casley, and narrated by Nate DuFort. Just over a year ago, my daughter Addison went missing. She had recently completed college and landed an entry-level job

at an insurance firm in London, Ontario. I know she'd been out partying with a friend the night before, and that friend had gone missing. I also know that Addie left work with the idea of checking in on her friend because she hadn't heard from her all day. After riding the bus, she also vanished. After talking to the bus driver and some of the people who were on the bus, no helpful information was uncovered.

I know that it is in vogue to blame the police these days when things go wrong, but I do have to say the London police were very helpful and kind to my wife and me. Sadly, though, they can't find any information, and they've made no headway in finding my daughter. Over a year later, the case is still open, but not really being actively pursued. A part of that makes me angry, but more because they don't have the resources. to adequately follow up on every lead for every case. The loss of my daughter has been catastrophic. She was an only child and we poured all of our love and affection into her.

We thought we'd been doing the right thing, letting her make her own way in the world. They have to leave the nest sometime. Having just myself and my wife in the house was so quiet at first. But over time, we know. that the more we let her live her own life, the more she called us and was in contact. It really was the best state possible. We could expect regular weekly calls and text messages and emails throughout the week. Everything seemed to be going well. I mean, she was a regular

young woman in her early 20s. She went out to bars, she had dates, she had friends. I'm sure she was up to things we didn't really want to know about, but nothing illegal or shocking by a 21st century measure. She was finding her way. Then she disappeared. Since that time, my wife has been near Catatonic. On most days, she is fairly monosyllabic and quiet. She doesn't take care of herself as well as she used to. A lot of the joy in life, left. with Addy. The worst were the holidays and Addie's birthday. Ellen locked herself in her room and I could hear her wailing through the wall. I tried to talk through the door to her. I tried to go in and comfort her, but she just kept shouting at me to go away and leave her alone. I keep hoping that things

get better, but I don't think they will. With our second Christmas without Addy a approaching, I'm afraid of what Ellen might do to herself. As a result, I've decided I need to find answers, so I've packed a bag, and I'm heading out to London from our home in Ashua, Ontario. When I got into the car to start my journey, the radio began immediately playing Michael Boubley's version of it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I switched it off immediately. Christmas held no joy for me after Addie disappeared.

After a trip devoid of music and less than enjoyable drive on Highway 401, I checked into a cheap chain hotel. It didn't take long for me to see why it was so inexpensive. The carpet was worn. It obviously hadn't been properly cleaned. It was just a mess, but I could afford it. I checked the bed sheets and they seemed clean enough and bed bug-free, so that was probably the best I was going to get. With that, I headed out to where my daughter's workplace had been.

The insurance office was pretty much what you'd expect. While most of the building was owned and controlled by the company my daughter worked for, the floor she worked on was packed with what could best be called cubicles. I spoke to the woman who had been her direct supervisor. She was very apologetic, and I know she felt sorry for me, but she wasn't really able to give me any information that the police hadn't already collected. Talking to the bulk of her available co-workers yielded no better results. It didn't help that many of her coworkers had already moved on to greener pastures.

She had arrived on time to work that day, looking a bit grower. green around the gills. She had confided with one of her work friends that she'd been out drinking late the night before. She was concerned about her friend Andrea, and had tried to call and text several times to no avail. She decided to visit Andrea to make sure she was all right. I knew that Andrea did not live in the best part of town. The two had talked about sharing an apartment at one point, but decided that it could be detrimental to their friendship. Addie'd found an affordable bachelor apartment in a moderate area of the city, but Andrea had no such luck and ended up renting a renovated basement apartment in one of the less savory parts of the city.

I decided to retrace Addie's steps from here. Maybe that could make some sense of things. I knew that Addy had taken the bus from her workplace to Andrea's home. We had all often talked to Addie about investing in a car, but she didn't want to take money from us for it. She even resisted a loan. She justified her decision by saying that environmentally it was a better choice. I did realize, however, that with her current salary, paying off her student loans in her apartment, would only make things more dire if she added in gas, upkeep, and insurance. In the end, I told her that if she didn't want a car, that was fine.

but I hoped she wouldn't be angry when I showed up to bring her home for the holidays. I guess we struck a deal that way. I wish now that I would have pressed her to take the car. I would have happily gone in debt to pay for it to ensure her safety. I boarded the bus and paid the fare. The driver was polite enough. I did take notice that it wasn't the same one that had been driving the night Addie went missing. The best way to describe the bus itself was shabby.

I'd heard that the city of London was working to update and upgrade their public transit, but so far any upgrades hadn't reached this bus route. The floors were worn and scuffed, and in many places the upholstery was faded, and in some places the foam rubber backing was starting to poke through. Scanning my fellow occupants gave a fairly regular cross-section of the city. London contains a university and a college. In Canada, the two schools of higher education are very different from each other,

with universities being degree-granting institutions and more theoretical, and colleges being more hands-on. Students from both were on the bus, making their way home, and arguing about which school was better in an animated but friendly way. Those making their way home from work were also on the bus. as were senior citizens and other people who didn't drive or had abandoned it as their situation changed. The ride was typical enough until they got on. I watched with no small look of surprise as a group of children,

definitely under the age of 12, got on the bus without any parent or guardian. As someone who recently had their daughter disappear, I was a gawk. What parents in this day and age knowing that, people disappeared somewhere along this bus route, would let their kids ride the bus alone. I felt a rise of anger inside me as I thought about it, at least though they were riding in a large group, which I supposed would provide some kind of protection. I scanned the group while I noticed the rest of the people on the bus, even the brash students looked down at their feet.

A silence descended upon the once lively conveyance with the exception of the tittering children. Even the sounds they emitted seemed somewhat wrong, though. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the voices just didn't sound right. It was while I was pondering this, that I noticed each child was either carrying or had a doll in a backpack. the dolls themselves would be uninteresting, if not for the fact that they all looked old. Perhaps there was a trend of finding antique dolls at their school.

I remembered how strange trends seemed to work their way through elementary schools. Still, it was at this point that I noticed the children themselves seemed dressed for time periods from our past as well. Some were in clothing that would have been more acceptable in the schoolroom of my grandparents. Others were newer, but still out of date. One of the kids was even wearing a Kansas City athletics hat from the 1950s. The team moved in 1954, which was before I was even born. I idly thought he probably shouldn't be wearing that hat if it was an original.

It was probably worth a lot of money. At that point, I started to scan the dolls more closely, only to find that, except for their age, they were fairly unremarkable, except that they seemed to come from every ethnic background possible. At that point, I started to think that these dolls might not have been as old as I originally thought. Maybe they were newer and made to look old. I had that in mind as the bus rolled to a stop and the children started to get out. That's what I noticed the doll with honey blonde hair,

a healthy female frame and glasses. The doll was wearing a nice pair of slacks and a blouse that seemed familiar. It took me a second to realize that it looked familiar because it was a dead ringer for my daughter's favorite blouse. Without thinking, I got up and started after the children. As I reached and walked out the door, I could have sworn I saw the driver looking sadly at me and shaking his head.

The area that the bus exited was less than pleasant. Small war-era homes closely built ran up and down the street. Most had living-room windows that glowed with the cold blue of oversized television sets. The main road I'd exited on was well lit, but most of the side streets didn't seem to have working streetlights. The most amazing thing, though, was that I couldn't see one child from the gaggle that I'd exited the bus with. It was like they all had just vanished. As the bus rolled away, I started walking in the direction I thought they walked as well, peering down side streets as I went. I couldn't understand for the life of me how they'd moved so quickly.

After the bus had left and the street was mostly deserted, I heard it. Daddy, help me! It was soft, yet insistent, and more than a little strained, but the voice was unmistakable. It was my Addie, my sweet girl. I paused for a second trying to ascertain whether what I heard was real or my hope full imagination creating sounds. It wouldn't be the first time I thought I saw or heard my daughter, but this seemed different somehow. Daddy, they have me. You have to help me. This time. It was clear as day. I did my best to follow where I thought the voice had come from and found myself traversing down

dark roads with houses that seemed to have mostly boarded up windows. There was no glow of television sets to light my way here, just an inky darkness that seemed to swallow me whole. I bounded through the darkness despite that tiny voice in the back of my head, screaming of the danger counterbalanced against Addie's pleading voice. I was about to give up when I saw the lime-green baseball hat with the old Kansas City Athletics logo on it. I bounded after the child, clad in the out-of-date cap, making up for several lost steps as he meand. I managed to reach out and tap his shoulder, at which point he whirled around. The darkness obscuring his features, along with the bill of the baseball cap, he spoke to me,

in a soft, almost purring voice. Hello? Can I help you? Out of breath, no doubt red-faced and slightly nervous, I responded to what appeared in stature and voice to be a boy of probably 11 or 12 years old. my daughter what what do you know about her i'm only guessing that the boy shrugged at that point as the same calm smooth voice responded don't know the non-committal yet very typical answer of the preteen drove me crazy and i had to tamp down my desire to grab hold of him and shake him did he actually know and was not telling me why didn't he ask me questions about her did that mean he actually knew her What was going on here?

My Addie, my daughter Addie, she disappeared over a year ago in this area. Do you know anything about her? I asked more insistently. At that point, his reaction was more typical tween, as he simply stated, Neh, and turned his back on me. His back with his backpack slung on it. His back with a doll tucked peeking out of pocket, showing the same hair color as my missing daughter, the same glasses, and even more telling, the blouse she had bought when she did her gap year in Europe.

She loved that blouse, and was proud of it after buying it in Madrid. I'd never seen another like it. At that point, reacting more than acting, I grabbed the doll from his bag. Almost on cue, the dead streetlight we were standing close to came to life. Perhaps they just hadn't adjusted for the darker winters. perhaps something else was at play. Why does this doll look so much like my daughter? What did you do to her?

I demanded. The boy whirled around once more, and I got a better look at him. Dark hair peaked out from under the brim of his cap. He had very light skin, almost anemic-looking, which wasn't super strange during a Canadian winter, and his clothing seemed like they were of the early 1960s. Again in this era of thrifting being in vogue, this was not very unusual. What had once been something who couldn't afford new clothing had become the purview of the wealthy.

I had little doubt that this kid's wardrobe probably was the envy of many of his peers. That is, until I saw his eyes, and he opened his mouth in a smile, and I knew that he attended no earthly institutions. His eyes reminded me of a shark's, black and predatory. There was no sign of whites or color. As he smiled, I saw that each of his visible teeth came to a point as if they'd been sharpened, or as if he was that same shark but sprouted legs and walking on earth. There was something sinister afoot, and I knew it, and for the first time I wondered and worried

about where his companions were. At this point the boy spoke. again, but gone was the silky smooth voice, replaced with something unearthly and sinister. Give her back to me now. She belongs to me. A wave of fear struck me at that point, and I recoiled from him. In that same minute, my mind reeled as I noticed he referred to the doll as she and not it. I clutched the Addy doll even closer to me with that realization. Absolutely not. Why does she matter so much to you?

The sounds of hissing and spitting that came from whatever was masquerading as a child reminded me more of an angry cat than any human. I took a few steps backwards, knowing that I likely couldn't outrun whatever I was facing, but still prepared to go as fast as I was able before the thing responded. You know exactly who she is. You know exactly why she matters. Don't be stupid.

Now give her back or share her bait. With that I turned tail and ran for the main street and was surprised when nothing was chasing me. I'm still not sure why it let me go or even what it was, but I managed to find my way back to the hotel and headed back home the next day with the doll, with Addie, seat belted on the seat beside me. I pondered the whole way back what to do.

Do I contact the police? What do I tell them? They'd take my daughter as evidence. I heard her speak before, though. So maybe she's still alive in there somehow. How do I get her out? In some ways, I was more upset and lost than I was when she first went missing. I also knew no one would believe me.

Well, almost no one. I brought the doll to my wife and explained to her what had happened. I don't know whether she believed me or even understood or not. I only know she took one look at the doll that looked so much like her lost Addison, wearing her favorite clothes and held her close. We celebrated Christmas this year, with my daughter, and with the rest of the neighborhood,

thinking we have both finally lost it. Maybe they're right, but I don't care. Creepy presents Shadow Cove, written by known of consequence, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I don't want to be one of the countless people that blame the pandemic for their hardships, but it did make everything more difficult for everyone.

As much as I hate to be roped in with other people in general, I certainly can't deny the truth of it. Like so many others, I lost my job thanks to the mandatory quarantine, and I was one of the ones that never got it back. By the time the world got as close to normal as it could possibly get, I had been replaced by some douchebag that did the same job I did, but accepted half the pay that I had been getting. Fucking figures. But even though it was a shitty job anyway, I still want to burn that building to the ground. The place was basically a tender box, and it would be easy to make it look like an accident.

Does it sound like I've thought about this before? Maybe once, or twice. I don't come from a big family, and until recently, I only had one living relative left. Unfortunately, Uncle Ryan was one of the many that caught that stupid fucking virus. His health hadn't been that good to begin with,

and his age didn't help any. A lifetime of backbreaking work with lots of smoking and drinking had understandably taken its toll. He wasn't in the hospital a full week by the time he succumbed to the virus. I am grateful his passing was quick, and that he didn't suffer much. Uncle Ryan had been a hard man, strict with how things should always be done.

The old salty dog had a softer side, though, but it usually only came out when the work was done for the day and when he was enjoying his first beer of the evening. His funeral was short, a quick affair. He never married, had no kids, and very few friends. Aside from myself and the preacher, two people showed up for the service. I imagine my funeral won't be much different.

His lawyer did reach out to me for the reading of the will. He left me his shrimp boat and a little bit of money left over from the funeral expenses. Since I was losing my apartment due to a lack of income, I was thankful for the inheritance. Uncle Ryan lived on that boat for as long as I can remember. I actually spent a considerable amount of time on that boat in my younger years. mostly helping out during the summers and long school breaks.

My parents didn't do quality time very well, with me or each other. They both died in a car accident on their way to their first marriage counseling session, of all things. I didn't bother going to their funeral, mostly because they wanted me as much as I wanted them. What a fucked-up family dynamic. But that's how it was. No use crying over spilt milk. When my parents were faced with more than a few days with me at home, their first reaction was to call Uncle Ryan and ask if he needed my help.

It was easier on them than leaving me at home every day unsupervised. Something about me being untrustworthy, or whatever bullshit excuse they used to justify their shitty parenting choices. At least I know how to operate the boat. But without Uncle Ryan's directions, I know there's going to be hard times. As I'm getting reacquainted with the old boat, Shadow Chaser,

an old friend of Uncle Ryan's pays me a visit. Her name is Nora. And she apologizes for not having made it to the funeral. As it turns out, she is going to be my savior. Nora is a procurement manager for a locally sourced grocery store chain and restaurant supply warehouse. Her job is to make deals with local farmers, ranchers, and fishermen to buy whatever they're selling for the store and warehouse.

Her acquaintance with Uncle Ryan had more to it than a business arrangement, though. They were lovers for a few years. I think it's the most stable relationship anyone in my family ever had. had, with my own track record not being so good. Thanks to her fondness for him, he got her to agree to help me out since I was just starting. No fishermen, regardless of their gender, will start out bringing enough of a hall to make the work worthwhile. This business requires a certain level of experience, good judgment, and an ability to recognize patterns in migration to be successful. So far, All I really know is how to work the boat itself.

The other stuff is where I'm going to seriously struggle. I mean, I didn't even know shrimp migrate. You got to figure that all animals do, but it just never occurred to me. I spend what little money I have to fix up the boat. Thankfully, it's in really good condition considering how old it is, but general wear and tear items need replacing. some new ropes, nets, and a few other necessities.

The first few months are incredibly difficult, just like Uncle Ryan told Nora it would be. If I'm lucky, and that's a big if, I'll bring in a hundred pounds of shrimp in a couple weeks, not near enough to keep me afloat, but still better than nothing. I'm not the only boat around these waters. just the least successful one in the whole damn arena.

While refinishing some of the woodwork in the cabin, I come across an old green book. With how long I've been on the boat this time around, it's amazing I'm still coming across things I've never seen before. It's old leather and handwritten, but from what I can tell, there are multiple handwriting styles in here. This isn't one person's work.

It's a living journal through the ages. Reading through the entries, I find the earliest to be from nearly a hundred years ago. I don't have much of an eye for these things, but I'd be willing to bet it's museum quality. The entries tell of prime shrimping locations, which I go to, but these spots aren't all that good anymore.

I do catch some more shrimp, but not enough to make up the difference in fuel costs. If I'm liberal with my math, and it certainly isn't one of my strengths, it nearly breaks even. I keep looking through the green tome, hoping to find an answer to my prayers. A few of the entries read like scary tales of the sea, mentioning monsters and the like. I even recognize a few I heard about when I was a child. child. Uncle Ryan used to tell me such tales when I was working for him all those years ago. He'd be drinking a beer, or five, and smoking a cigar while I laid in a hammock on the deck. Nearly every night he'd tell me a tale. But not all of them were scary stories. I'd say about

half of them came across more like fairy tales. Most of those types with endings that brought happiness and good fortune to the main character. I really need some of that. Right now my life reads like the beginning of those stories, just waiting for the turning point. There was one scary story in particular that has stuck with me through the years. He only told it to me once, but it made one hell of an impression. There was a place known as Shadow Cove, and it was the most beautiful cove any sailor ever laid their eyes on. The waters were rich in shrimp, fish, and every other kind of sea life a fisherman could want to catch. But no one dared venture there. They say the waters in the cove are cursed, and evil creatures live in their depths.

Monsters so foul that no one who encounters them have survived to tell the tale. They call it Shadow Cove, because if you're fishing in those mesmerizing waters, you'll see shadow swimming under the surface while you reel in your catch. I'm surprised too over here other fishermen talk about the mysterious cove even to this day. While at the docks, I'd hear snippets, all things that sound similar to what Uncle Ryan had told me. Maybe it's because I'm younger than most of the fishermen, or that I'm a woman, but I feel the need to prove myself. Part of me says to ignore all the warning bells going off in my head, and to go to the cove. More than anything, I need the money, and if those waters are as rich in shrimp as they say,

it would solve all my problems. Monsters and evil sea creatures aren't real, so screw all that noise. A person can only live on ramen for so long. Splurging should be more than having a beer with macaroni and cheese. It should be steak and wine, or something fancy that I can't even pronounce. Although, I tend to hate that kind of fru-frew crap. Seriously, overpriced pretentious food that would require three servings to get you nearly full? Why the hell do people pay for that kind of shit?

I guess it's a rich people thing. While mulling over the idea of going to the cove, I catch sight of a woman walking along the docks. There's a number of reasons that she stands out among the people normally roaming the marina. For one, she has the skin tone of someone not used to endless hours in the sun like all of us fishermen. Also, there's no sign of the typical scowl most of us have.

I may be the least successful fisherman in this marina, but everyone is having a hard go of it these days. None of us have a lot to smile about. This woman, getting her attention might be the first thing I smile about in months. She's one of those natural beauties with dark hair and a slim dynamite figure. lightly golden skin with a generous splash of freckles. I could spend hours staring into those beautiful blue eyes. I never thought of myself having a specific type I go after,

but I do now, and I'm looking at it. She notices my lingering stare and gives me a long once over. In less than two minutes, she offers to buy me a beer. which I don't hesitate to accept. I haven't been able to afford a drink in months, and I'd have to be a moron to pass up the opportunity. She introduces herself as Erica, and we spend a few hours getting to know each other.

After getting the typical stuff out of the way, I find myself telling her all about my troubles. I even tell her about my dilemma involving the cursed cove. The decision to go or not is seriously weighing on me. Erica tells me that she completely understands the struggle I'm going through. When she was younger, she used to do something rather ill-advised with her twin sister. The only meat they ate was fish, and their family had trouble affording it all the time. To reduce the financial burden, they snuck into a nature preserve next to their orchard.

There was a lake in the preserve, and they fished the untouched waters. Erica and her sister Emma would take back an impressive hall twice a year. After their pet pig got accidentally mixed in with the slaughter pigs, they couldn't eat anything that once had kind eyes. Erica encourages me to take a risk, to go to the cove. It's not the only reason. risk I decide to take that night. I ask her if she'd like to see my boat, and she agrees, on the condition that we stop at a liquor store for a couple of bottles of wine. After the first

bottle, I put on music, and we do some serious slow dancing. We make love, and as we drift off to sleep, I wonder if she wants to go to the cove with me. However, I wake up alone the next morning. There's been a time or two where I was the one to leave in the morning. And now I know what it's like to wonder if I'll see her again. I did spend a few minutes looking for a note, but found none. I set sail early. Shadow Cove is a full day's ride out.

I've never been a fan of sleeping in the open waters. and it has nothing to do with an unfounded fear of monsters. I'm adult enough to know these old wives' tales aren't real, and down to earth enough to not let an overactive imagination get the better of me. My issues come from choppy waters, and their effect on the boat. If the waters aren't calm, I'll spend the entire night swinging back and forth in my hammock. There's a bed in the cabin,

but the mattress is hard as a rock. I was a little embarrassed about it with Erica. But she took my mind off of it very effectively. Maybe if the cove is as flush as the story say, I can afford a decent mattress, not just for my benefit, but for the next time I see Erica, assuming there is a next time,

which I do cross my fingers for. I love sleeping in a hammock, but the constant swinging will have me waking up nauseous. Normally, that only happens when I've had too much to drink, but I haven't had money for booze in ages. Erica picked up the tab last night and bought the wine. With any luck, I'll be able to repay her with the night on the town, and not just some seriously good loving. That'll happen to, but something Fancier than Bar Food couldn't hurt. Money is so damn tight right now that I have to bargain shop for practically everything. Even sunscreen for fuck's sake. It tends to get hot out on the water, so I wear shorts in a bikini top while I'm working. Sunburns can be a bitch for a

number of reasons. After spending the night with Erica, the primary reason in the forefront of my mind isn't surprising. I don't have someone always around. to smear aloe vera on those hard-to-reach spots. Shadow Cove is a legend with many people telling a variety of stories about it. However, the location is more than a well-kept secret. As far as I know, only one man knew how to find it. The entrance is hidden well enough that most people pass it without ever knowing it's there. The green tome has a well-drawn map,

and detailed instructions for navigating the entrance. The biggest surprise of all is realizing the instructions are in Uncle Ryan's handwriting. I find it hard to believe, but something does occur to me that I never considered before. He never once denied that he'd been to the cove. As I said, he only told me the story once. I had asked about it a few times.

times, especially after overhearing other fishermen mention it. But he had this uncanny way of changing the subject. Afterward, when I realized how well he diverted my attention, I always got the impression he had a bad history there. Entering the cove was nerve-wracking, to say the least. In order to get in, I have to drive my boat through a passage so damn narrow that I'd be able to push a diamond out of my ass. One tiny mistake could cause me to crash my boat against the side. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if there are some underwater rocks I could get caught on. I'm willing to bet Shadow Chaser is the largest boat capable of making it through this passage.

If I can make it at all. Just getting in is frying my nerves so badly. I don't know if I'll ever bring myself to do this again. This boat is the last thing I own. And if I lose it, I'm beyond fucked. Maybe if the hall is as good as the story say, I may dare to venture back through this hundred-yard heart attack. I have to admit,

it's interesting to see what desperation will make a person do. Well, that and a little encouragement from a beautiful woman. As if this is the first time a pretty face got me to do something I normally wouldn't, But that's a story not worth telling. Once I come out the other side, I'm struck dumb by what I see. I expected the cove to be rather small, medium at best. But the damn thing is fucking huge. You could fit four mega-crues ships in these waters.

They wouldn't be able to get out or move at all, but they'd still fit. The surrounding trees are so thick, I don't think I could make my way through them to whatever lays beyond. They are a stunning green color that only comes from plenty of water and easy access to sunlight.

A small beach sits in front of the trees, encircling the clearest, bluest water I've ever laid my eyes on. All over, I can see the, the levels, shelves, and drop-offs in the water's depths. The bottom, however, is too far down for me to see anything. Anything but a dark abyss. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I just found heaven on earth. If this was the last thing I saw before dying, I think I'd be okay with that.

I don't know how long I stand there marveling at the view, but it feels like a while. As soon as I get myself to start moving, I take a step toward the nets with every intention of putting them in the water. But a voice from nowhere makes me jump in surprise. I know this boat. And you even have the air of familiarity. But you've never been here before. The voice is unimposing, and not remarkable at all. almost androgynous.

What freaks me out is that it sounds like it's coming from right behind me. I quickly flip around and scan the deck, but there's nobody here. Oddly enough, the only thing out of place is a horseshoe crab sitting on the railing. It's near the steering wheel

and looks awfully dry, like it's been sitting there for a while. I must be getting too much size, That's got to be it. What other explanation is there for a freaking horseshoe crab managing to sneak onto my boat? Oh, and let's not forget that it's an animal and incapable of speaking to me. As if the mysterious creature reads my mind, the voice says, You are not hallucinating things, my dear.

I could easily begin to freak the hell out, but for some unknown reason, I don't. I've spent lots of time alone on this old boat, and I'll freely admit that I sometimes talk to myself. This time, my mind has decided to give my other voice a bodily representation, albeit a rather unorthodox one. I decide to indulge my obvious delusion, and I talk back to the crab. I tell it about Uncle Ryan's directions I got from the green tome, though why I'm telling a figment of my imagination things I already. know, I couldn't say. I even mention Erica's encouragement to take a risk and come out all this way. You are Ryan's niece?

I met him a long time ago and attempted to strike a deal. Alas, he was a stubborn man and did not accept. I wonder if you are the same. If this is a delusion, I'll have to admit. It's an interesting one. I want to ask so many things, but for the time being, I limit myself to the details of this so-called deal.

The disembodied voice of the horseshoe crab lays it out for me. Much to my delight, there isn't a lot of double talk and lawyers speak like I suspected a deal of this nature to have. That stuff has always been difficult for me to follow on even simple matters, which I believe is done on purpose. I may not be having a conversation

with a devilishly handsome man with a sexy accent, but this has all the marks of a deal with the devil. 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 Creepy pod 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

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