Creepy - Just a Phase

Episode Date: September 22, 2025

Just a Phase***Written by: Jesse Pullins and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***The Cellar***Written by: Renee Acosta and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Written in Lichen: Excerpt from a Stone Tablet Discovered in the Drake Passage***Written by: Jason P. Burnham***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 creepy pastors 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, years after being trapped in an addict as a child,

grief draws a woman back home, where a chilling reunion reveals a leer that never left. Creepy presents, Just a Phase, written by Jesse Pullens and narrated by Alicia Atkins. It was a mean, harmless prank. I remember climbing the run. rickety ladder to the attic as my cousins giggled below me, trying not to look down as every

step propelled me further into the smell of insulation and old books. The attic hatch was old and spring-loaded, and a few of them had to hold on to it so it wouldn't slam shut behind me. I remember their taunts as I stood at the top, trying not to chicken out as the darkness enveloped me. It was the evening of Thanksgiving, and we had just finished clearing the tables after the big feast. Just as quickly as the adults took to drinking and socializing, we took to mischief, scurrying around the house in search of entertainment away from the lecturing eyes of our parents. As they clinked glasses and pay-per-viewed a grown-up comedy special, we set our sights on the attic and the mysteries it contained.

Harmless, innocent, fun. We were young after all, but when you're young, you often find yourself in deep shit way fast, than you could recall getting into it. Your stomach twist and your heart races, and you realize, maybe something horrible, irreversible has just happened. You have made a grave mistake. This was my thought as I heard the attic door swing shut behind me,

just seconds after planting my feet in the dark corridor. The attic floor shook, dust agitated from the slanted ceiling, and below my cousins laughed at their trickery. I wasn't particularly afraid, of the dark. But there was something off about the little attic space that went beyond the lack of light and fear of mice. I had never been up there before, and it felt suffocating. There was no hanging light bulb, no light fixture with a string. When I pounded on the door for them to let me

out, their laughter drowned out in my annoyed pleas from above. Very funny, guys. Okay, you got me. You can open it up now. Come on, guys, this isn't funny. When I tried to let myself out, I had the anxious realization that the door was designed to only be open from the bottom. This started the snowball of my predicament, and as my mind raced, the thoughts that followed only fueled the cold sweat on my neck. In the little game of truth or dare, I'd been the one with the courage to go up. Of the four children, I was the oldest, and the only one tall enough to reach the cord that pulled the hatch down. I was stuck. It didn't take long for their laughter to subside as they came to the same conclusion. Their prank had backfired, and now they either had to get a

chair to boost them up, or worse, get one of the adults. As they scrambled to find a solution, I stretched and explored the dark confinement, enjoying my turn to giggle at their misfortune. That was until I saw the window, with the telescope positioned in front of it. It's a seemed so out of place standing there in the stark moonlight. The seemingly new Celestron was angled on its tripod, so it looked out and up at the sky. But there was something frightening about its presence, like I'd stumbled across something I shouldn't have. Despite my hair rising on my neck, I felt drawn to it, as if the telescope was inviting me to look, beckoning me. Below, I heard the pitter-patter of footsteps accompanied by the struggling drag of a chair. But my gaze was held on the

telescope, and I found myself walking to it, slowly waving past cobwebs to keep them off my dress. The sounds of their rescue was starting to fade as I became in trance with what I might find through this mysterious lens. I had never really looked at the sky before, but I was suddenly compelled to see what the telescope had to show me. Standing before it, I placed a my hands delicately on the tube and lowered my head to the eyepiece. It took me a moment to find the right angle through the lens, but once I did, my whole body froze. I will never forget what I saw that night, as it would forever change me for the worse. Through the looking glass, I saw the moon, bright and completely full. I got to see the brilliance of it in perfect focus,

like the telescope was prepped for the exact moment. I could see every crater in its prolescent surface, every detail etched in its cosmic existence. I couldn't lift my head or look away. It was like I was possessed to stare at it. And somewhere, beyond the lunar regalith, I felt it to stare back. I don't know when I started to scream, or who helped carry me down from the attic.

All I know is I was hysteria. inconsolable. My parents shouted and the kids cried, and when they asked for an explanation, I could offer nothing but terrified sobs. That night was ruined once I looked into the eyepiece, and it would be the start of the miserable terror that would become my life from then on. Lunophobia, an irrational fear of the moon. I could feel it watching me, even after they took me from the house into the doctor. When I was calm enough, to speak. That's what I told them. The moon is watching me. They dismissed me immediately, coming up with an excuse to rationalize and soothe. You just saw spiders or a rat, they would say,

or you were just scared of being locked in the dark. But it didn't matter how much I closed my eyes or how fast they drove. I could still feel it. The large eye in the sky watching me with a sinister intent. They sneered at my raving and apologized to everyone along the way, clearly embarrassed by my panic state. They ran test, CT scans, and MRI, all of which showed nothing, perfectly healthy little girl. They tried coaxing me into believing I had made it up, that I was seeking attention. I denied everything and persisted with my claim. I had seen the moon for what it really was. And it looked back at me. It's still watching now.

The holidays passed and I was introduced to a shrink, a man who passed judgment through his bifocal glasses and a pad of paper. My hopes for some common understanding were shattered, however, as it wasn't me who received validation, but my parents. A mild case of anxiety and post-traumatic stress brought on by a used fear of the dark. A result from being momentarily trapped in the air. attic. In short, they said I had an episode, one that would surely pass. I was rewarded with a prescription for Ritalin and was told to get plenty of stimulation outside in the sun. My parents were

given the reassurance I would grow out of it and eventually forget all about it. Or, as my mother put it, it's just a phase. But I never did grow out of it. The moon was always there, always watching and never forgetting about me. Every night it watched me, begging me to look at it. It wanted me to go back in the attic and look into the telescope one last time. I swore I could hear it lingering outside my bedroom window, waiting, watching, whispering to me in my dreams. Much like my obsession to never forget the moon, I never forgave my parents. They went on as if nothing had happened, making more of an effort to remind me of my medication

than seeing if I was okay. Years passed in a slow, horrible crawl. My fear of the moon continued, and the wedge between my family and me deepened. They could never understand my aggressive dislike for a drive-in movies, camping or firework shows. The only thing they seemed to understand were the words from the doctor and the prescriptions he wrote until I was so heavily medicated I was reduced to a life of absence and obedience. As the years went on, I learned to never bring it up again. My obsession would only earn me another appointment, more pills and a grounding.

Everything changed when I finished high school. Growing up, I had become a bit of a recluse, constantly focusing on my studies and turning to books instead of socializing. Nobody wanted to be friends with the weird girl with thick-framed glasses that always appeared on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder. Whenever I wasn't a paranoid mess, I was a medicated zombie going through the motions. In an effort to ignore the moon, I focused on my schoolwork.

I studied hard and did really well in all my classes, but the ones I found most fascinating were calculus, physics, and geology. I graduated with a 4.0 GPA and was able to attend any college I desired. My parents pushed and pulled to go any which way, but my final decision left them speechless and a bit betrayed. After a shut-in fearing the white globe in the sky, I decided I would study abroad to be an international surveyor. I would go bask in the sun all around the world,

far away from my parents, but more importantly, the cottage that had become my prison. I decided I would chase the sun wherever I could and take in the world as far as my tuition would allow me. With my academic scores, picking colleges and courses was easy. I had a list of things I wanted to do, places I wanted to see, that I would be able to make work through a decent laptop, and the best rucksack money could buy.

By the time I secured my funding, equipment, and student visa, my parents could only wave in disbelief as I flew the coop for a better world, hundreds of miles away from both their gaze and the moons. My bachelor's degree came and went in an adventurous blur. I thrived in the sun, traveling in the daylight with a collecting wad of plane and bus tickets. Each passing day felt rejuvenating, and the more time went on the less I was concerned about the setting sun in the gaze that would follow it. It felt like a weight was slowly lifting off my shoulders.

Beautiful walking tours and the awe-inspiring architecture of Berlin, to the busy streets and beautiful beaches of Barcelona. In the current day and age, online classes and transferring credits are quick, easy, and convenient. My scores stayed high, and my voluntary thesis was genuine and thoughtful. I met many fresh faces, made many friends, and encountered some enthusiastic lovers. I checked in often, but whenever a holiday would come around, I would always cultivate an excuse to prevent going back home. As months flew by, my calls home became less and less frequent. Eventually, the thought of picking up the phone and speaking to them felt daunting.

I didn't want to be the crazy moon girl anymore, and the longer I stayed away, the more she felt like a figment of my imagination. I never stayed in one place too long, and the ever-turning wheel of my college years rolled like a tourist's dream. My pale, recluse's skin became permanently sunday. My heavy backpack grew lighter and lighter as the days melted together. I pushed against the boundaries of my comfort zone until they felt like the crashing waves of the many beaches I frequented. By the time I finished school in Thailand, I no longer feared the moon.

It was as though I was always too fast for it to catch me. And on the times it did, I was too busy to pay it any mind. The day I received my degree, I spent the night wine drunk in the moonlight, dance, with a charming, muscular grad whose shirt gradually unbuttoned as the night went on. With my new degree in surveying, I was on top of the world. All I had to do was to decide where I wanted to land on it. The next morning I awoke to an empty bed, dizzy and hung over. My phone vibrated so angrily against the glass end table I thought it would shatter.

Putting the phone to my ear, I felt my sailing adventures stop with a sobering stillness. A relative I hadn't heard from since I was a child spoke with slow, solemn words, and the world around me ceased to move. Black ice. Out of control. Nothing they could do. In the polar opposite weather in my Bangkok hotel, my parents had perished in a car accident.

Died on impact, they said. For the first time in four years, I needed to go home. I felt ill coming. coming back home. The funeral was a closed casket, and the service was short. When I arrived the night before, I realized too late I didn't actually own funeral attire. My backpack consisted mostly of sundresses, bathing suits, and array of flip-flops. Standing next to the caskets in one of my mother's own dresses felt just as comforting as it did insulting. Even though I had apparently grown into the same woman she once was, it saddened me that the close sight of her.

I had felt to her in a long time was in death. My family, what little there was, comforted me as best as they could, despite being nearly strangers now. But the hugs felt forced, the words rehearsed. The cousins I had spent Thanksgiving with so long ago had either since ostracized me for being the odd one, or grown up enough not to be bothered I was gone in the first place. The reunion as a whole was a mixed bag. It was nice to see everyone again, but it didn't take long for the cracks to show, and I was reminded why I left the way I did after high school.

The, It's Good to See You's, and Where Have You Been to the sting of, you should have been here? It didn't bother me as much as it should have. After all, I had always been an outcast growing up between my episodes and standoffishness. It's a strange and empty thing. an only child at your parents' funeral. As they were lowered into the frozen ground, there seemed to be more than sadness surrounding me. There was a peculiar tension in the air, and a series of shameful, shifty eyes, like I was the only one not lit in on the joke. It wasn't until the service concluded, and I watched the last attending car drive away, that the executor filled me in.

my parents' estate, in its entirety, had been left to me. A small chunk of money, a worn-down car, and an old cottage. It was then I realized the significance of being left alone at the parlor so quickly. Nobody wanted to help deal with what was left. I had solely inherited what they owned, sure, but I had also inherited the burden of cleaning it up by myself. I got a hotel for the night, and as I lay awake and, Ben, I couldn't help but feel just as I did when I was growing up, like the mishappened piece that

didn't fit with the rest of the puzzle. It was then, staring at the popcorn ceiling, that I decided I didn't want to force it to fit ever again. In the morning, I would start cleaning the house and getting it ready to sell. Once it was done, I would be rid of this place forever. As I rolled over to go to sleep, I couldn't help but notice the pale light pooling in from the hotel window. Seeing it gave me a shiver, one I couldn't seem to shake, no matter how tight I wrapped the covers around me. I tossed and turned all night, and when I finally felt myself drifting off, my last thoughts were of the moon. Being in my childhood home felt like navigating a bad dream. I tried keeping my mind busy, focusing on filling the many boxes I had crammed into the rental

with the remnants of my parents last years. The house felt unwelcoming. The floorboards creaked with every step, and the cold wind passed through the walls like it was being inhaled from the inside. From the moment I arrived, I felt an awful sensation wash over me, like every inch of my skin was being pinched

between frozen fingers. Even as I ferried boxes inside and out and sweat collected on my brow, I couldn't shake the inhospitable clotheable, climate of the house's interior. It was like walking through a refrigerator. As I bagged up trash, tossed ashtrays, and collected dishes, it only got worse. I double-checked the furnace. It appeared to be working. Warm air weaves through the registers. But it just didn't seem to have the strength to lift off the ground. Despite the constant unease of my homecoming, I made quick work

of the estate. I dealt with the car that day. My father's old, beater escort, a simple Craigslist ad took care of that. Sold it to a local teenager for a couple hundred bucks, money I would use towards a storage unit for the things I wouldn't donate, like family pictures and the more sentimental things my parents collected. I knew I would be going far once the house was dealt with, but I didn't have the heart to get rid of them. It was something I would have to deal with at a later date. I wiped down and box the framed photographs, making an effort to avoid the happy eyes and smiles as I covered them in bubble wrap. I ignored the pain in my heart as I blanketed trophies and heirlooms and newspapers, things that dredged

up memories as I went. Some things took longer to stow away than others, each serving as a bitter reminder that I didn't get to say goodbye. I could feel the building grief, but I could push it off and work through it once the cottage was in order. I would have plenty of time, then. I emptied and cleaned the refrigerator and cleared out the pantry. By the time I made it to packing up the dishes in the cupboard, I had to pick through my mother's wardrobe again to find one of her thicker sweaters. The house kept getting colder, the air thinner. Goosebums crawled like ice across my skin.

The wind outside seemed to be getting louder, more aggressive. The house shifted on its old joist. After the cupboards, I plugged in one of my father's old radios to fill the creeping silence. A local radio station played a mismatch of classic rock and newer pop hits. Commercials played as I wiped surfaces, knocked down cobwebs, and vacuumed the freshen carpet. A season radio host talked of high school basketball and weekend market sales, and the predictions of a cloudless winter sky, accompanied by the monthly supermoon. I unplugged the radio and threw it in a box with the other knick-knacks. It was dark, getting late,

and I suddenly had enough for the day. I had only made headway in the kitchen and dining room, but my joints ached like I had rolled down a hill. I was working hard, sure. But there was a fatigue and soreness coming on that I couldn't rationalize. Maybe it was the cold, or I was coming down with something. Maybe it was the dust, allergies. I thought hopefully after a good night's rest I would feel better.

I pulled on my coat and grabbed my keys, ready to exchange the empty house for a hotel room and a bottle of wine. Almost done, I assured myself. I'll just pack up the rest of their things and leave the house fully furnished to help it sell. Easy. It was then that I heard the thud directly above me, like something had fallen over in the attic. My first instinct was to just leave and check it out in the morning.

I could be at the hotel with an open bottle and a hot shower running in less than ten minutes. I knew, deep down in my soul, that that was the right thing to do. I wish I would have just listened to that instinct, even as my heels turned, and I found myself looking down the hall to the old hatch in the ceiling. I thought maybe a chipmunk or a raccoon had gotten up there, and if they had found a way down here, they would make a mess of the progress I had made. I had photo albums and boxes. If they chewed their way into those, they would be ruined.

This was the excuse I fed myself, as my legs moved autonomously down the hall. I don't know why I was trying to rationalize it and make an excuse to stay. Even as the cold sweat ran down my back, why couldn't I just go? I looked up at the hatch and its cord, the same one I had to stand on my tippy toes to grasp. I could reach it with ease now. I was an adult, a grown-up, a big girl. It was just an attic, an old, dusty attic. I pulled, and the hatch opened like a jaw.

The hinge was rusted and squealed with age, protesting with years of rust and neglect. When I yanked harder, it shot open with a loud metallic clang, revealing a shitty termite-ridden ladder. The draft that seeped from it reeked of insulation in old books. It swept through the house like a gust across an Arctic plain. My joints ached as I made my ascent. I would just go up and find whatever box, make sure there wasn't an animal rooting around and be on my way. There was nothing to be scared of, after all.

When I reached the top, I saw the attic for what it was. Nothing. A small corridor with slanted ceiling so tight I had to hunch down to fit. A child's nightmare, nothing more. Without much effort, I found the source of the same. the noise. A cardboard box had fallen from its stack. The lid tossed and spilled open near the window. The box had been filled with little pockmarked books and chewed pens that now littered the floor, next to a piece of furniture covered in a sheet. I couldn't quite make them out from the entrance.

I thought maybe they were my baby books, or perhaps my parents' yearbooks from high school. I would have to get closer for a better look. The attic floor protests at every step. and I could hear boards groaning through the entire house. When I got close enough, I knew what they were instantly, and I stood there for a time just staring at them. The worn cover shining in the pale light from the window. There were notebooks, my notebooks. I felt sick.

My nerves jolted until they hurt, like a needle pricking the fork of every vein. When I bent down to pick one of them up, my exhausted breath came in a cloud. a fog. The composition notebook was tired and swollen, each and every page deeply engraved and pen. I shivered, and my hand shook as I opened it, listening to the crackle of the pages breathe and flutter. Within them, memories locked away in a vault of fear, depression, and a volley of prescription medications. Rants, ravings, mantras, each a silent cry of the same

repetitive thing. The moon is watching. The moon is watching. The moon is watching. The moon is watching. Behind me, the hatch slams shut. It startles me and I want to scream. But the air feels ripped from my lungs, strangled in the congestion of the attic. The notebook tumbles to the floor as I scramble to the hatch, pounding and stomping to open it back up. The dread washes over me as I realized I'm locked in, just as I was all those years ago. I panic. reach for my phone. The pockets of my coat, my jeans, all empty. Had I lifted on the counter? No, not again. It'll be different this time. I'll go through the fucking window if I have to. Panting and out of breath from fighting with the hatch, I go back to the window. Whatever

furniture is hiding under the sheet is about to go through it. The air is heavy and cold. My legs shake and struggle. What is happening to me? I raise a shaky hand. and weakly tug on the sheet. It slides to the floor in a flurry of dust, and I... Stop. The telescope. It's smaller than I remember. But I was so little back then.

The Celestron looks like it hasn't aged a day. Looks like it's fresh out of the package. But it's not its pristine condition that frightens me. I feel drawn to it, and it warms like an open flame. It's angled up and out. just as it was on that fateful night. I know what it's pointing at. I can feel it.

The eye in the sky that's glaring down, that always has. Its presence feels like lost ozone after a nuclear blast. Shifting, rithering, waiting. My hands find the telescope, and I force myself to look away. The notebook I once held is displayed open. The angry writing bold against the sea. of chewed pins. The moon is watching.

For your second story this evening, when a man purchases an Erie Cliffside Estate, he soon uncovers a locked cellar and discovers that he not only purchased a house, but also a ghastly legacy. Creepy presents The Cellar, written by Renée Acosta and narrated by Owen McCune. I write these words in terms. trembling haste, for the scratching against the walls grows louder by the hour, and I fear I have not much time left. My name is of no consequence.

You shall glean all you need from the horror that has befallen me. Only know this. When I purchased the abandoned Barnaby estate, admittedly for a pittance, intending to restore it to its former glory, I believed its unearthly reputation to be nothing more than mere local gossip. But among these withered halls, I've unearthed a chance of it. truth so ghastly, so unspeakably vile, that my mind frays at the very edges of reason. The estate, Barnaby House, also known as the House of Aborance, the House of Ritual by the locals,

stood atop a jagged cliffside overlooking a gash of dark water. Its silhouette bore a single tower, crumbling and stooped, like a weary old sentinel. My carriage driver deposited me on the outskirts of the estate, uttering something about unhallowed grounds before fleeing. The villagers of Ravenfell had whispered that foul noises emanated from beneath the floors of Barnaby House, echoing like a thousand caged beasts. But I, blinded by arrogance, dismissed their ramblings, and moved in with a single chest of belongings, which I now dragged up the gravel walk myself. My first night in Barnaby House, the wind shrieked across cross-crowinged. cracked windows, filling the corridors with incessant moaning.

My lantern's flame danced along the wallpaper as I walked the halls, casting elongated shadows on depictions of hunting parties and courtly life, faded to near mockery. Fascinating, yes. However, a single portrait mounted in the drawing room above the fireplace captured my attention. The stern visage of a gaunt man in dark livery. green eyes unnervingly alive. Beneath it, a tarnished brass plaque read, Malachi Barnaby, 1782 to 1840.

Something in his black pupils seemed to follow me. I ascended the steps two at a time in search of my bedchamber, carrying an inexplicable heaviness in my soul, as though the very house itself weighed upon my chest. Before drifting into a fitable sleep under dusty covers, I thought I heard a soft creak, like a door opening below. Then came a low rasp, as if something had awoken in the dark. I forced my eyes closed, telling myself it was mere wind and ancient floorboards.

I would soon learn otherwise. Each subsequent day, I discovered new indignities, rotting floorboards, worm-earned, banisters, a persistent damp that made the walls weep with black rivulets. Worse still were the noises. At first they were faint. Timid scratches from below were faint tapping behind the walls. When I pressed my ear to the paneling, I could have sworn I heard sighs, disturbingly human, yet twisted into something wretched. Perhaps it was the wind weaving through old pipes.

On the third evening, whilst feeling foolishly brave, I followed the tapping to a narrow hallway near the tower's base. There I found a curious door, locked and half hidden behind tattered drapes. Rusted and stubborn, the lock resisted my efforts, but my curiosity, now a burning flame, would not be denied. I fetched a poker from the adjoining library, and after several jarring attempts, forced the door open. Inside was a cramped study, draped in cobwebs and redolent of musty parchment.

On a rotting desk lay a single tome bound in black leather, its cover unadorned except for the faint impression of a symbol, an inverted Pentagon with the crescent moon threaded through, or so it seemed. I admit I'm not familiar with such things. I cracked open the book, gagging at the odor that wafted from its pages, like old decay. The ink was faded, the script archaic. My eye caught fragments. Harvest of anguish, using the torment to feed unholy appetites. Blood rites in the depths.

Barnaby House's cellars. Living hearts. Screams are the key to the gateway. A sickening chill clutched my spine, yet I read on, curious, feeling invisible eyes upon my back. The words invoked ancient rituals that defied all sense, ghoulish ceremonies that took place deep below the estate's foundation, requiring the pain of captives to appease something monstrous. I dropped the book, mind reeling.

Could these be the ravings of a diseased mind, or a record of dreadful act? In my explorations of Barnaby House, I'd come across no such evidence of a cellar. Surely if one existed, I would have stumbled upon it. Lightning flashed beyond a cracked window, revealing my trembling reflection in the glass. My imagination conjured twisted shapes behind me, but when I turned, only shadows greeted me. Still, the sense of being watched never left.

On the eighth night, the tapping from below escalated to distant thumps. I found them impossible to ignore a staccato rattle that shrew. shook me from my uneasy slumber. I lit a candle, descending the grand staircase with cautious steps, each board creaking like a warning. The corridors were choked in darkness, and I held my candle aloft, stepping across rotten floorboards as I attempted to locate the source. My search led me back to the hidden study, where the noises grew louder, rattling me to my core. There I noticed an enormous tapestry on the wall, a hunting scene.

in tattered condition. Pulling it aside, I discovered a heavy oak door secured by three iron locks, each corroded with time. Rust made them brittle, so with a strong push, I snapped one. The second gave under the weight of my fireplace poker, which I had taken to carrying with me when I roamed the estate at night. The final lock, however, would not yield. That is when I heard it. A deep, ragged breathing from the other side of the door. It reverberated against the wood, so close that I nearly dropped my candle. The flame flickered. A shape pressed against the crack beneath the door, some wet, horrid mass, shifting.

With a quaking voice, I called, Who's there? No response, only rasping breath and a dragging, slithering noise that grew fainter as though it were drifting away. Horror overwhelmed me. Had I gone mad, hearing phantasms? Or did a living creature lurk behind this door? I dared not break the final lock that night. Retreating, I fled to my bedchamber, but no rest came.

In the throes of half-sleep, I imagined a rotted hand sliding under the door, clawing at the stone. I wanted to scream but found my voice lost in a suffocating dread. I awoke at dawn, having slept somewhat after all to thunderous knocking at the front door. A Mr. Harding from the village, wet from rain, come to inquire after my welfare. He found me pale and quaking in the drawing room, fireplace poker in hand. I felt some relief at the sight of a friendly face.

Over breakfast, I confided in him the noises, the locked door, the foul book. Harding, skeptical yet concerned, offered to investigate with me despite his unease. If you're right, you'll need someone at your side, he said, patting at a pocket that contained his trusty pistol. But for all those good and holy, I hope you're not. We returned to the hidden study. There, Harding examined the dusty black tome. He frowned. Likely a family hoax, he opined.

But the uneasy flicker in his eye told me he wasn't fully convinced. I recalled what the villagers said about Barnaby House and thanked him profusely for coming. Show me the door, he said. It took only minutes for Harding to break the final lock, which fell to the ground with a clang. I startled. With little resistance, the heavy oak door swung inwards,

revealing a narrow stepped passage twisting downward into the dark. Unease seized me. Could this lead to the cellar? Harding, braver than I, or perhaps more foolish, insisted we explore and hurried to fetch a lantern. I saw in his eyes the same morbid curiosity that had first ensnared me, a desperate need to know if the vile rumors held any truth. Down we crept. The walls slick with unidentifiable slime. The spiral steps led deeper than I expected. and the air grew frigid. The further we ventured, the more the air seemed to clot in my lungs.

Our lantern cast devilish shadows along the wet stone. At the bottom, we emerged into a cramped antechamber. A rancid stench enveloped us, a nauseating mixture of decay and coppery tang. My stomach lurched as Harding lifted the lantern. All around us were bones, human bones.

Some jumbled in heaps, others arranged in twisted patterns on the walls, a hideous artistry in madness. We gagged, Harding cursed under his breath. That such atrocities could linger beneath the estate I had foolishly acquired. Then, from a dark corridor branching off the chamber, came a low-grown, a sound both pitiful and feral. Harding brandished his pistol, motioning me to stay close.

With shallow breaths, we advanced. We entered a larger cavern, the lantern revealing a place of unspeakable horror. Rusted chains dangled from the ceiling, battered manacles still locked around skeletal wrists. Old blood stained the floor. At the cavern's far end stood a makeshift altar, fashioned from black stone, etched with the same inverted pentagon symbol from the tome. Candles, long since burnt to stubs, clung to corners like spiders. But the worst was what scuttled across the floor. A shape, pale and emaciated, limbs contorted into unnatural angles. Its face! God help me! Was partially human, but the eyes bulged

milky white, and the mouth hung in a silent scream. It shuffled on all fours, dragging a battered leg behind it. Harding and I froze in mute revulsion. Suddenly, the thing flung itself toward us with a hideous lurch, teeth snapping. Harding fired his pistol. The shot rang out, reverberating in the tomb-like chamber. The creature's shoulder splattered a dark fluid, but it did not relent. Screeching in a breathless rasp, it lunged again. The lantern swung wildly, spattering light against the dripping walls. Harding dropped the lantern and fired once more. This time, the bullet struck the thing's neck, a horrible gurgle, and it collapsed to the stones, twitching. Heart hammering. I gingerly stepped forward. Up close, its flesh bore scars, welts, grotesque lumps,

evidence of torture and disease. Harding's face paled. This poor wretch was human. He hissed. The thing twitched, expiring in wet gasps. I turned and wretched, the stench of rot overwhelming me. Amid the horror, a final clue emerged as I stood. Jizzled into the stone above the altar were the words, gateway to the depths. Malachi Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby, had partaken in vile, vile rituals, turning the cellar into a pit for human agony. This abomination, perhaps a survivor, or a twisted spawn of his evil. Harding and I, trembling, withdrew. But as we fled the chamber, I thought I heard distant whales echoing from further tunnels.

Others might still linger in these catacombs, warped by unspeakable cruelties. I dare not find out. We managed to blockade the cellar door with a heavy chest of drawers, stumbling upstairs in a panic. Harding insisted we go for the authorities at once. Yet a storm of monstrous proportions raged outside. Thunder shook the estate, black cloud swirling. The roads to the village would be impassable.

Shaking with dread, we resigned to wait until dawn to depart. But fate had darker plans. That evening, Harding stood vigil in the main hall with a torch, pistol reloaded, while I paced the upper floors, fireplace poker in hand. The wind howled through the cracks, and the entire structure seemed to groan. As midnight approached, an unholy cry pierced to the walls, loud and shrill, like nails on a glass echoing from below. My blood curdled.

The torch harding carried flickered out in a gust, plunging everything into darkness. Chaos followed. The house quaked, doors slammed. I heard Harding shout from the corridor, There's something! Help! Sprinting down, I found him pinned by a monstrous figure, not unlike the one we'd slain, yet larger, more bestial. Its clawed hands raked at Harding's arms,

flinging droplets of crimson across the corridor. Harding screamed, his pistol lost in the struggle. I grabbed a candelabrum, smashing it upon the creature's skull. It shrieked, a savage hiss escaping its maw. At that moment, Harding broke free, collapsing under the floor, wounded, but alive. The thing turned its milky, bulbous gaze upon me. Its stench choked my lungs.

I swung again, landing a glancing blow to its shoulder. It stumbled, then retreated with a screech, scuttling back into the gloom, leaving a trail of vile fluid behind. Harding gasped, My God, they're multiplying. Shaken, we retreated to the dining hall, barricading the door with heavy furniture. Harding's wounds bled.

I did what I could to bandage them. In shaking whispers, we vowed to escape at first light. Until then, we would fight to survive the night in this fortress of horror. Rain battered the walls. Thunder rattled the windows. At intervals we heard scuttling outside the barricaded door, scrapes, low snarls. My mind raced.

Did Barnaby conduct such perverse rituals that he bred a colony of tortured thralls, twisted by cruelty and perhaps by occult practices? The monstrous shapes we'd seen moved as if once human, but now enslaved to some demonic will. As the night deepened, Harding drifted into delirium, feverish from his wounds. He mumbled about robe figures chanting in the catacombs, about a gnawing thirst for blood. Trying to soothe him, I rummaged for water or medicine in the adjacent pantry, but I found only dust and broken jars.

The house gave no mercy. Around 3 a.m., a final blow came. The barricaded door shuddered violently, a thunderous pounding from the other side. We cowered. With a splintering crash, the door caved inward, furniture upended. By candlelight, we glimpsed a host of wretched silhouettes, spindly limbs, eyes glowing with feral madness, their fingers curling into claws.

Some crawled upon walls like insects, clacking their teeth, jaws, slack, and drooling. Others shuffled forward, hunched, fleshed, peeled back in wet, shuddering flaps, revealing blackened muscle. I shrieked, pushing Harding behind them. me. He raised his pistol with trembling hands, firing blindly. The muzzle flashes lit the abominations in strobe-like horror, flayed, torso's, elongated arms ending in claws. Harding shots took down, too, but the others lunged, unstoppable. I threw a side table at them, buying moments to drag Harding toward a side corridor. Our footfalls squelched in gore from the creatures we'd shot. In a blind frenzy,

we tore through hallways half lost in the labyrinthine estate. A monstrous chorus of rasps followed, scraping walls with knife-like talons. Doors slammed, glass shattered, the stench of decay hung like a suffocating blanket. Then Harding collapsed, racked by pain. Leave me, he rasped, eyes rolling back. Ward, the village.

I refused to abandon him. But in that instant, two creatures lurched around the corner. I swung the fireplace poker, connecting with a skull. It splattered with a vile pop. The second latched onto Harding's leg, dragging him. He screamed, a sound of final despair. I tried to pry its hands loose, but another abomination lunged from behind, sending me reeling.

Helpless, I watched Harding vanish into the darkness, his cries echoing until they were cut short with a sickening crunch. Terror consumed me. Alone, I fled deeper into Barnaby House, smashing my fists upon doors and shaking handles. At last I found a small stairway leading downward. Fueled by blind panic and the screeching behind me,

I descended, ironically returning to the catacombs beneath the mansion, guided only by darkness and my own frenzied heartbeat. In that grim cellar, The stone corridors pulsed with the beat of unholy life. By luck or curse, I reached the same sacrificial chamber from before. Blood-slick bones crunched underfoot, the stale air gagging me. The monstrous dwellers lurked in the peripheral shadows, crawling along walls, grotesque heads tilting with inhuman curiosity.

At the black altar, a new shape loomed, illuminated by the guttering guddering candles I had seen lit before. It was a towering figure draped in ragged, moldering cloth, crowned by a rotting hood. And there, lying open upon the altar as if it were a holy text, was the black tome. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, a wave of nausea and terror washed over me. The thing under the hood was not the gaunt face from the portrait I was expecting. It was not a face at all. Where Malachi Barnaby's face should have been, there was only a churning vortex of vaporous, tormented visages, mouths agape in silent screams, eyes wide with eternal horror, all swirling together in a shapeless, collective agony. I understood then, with soul-crushing certainty,

that I was not looking at a man, but at a living philactory, and the blasphemous book was the ledger of souls that formed his very being. The figure's voice echoed throughout the antechamber, reminiscent of something unnatural and primordial, a single horrifying drone that echoed in my skull. Ye who trespass shall yield your screams to feed the gateway. With a gnarled hand, it lifted a wicked sacrificial blade, slick with congealed gore. The abominations around me keen in reverence. My every nerve screamed to run, but terror rooted me. Barnaby advanced, blade glinting in the candlelight.

My mind fractured. Images of Harding's final scream, of the poor wretches enslaved, of all the nightmares wrapped in swirling darkness. The blade arched down. Acting on raw, animalistic instinct, I rolled aside the blade drawing sparks from the stones. Scrabbling on the floor, my fingers closed around a sharpened shard of bone, a savage tool, but all I had.

Barnaby turned, his movements unnaturally fluid, and swung again. With a scream torn from my own lungs, I plunged the bone deep into his side. A wet shriek tore from beneath his hood. He staggered, black ickr leaking onto the altar steps, the faces within his hood contorting in agony. Seizing my chance, I raced to the altar and swept the candles to the stone floor. With another, I set the cursed toma light, the same vile ledger that I'd discovered in the upstairs study. Fire licked at the vellum pages.

As the flames consumed the wicked text, so too did it consume its master. Barnaby screeched. The catacomb erupted in chaos, the creatures shrieking, lunging, and disarray. I dashed through a side tunnel, flames spreading behind me. The dryness of the ancient tome and candle stubs sparked an inferno. I glimpsed Barnaby, or his phantom, clutching at the altar, cursing in a guttural language. The abominations shrank from the fire, their pale flesh sizzling as the heat intensified. In a final mad dash, I broke through an archway into the cellar's far end, where a locked door stood at a top of a curbing staircase.

Using a chunk of stone, I battered it. Wood splintered. I tumbled into the corridor above, emerging from behind another tapestry hung in the main hall. Smoke and heat billowed around me, the horrors trapped behind a rising wall of flame. I could almost feel a hundred tortured spirits crying out in dark ecstasy

as the flames consumed their prison. I did not recall exactly how I escaped the Barnaby estate. My memory is a delirium of smoke-filled lungs, stumbling through a shattered window, collapsing on muddy ground beneath a livid sky. Dawn found me on the village outskirts, raving of monstrosities and cursed rituals. Some villagers discovered me, half-crazed,

covered in blood that was not my own. Days passed before I could speak coherently, and even then, few believed my tale. They ventured up the cliff, keeping to the edges of the estate, only to find the house reduced to charred rubble. No sign of Harding, nor of the abominations. I was treated for delirium, pitying heads shaking all around me. Yet in the nights that followed, I swear I heard a scraping at my window,

a rasp of breathing from corners unseen. Perhaps some horror escaped with the flames. Perhaps Barnaby's spirit enraged. haunts me still. Now I scribble these words, my candle guttering low. The nightmares grow too intense. I see Barnaby's mask in every shadow,

and I cannot close my eyes without hearing Harding's last gasp. The black tome, burned in the pyre, etches itself into my dreams, demanding new horrors. And the scratching against my walls, is it only my feverish imagination, Or is it something more tangible?

If you're reading this, heed my warning, for there are evils older than reason, festering beneath polite civilization. If you chance upon an estate with a foul repute, if you hear the hush of caged screams at night, turn away. Shun all curiosity, for in the silent catacombs of this world, horrors stir that no cleansing fire can fully eradicate. I am but a broken survivor of the Barnaby terrors haunted by the knowledge that true darkness never dies. It merely waits, coiled and patient, ready to devour the next foolish soul who steps inside.

For your final story this evening, a man awakens alone on a frozen island, sustained by lichen and hallucinations until it begins to change inside and out. Creepy Presents Written in Lycan excerpt from a stone tablet discovered in the Drake Passage Written by Jason P. Burnham The knife scraped green lichen from grey stone

The blade's arc ends a millimeter below the surface Of my anemic white skin I watch blood slowly ooze from my thumb And bring the lichen on the cold blade To my mouth to eat This is my first memory I wish I knew how I got here or who I used to be. I have no memories before this island, and it's unclear to me when, exactly, before, truly began.

I also wish that it wasn't so cold, though I'm certain the penguins prefer it that way, evolutionarily speaking. They're a funny-looking sort, a pencil-thin black line running under their chins. I don't know if I ever knew what type they were. But I know they're penguins. Black, white, waddling, diving in the water. At least they key me in. This is the southern hemisphere. The island's not very big, but I can see others in the distance.

One even with a great snow-capped peak. Not one I would like to climb, but I have no boat. My alpineous desires or lack thereof matter little. I've not any luck asking the penguins where we are, though I doubt their name for this place as one I'd recognize. The lichen here serves most of my needs, despite its great texture and earthy taste. I didn't question whether it'd make me sick, and it never has. I must have experimented with it before my awakening.

The rest of my needs are met by fish I catch or scavenge, though my appetite for fish has dropped. sharply. I just don't have a taste for them anymore. The penguins mostly ignore me. They have no interest in my lichen. It's a good thing, as I can't afford any competition. Lichen deficiency gives me hallucinations. Perhaps that's why I don't remember anything before that first day. Eating lichen from a cold blade as blood dripped from my hand. Chloric intake aroused me from fugue. I wonder if the hallucinations are somehow related to what happened to my igloo. This island, though low in elevation, is quite frozen outside the beach where I spend most of my time. I only found the igloo over the hill when I was sated that first day.

The igloo's roof was already collapsed when I found it. Despite that, I was quite excited to see a structure of some sort. I thought briefly there might be someone within to answer my many questions. Where are we? Why are we here? Who am I? Who are you? Nobody was home, though I did search.

There was no evidence of another person and scarcely any evidence of myself. I suppose I'd pack lightly. The roof had caved in, though it looked more like it had been purposefully. dismantled. I can't see how the igloo could have melted. It's quite frigid here for as long as my memory meanders. It also seems improbable that someone could have broken the ice inward. I've tried to recreate the necessary force.

My bloodied hands begged me to stop before I got anywhere close to dislodging an icy brick. But who knows what one is capable of when hallucinating from lichen deficiency? I've not seen a boat. Though I suppose if it's ink offshore, there'd be no visible trace. There's no equipment to contact another human. I have no idea how long I'll be here. But it's not the worst existence. I have ample time to listen to the waves, watch the penguins, the fish, the occasional orca trying to catch dinner.

It'd be nice to be warmer, though. In my dreams I drift across the ocean, buffeted by the waves, aimless until I land on a warm white sand. beach. There I bask in the sun, drinking in the energy, pulsating, spreading my arms across the sand. In my dreams, I'm green, though I suppose it's better than my current paltry reflective alabaster. But dreams are just that. So I sit, watch the penguins with their funny chin straps, their families, their offspring. Maybe someday we'll be. will understand each other. I call the lichen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Each day it grows back stronger, greener, fuller. Sometimes I think I eat so much of it that my skin is modeling into the grain in my dreams. Maybe I need to eat more. That seems to make the skin discoloration illusion retreat. The penguins are giving me a wider birth than usual as the lichen spreads. further up the beach. I wonder if the lichen is driving them away. I hope the penguins don't leave.

Though I suppose I'd still have the lichen for company. It's getting bigger, spreading with every mule I take. I drag the blade along another rock and bring it to my mouth. I accidentally cut myself again. My blood's mixed with lichen residue. But even before they're not. mix. My blood looks almost green. Perhaps my anemia could be fixed with a few meals of fish. If only I had a taste for something besides lichen. Archivist's post-script. This tablet was recovered

from a wide-sealed copper basin, which served as the base of a stone cairn. The cairn was located near the water's edge at Cape Gary, the site of a large chinstrap penguin colony. A series of smaller rocks leading up to the cairn formed an arrow, whose line eventually intersects with McMurdo Station, significance unknown. Because the basin in which the stone table was found was 100% pure copper, it could not be radiometrically dated. The origin in the basin on low island is unclear, as there are no known copper deposits. However, historical records mentioning the island's location date back to 1820. The stone surrounding the copper basin reflects. The stone surrounding the copper basin reflect the age of Low Island, ranging as far back as 164 million years.

No other aspects of the Karen reveal human artifacts, and outside of the lichen, which served to seal the tablet inside the basin. No carbonaceous material was recovered from the immediate area. 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-Lite 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 story's author.