Creepy - Lighter Art

Episode Date: May 12, 2025

Lighter Art***Written by: No One of Consequence***The Monster Under the Bed***Written by: Rhyan Pike and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***The Best View in Truckin'***Written by: Nick Stabile and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***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 our first story this evening, when a lonely college student creates custom lighters, inadvertently capturing the interest of a beautiful classmate,

what begins as a promising connection takes a dark turn and an unexpected temptation. Creepy presents lighter art, written by no one of consequence. When you grow up a poor kid with nearly non-existent self-esteem and can't get the attention of anyone you consider desirable, you tend to grasp at any straws you can reach. In high school, I had plenty of friends, or at least I thought of them as friends, and didn't question what they considered me.

We hung out at lunch and during after-school activities, but other than that, I didn't see them. Graduating and going off to community college didn't really change that. I stay in the shadows and only find people to talk to during class. But there's one new avenue for me to meet people that I hadn't had before. There are a few smoking areas around campus and people there tend to be chatty. I'm sitting at one of those tables, completely alone before my first class of the day during my second week as a freshman when a giggle of pretty people enter the area.

Two guys and four girls, all looking like they can afford full-on university instead of this crummy community college. They got clothes with expensive labels instead of the crap brands I can afford. The ladies wear bright makeup over a golden tan skin that enjoys the beach while wearing bikinis. It's fair to say I'd fantasize about women like this. Sitting there, looking away from them and turning the music up on the one earbud I have, I sizzle in my angst. 19, but I still feel like a frustrated 15-year-old that got laughed at when I asked

the girl to the dance. Horribly awkward, desperately alone, and monumentally depressed, I wallow in my self-pity. I nearly jump out of my skin when one of the pretty girls breaks off and appears in my vision. I realize she's been trying to get my attention and I completely ignored her because never in a million years would she be speaking to me. Then it hits me what she's saying. Six smokers walk into a smoking area. and no one has a lighter.

I apologize for not responding before and hand her my lighter without giving it a second thought. Normally when someone needs to bum a light from me, I hand them the disposable plastic lighter I always keep, not my metal one. She holds it in her dainty hand, looking over the intricate design, and I curse myself. I'm an artist, and my main medium is metal. Years ago, I got a hold of a plain stainless steel lighter and started making design. It started with simple etchings and moved down to custom metalwork overlays and bold coloring. I've made several of them and always carry the latest with me. This one is inspired by my latest attempt to get a date.

One of my oldest friends was a pretty girl named Dallas, and I made the mistake of asking her out. She'd given me that whole speech about not wanting to risk our friendship on a relationship, something I'm all too familiar with. That was three months ago, and I haven't talked to her since. Mostly by my decision because I was crushed, and in my depression, I got another blank lighter. One side is a classic heart covered with slash marks, black ooze dripping out and showing a void inside. The front's a more anatomically correct heart, but this one's surrounded by blood splatter, and the heart has shoe treads on it. The girl looks it over, inspecting both sides before lighting her cigarette and taking it over to her friends.

She in turn passes it around and everyone gets a good look at it. I feel my face turning red, feeling overly exposed like someone's reading my journal, if I kept one. In a way, my art is my journal. After a couple of minutes, she comes over and gives me the lighter back. I've been puffing away at my sig so hard while watching them. judging me in their quiet yet obvious way, that I immediately use it to let another sig. She thanks me, and I give a quiet,

you're welcome, glancing at her, but not once making eye contact. I've always been intimidated by pretty girls, and she's so far out of my league we're on different planets. As I take a deep drag off my sig, she asks where I got such a unique lighter. She'd never seen one quite like it, so I'm forced to say,

it's one of a kind. What a mistake because it only raises more questions. I don't think it could be more obvious that I'm uncomfortable, not wanting her to know just how much of a loser I am. So I make an excuse about needing to get to class. I put my smoke out with more than half left, which would be a huge clue to anyone that knows me. I don't have much money and never waste a smoke.

As I make my way across campus to my first class, I curse myself for my cowardice. How many times if I wished to crow would talk to me, take even the slightest interest in me, and when it actually happens, I practically run away. Okay, it had been something as innocuous as my dumb lighter, but that's more interest than anyone's expressed toward me in a long time. Feeling like even more of a loser, I go to class and try to forget about it. The problem is, I can't get her out of my mind.

I barely allowed myself to look at her. But what I had seen had been enough. I favor redheads, and she had a deep natural color that made my heart skip a beat. Her lightly tamed skin had a generous sprinkle of freckles that I found to be gorgeous, and brown eyes that remind me of chocolate. The more I try to concentrate on class, the more I think about her, the more depressed I get. For as long as I can remember, I've heard stories. stories people my age tell about their relationships and sexual encounters.

They paint such a vivid picture that I feel like I know exactly how awesome it's supposed to be. But not once have I ever experienced it. I've never been on a date. Never had a kiss. And the closest thing I've ever come to sex is getting a long hug from a female friend. Wallowing and such self-pity can distract you from the entire world. Sometimes I think it's amazing that I haven't been hit by a car as I walk through the parking lot to the bus stop around the corner. I can barely afford school and smokes, so obviously I don't have a car.

Even if I could get a junker that managed to run half the time, there's no way I'd be able to pony up the cash to fill the gas tank. My crappy job at the metalworks doesn't pay much, but it does give me access to the tools I need to make my lighters. A couple days later I arrive at the smoking area to find it empty. The ash tray isn't full, but it isn't completely empty either. Glancing around to see if anyone's around, I find no one within sight and immediately look at the contents of the tray. I find two sigs that have just over half their length left and salvage them. Yes, I'm fully aware this is fucking disgusting.

But I'm flat broke and haven't had a smoke in two days. dusting off the second-hand cigarette, I light it and taste the bitterness of previously burned tobacco. A second light is always so freaking bitter and tastes horrible, which is why most smokers won't relight a cigarette unless they really have to. I mean, it still provides nicotine. So desperate times call for desperate measures. As I try to enjoy the bitterness of my second salvaged cigarette, at first inhalation hits me wrong and I end up coughing up a damn lung.

It happens from time to time, the smoke traveling down in an unusual way. Coughing so long and so badly that I barely register when someone comes up to me and sees if I'm okay. They offer me a bottle of water, and without hesitation, I take it, downing half of it in an instant. I've been coughing so badly that my vision was distorted from the pressure and it's finally starting to clear up. Looking around, I see that giggle of beautiful people again, and it's the redhead before me. me, making sure I'm okay. I sheepishly thank her for the water and stand up, but it's too soon. I end up sitting back down.

They crowded around me, preventing me from getting away, but trying to be comforting. During the coughing fit, I dropped the sig that caused it, which is utterly depressing. I'm screwed now, especially as the giggle starts lighting up. The redhead sits next to me, and when I don't... pull my own, she asks if I need a few minutes before having another one. I've never been good at coming up with things on the spot, so I tell the truth that I don't have any. Then she does something that confuses me. She offers me one from her pack. If it had been anything else, I wouldn't have accepted, but it was a full sig. I wouldn't have asked to bomb one, but she was offering,

and I'm not going to pass. I take the offered smoke and flick open my lighter. The red hat asks if she can see it again and I hand it over. She runs her fingers over the design, marveling at the detail. But most surprising of all, she comments on the deeper meaning of the design. She easily picks up on the stomped heart metaphor on one side and the damaged black heart on the other. Apparently she looked online for one-of-a-kind lighters for the brand and couldn't find anything like this. She hands it back and as I take it, I admit, I made it.

It seems to impress them and they start asking me all kinds of questions. Before I know it, it's time for me to rush off to class. As I get up to leave, the redhead asks me for my number. They're all interested in me making a lighter for them. This is how I came to know Delilah, the girl that would change my life forever. Over the next few weeks, Delilah and her friends have spent significant time with me. On several occasions, they've asked to see my artwork to get to know the different things I can do with metal. The designs they want for their individual lighters are complex, expressing a bevy of meanings and hidden depths.

I haven't accessed all the meanings behind those depths, but the heart of them seems to be darkly natured. One guy wants an inverted cross on his lighter that's completely blast. but covered in vermilion symbols that I can't begin to understand. The kicker is, the cross is one of the smallest features of the design, and a lot of the work needs to be done under a magnifying glass. Though it's so small, it's the most detailed ask of the design. Eventually, I discover all of them want special features like this. The larger pictures are a lot more fitting for the image that show the world.

Happy-go-lucky, pretty people that don't have a worry in the world. which seriously begs the question. Why are these people going to a community college? They can all afford to go to Ivy League universities, yet they're slumming it with poor people like me. When I finish the first of the lighters, the girl I made it for gives me a wad of cash. I never told her a price,

and I think it's a 20 with a bunch of singles inside. But they're all the same denomination. She gives me $400. for the lighter. I tell myself she's paying for all the lighters, but as I finish each one, they each hand me similar wads. Beliola ends up giving me $600.

I tell them it's too much money, but they won't take it back. Delilah's design is by far the most intricate, which is why she paid me more. There are multiple facets of the design that require a magnifying glass. On one side, there are different, depictions of the elements, each one at the tip of a compass's point surrounding a fifth in the

center. At first, I think it's inspired by a Bruce Willis movie. But instead of Milo Jovovich in the center, she asks for her to be in the center. I'm happy to oblige because it means I have to truly study her features in order to accurately capture her. When I say I study her, I mean really get to study her. I spend several hours in her room while she poses for me. And half the time, she's not wearing a stitch. It's far more than I ever thought to experience. And I've chosen my reactions. Being such a loser, this is the first time I've seen a naked woman.

My nervousness is painfully obvious. At first, I can't bring myself to look at her. I know this is for art and isn't going to lead to something. so I don't really want to let myself see her in her entirety since I'm never going to be with her. Eventually I succumb, but only when I start treating her like I would a statue, or even a bowl of fruit I'm trying to draw. I stopped looking at her as a whole and concentrate on the various parts that make her up. The light shines on her lightly tan flesh, a splash of freckles that decorate her skin,

the way the shadows form a curve over breasts. I sketch her time and time again. Then when she's fully clothed, I begin to work the metal with her peering over my shoulder. In the center of the design, she stands naked and bleeding from various cuts on her body. But the look on her tiny face is pure ecstasy. I won't even go into how she came to show me that expression on her face. I blushed so hard and nearly passed out. This lighter over all the others is taken the longest, but it also has the most detail.

Delilah leans into me from behind while I diligently work on the art. While using a seductive tone, she whispers in my ear, asking me when I think it'll be ready. It's hard to concentrate when she's so close I can feel the heat of her body against me, her breath in my ear. After a moment of consideration, I say it should be done by the 31st. At hearing this, she exclaims that it's perfect and invites me to a party. The giggle are throwing a New Year's Eve bash. And I'm invited?

I've heard about this group's parties, and they're very exclusive affairs. It's weirded me out that they've been spending so much time with me, and not all of it has been about the lighters. Of course, there's Delilah getting naked and doing things in front of me. That's been so strange. But I'm really starting to wonder, Is the other shoe ever going to drop? I've been frozen at my workstation for a full minute without saying or doing anything.

Delilah is still leaning on me, patiently waiting for me to say I'll go to the party. Then I feel her hot breath on the back of my neck as she speaks in a voice that's right at home amidst silk sheets and dark lights. Begging me to come to the party. Her hand snakes around my body and inches down my stomach, gliding down my denim-covered leg and caressing my thigh. Oh, holy crap. Her hand just brushed against it. And she knows how excited I am.

I think I might actually pass out this time. It's when she gives my ear a quick flick with her tongue that I finally find my voice again. And it comes out higher than I intend when I say I'll go. She gives me a big kiss on the cheek before we part and I'm left dumbfounded. I've been teased by a girl before, but nothing like what Delilah does to me. I have to get myself under control before I can get back to work. It takes a lot of work. Damn near all my free time between work and school.

But I finally managed to get the lighter finished. About noon I called Delilah and tell her it's done. She gives me the address to the party, and it takes me a minute to figure out how to get there. The buses don't really go to their party. to town. So after I change buses five times and get dropped off as close as they'll go, it's still a three-mile walk, at the least. Delilah hears me work all this out and says that just won't do. Before I can say anything, she's yelling for the guys and telling them to come pick me up. The tone she uses sounds more like an order, and I can hear both of them mumble something,

and it doesn't sound happy. I begin to tell Delilah that the guys, can pick the lighter up and not bother to give me a ride, but she cuts me off, telling me the guys will be by at nine and for me to wear something comfortable. I sheepishly ask if jeans and a button up are okay. She says it doesn't matter. They won't be on me for long. I may have actually blacked out there for a minute. Dressed in my nicest dark blue jeans and black button up, I get out of the car in front of a

mini mansion. I think my whole apartment would fit in the garage twice and still have room. I expect there to be cars lined up along the street for all the people that'll be here, but the street's empty. Where there should be a bass beat of music playing, all I hear is a quiet night in a neighborhood I normally wouldn't be able to see from public roads. The guys escort me through the giant double doors, and the extravagance of the house hits me right in the face. Though the lighting is a low natural yellow, collar. It has elegance that can only come from a shit ton of money. Candelabras have been placed all over the place and no electric lights on. The hell is going on. I've never been to a

college party before, but I know they don't look like this. From the top of a sweeping staircase, three girls slowly descend. Instead of the party clothes I'd expected to see, they wear linen black pants. and what looked to be hooded cloaks. Glancing to my sides, I noticed the guys that put on their own black cloaks to match the girls. It hadn't occurred to me before that they were dressed in simple black linen pants and black t-shirts.

Once the three girls reach the bottom, they fan out around me, completely flanking me on all sides, save for the staircase. At the top is another figure, dressed the same as all the others, but this one is wearing a very dark shade of red. Even though every inch of her is covered, I know Delilah is hiding in the shadow of that hood.

I've spent more than enough time studying her body and how she moves. Hell, I've dreamed about her since the first time she borrowed my lighter. Stopping in front of me, she speaks in a tongue I'm unfamiliar with. I get the impression that she's asking me a question, but since I don't know what she's saying, I do nothing. Words continue coming, though they're different from before. It's still the same tongue. After a minute of this, something in what she says clicks in my brain, and I begin to understand the words. Delilah is asking me if I'm here of my own free will and willing to participate in what's to come.

I have no idea what this is, but I find myself thinking, I've already come this far, what's a little farther. On the outside, I just shrug. But this doesn't seem enough for her. She leans into me, bringing that hood to my face. I don't lean in, but make her get on her toes to reach me. Plunging me into the darkness of her hood, she kisses me on the lips. Not a quick peck either, but a slightly open-mouthed kiss.

I can feel her breath enter me. and I return it with a whispered, Yes, as my first kiss ends. That was the answer she was looking for. I follow her down the flight of steps behind the sweeping staircase with the others at my back and around me. These stairs are winding, corks screwing down a lot further than a typical basement will go. But then again, I've never been in a mansion before. The lighting doesn't change either.

Candles are spread out along the wall and skyline. sconces, when we eventually make it to the bottom, there are rows and rows of candles on tables along the walls. In the center of the room is the largest bed I've ever seen, much bigger than a king. Near the far wall is some kind of bench, but it's too tall. Delilah and the gagle walk me to that bench, and I realize it's not a bench. The hidden beauty in red stands on the other side of the altar with me. me opposite her and the rest surrounding me.

As she starts speaking again, I listened to her words carefully and it's confirmed. Say hello to the other shoe dropping. Every candle in the house was lit with one of the lighters I made. So in the eyes of those gathered, these flames are of my creation and belong to me. Delilah calls upon a dark deity to offer sacrifice in exchange for power to share with their collective. Their offering wasn't easy to find, but they found a virgin with a dark heart and troubled spirit, one unworthy of the love they so desperately seek. Okay, ouch. Did they have to spell it out quite so blatantly? I mean, come on, you're going to freaking kill me here.

At least you could do as be nice about it, especially now that I know I'm going to die without ever getting laid? I don't know what's more surprising. That I didn't see this coming, that there's some kind of deity in existence that actually wants a sacrifice that meets this criteria. What could have happened in their eternal life to cause them to want the biggest losers

their insane followers could find? Is it just part of that giant cosmic joke I call life? Or is there something deeper going on here? Most people be struggling to get away at this point. but there are six of them. I may be stronger than I look, but each of the guys looks stronger than two of me, and I know what I'm capable of.

Struggling and fighting will only result in them hurting me, and as it is, I'm hoping this will be a quick, clean death. From behind the altar, Delilah pulls out a knife in a large, shiny bowl. Placing the bowl on the altar, she uses the knife to slice open her palm, let several drops fall into the bowl while saying in that odd language,

I give of my life to you, Emeros, so that I may attain your favor. The name sounds familiar, and if I'm not mistaken, he's the Greek god of unrequited love and sexual desire. Okay, that actually makes more sense why I'm the sacrifice. The giggle moves in a circle,

constantly surrounding me and the altar as they take their turns reciting the chant and spilling their blood. I stand there as they do that, but after the third one, I start feeling something in the air. It's almost like a static electricity, building and building until Delilah stands behind the altar again. She starts adding things to the bowl, and the three other girls move toward me. Delilah continues chanting, continuing her call to Hameros as the girls on their hands over my body. I don't realize until they've done it, but unbuttoned my shirt, and once they remove it, they all move it once.

Everyone in attendance tosses their cloaks to the side, revealing naked upper bodies. Is anyone else see the irony of being half naked while calling a god of unrequited sexual desire? The girl's part from me is Delilah comes around the altar, her hands covered in the blood from the bowl. She runs those hands all over my exposed flesh, coating me in their combined blood. It feels hot against my body, as if it was heated while I wasn't watching. To finish it, she wraps her hands around my throat and begins to slowly squeeze with a python strength. So much for a quick death. But I can't help being surprised at how strong her grip is.

Still not resisting her, I watch as the candlelight catches her eyes. making me wonder if they look any different if we'd been making love instead. Even now, as she strangling me to death, I'm still infatuated with her. The only difference between now and before is I don't hold myself back from looking at her. I keep my hands to my side, but I look at her as if she was my lover, not my murderer. I've never thought strangulation was quick. This seems to be taking a lot longer than it should. I feel the pressure building in my head and pain in my throat, but it feels dull compared to how it was a moment ago.

This strange change in time allows me to see the details of Delilah's brown eyes, how the individual squiggles of color flow out from the pupil like thin flames. Something about them melts the ice around my damaged heart. If I had one wish, it would be to change how she felt about me. Is that what you truly desire? A very masculine voice asks me from the side. I can't turn, but I can turn my eyes. Batheed in the golden light of a thousand candles, a chiseled man stands there with some kind of branches

along the sides of his head, completely naked. He is the very essence of masculinity and exudes sex with every part of his being. Do you truly desire to change how she feels about you? The God asks, because who else would it be other than the very God they're sacrificing me to? Possibly, I'm more confused than I already was. Aren't I supposed to be the sacrificial lamb so this guy will bestow power or whatever on this giggle? Why would he be interested to know if I really want to change the outcome here?

As if reading my mind, he explains, in Homeros' experience, there are three types of sacrifices that his followers bring him. The resentful losers who hate everyone that makes him feel the way they do. The desperate will take any attention they get and remain delusional hopeful. And then there's people like me. A skeptic that doesn't believe everything at face value and has still been crushed repeatedly. The kind of person who's created a shield around their heart, only to have the defenses breach time and time again,

and yet somehow doesn't give up. The only kind of person that still doesn't resist while they're being killed because they never believe themselves worthy of love and allow their death to happen just so some modicum of peace might be had. You know, I would say something along the lines of Don't Judge a Book by its cover, but he summed it up perfectly. The first two types of sacrifices are more common and are taken without hesitation. The power he gives isn't much, but far more than humanity's capable of on its own.

To those like me, a true unicorn in this world, he makes an offer. Look into her eyes, he tells me, and I do. Do you truly desire this woman that would kill you for an insignificant amount of power? I'm about to say that I do, but he continues. Or would you like a hundred times more power than I would grant her, allowing you to charm women far more desirable than she? I think about it for a long moment, and when I don't respond, add some incentive.

If it would sweeten the pot, I'll allow you to do anything and everything you wish to her before I take her and the rest. Wait a second. Have the girl of my dreams for an hour or two, and then have the ability to get better and more attractive women than her whenever I want? I know what I'm going to say, but the real question is, what's the catch? You will be my vessel in this world,

and with every conquest you make, a child of my seed will be born. You will father me an army of demigods that will assist me in overtaking Olympus and claim the goddess I've been denied since the dawn of time. Well, that kind of answers the question of why he'd offer me such a gift. I'll give you two guesses about what I said, but you'll only need one. For our second story this evening, when a lonely girl befriends the monster under her bed, who becomes her protector against a darker threat,

only to later discover that the bond still lingers. Creepy presents, The Monster Under the Bed, written by Ryan Pike and narrated by Heather Thomas. Being brave does not mean being unafraid.

Being brave is feeling feared towards something, but pushing yourself to overcome that fear. My name is Miranda. I spent the early years of my childhood raised solely by my mom. My mom, my mother, mother considered herself a modern gypsy, traveling from town to town selling crystals, herbs,

and relics of purported occult origin. It was along her travels that my mother met a traveling salesman who sold elixirs to heal all ailments. These elixirs were in fact essential oils, water and perfumes meant to do nothing more than convince their purchasers of their fantastical abilities. The salesman claimed to be of Eastern European origin, but was in fact a very important. born and raised in the slums of Chicago and had never stepped foot outside of the United States. His ancient recipes were nothing more than concoctions that he had experimented with

until he was convinced that the smell was strong enough to seem potent, but obscure enough to not be easily recognizable as the underlying oils and perfumes that scented it. Knowing the nature of his business, the salesman always made sure to skip town before the purchasers could come to the realization that they had been swindled. Due to the nature of both businesses, my mother and the salesman began to travel together from town to town, thereby ensuring that both of them had company on their long, arduous journey.

As often happens, there were multiple occasions where boredom and loneliness led to the two of them to engage in carnal recreation in order to pass the time. Eventually, my mother found herself pregnant with this salesman's baby. The salesman continued to travel with my mother and care for her throughout the pregnancy, but the day I was born, my coward father disappeared, without a word, taking my mother's car and all her belongings with him. My mother knew that finding my father would be a long shot, so she decided against filing a police report

and instead settled on permanently parting ways. Now, having nothing to her name, my mother was forced to rely on public assistance and resultantly settled us into a small, run-down apartment, since it was the only thing she could afford with a meager check. My mother, having no skills or qualifications, beyond her proclivity for social manipulation, began selling herself on the streets to provide for the two of us. I don't remember exactly when, but as I grew from a toddler to a young child, I became more aware of the various men that filtered in and out of our little apartment at all hours of the night. At some point, my mother became aware that I was remembering these visitors and decided to take her work elsewhere.

As such, she would wait until she thought I was asleep, then sneak out of the house, only to arrive home shortly before sunrise, downtrodden and exhausted. I was much too young to be left alone at night, but my mother saw no other choice. She comforted herself on the reassurance that I would sleep through the night and not even noticed that she had ever left. Early on, this assumption proved correct and created few complications. But in time, my developing young mind began to run wild, and my imagination began waking me up at night out of fear. On multiple occasions, I remember waking up to my bed frame jostling.

Each time I lay motionless in bed, with the covers pulled up above my head, hoping that who or whatever was under the bed wouldn't notice my presence. Listening closely, I could hear breathing, a heavy rise and fall of a chest much too big to be human. Many nights I would cry in silence and pray for morning to come. only to eventually drift away into sleep out of utter exhaustion. My mother noticed that I was suddenly seeming much more tired and irritable during the day, so she decided to talk to me about it.

When I told her that something was hiding under my bed at night, she tried to hide a smile before speaking to me in her dulcet, motherly tone. Mira, the world is full of scary things. What defines a person's character is what they'd do with that fear. I know you are a brave, strong, young girl and can handle anything that this world throws at you. My mother explained to me how bravery is confronting my fears, and how, by doing so, I take the power away from the things that I'm scared of. In the end, I may find that whatever

scared me before may not be so scary after all. My mother dug through her jewelry box and pulled out a clearly handmade necklace, bearing a small crystal held in a wire setting. Placing it around my neck, my mother explained that this crystal provides protection, and when coupled with bravery, the crystal can have a profound effect on the world's evils. Giving my mother a tight hug, I held the crystal in my little hands and promised myself that I would be brave, not only for myself, but for my mother as well. That night I again woke to a sudden jostling of my bed. Looking around the apartment,

I wasn't surprised to find that I was alone. Feeling the cold of the crystal as it touched the skin on my chest, I took a deep breath and called out into the darkness. You may be scary, but I'm brave. You have no power over me. In response, a deep voice resounded from beneath the bed. The words were in some unrecognizable language,

and seemed to shake the walls of the apartment as the monster spoke. The surprise shook every bit of confidence out of me, and I reverted to my previous pattern of hiding underneath the covers and waiting for mourning. In the following days, I wanted to talk to my mother about my experience, but the broken lip, black eye, and repeated visits from the police in connection with one of her customers, let me know she had enough on her plate.

Even with the complications, my mother still continued her pattern of leaving the apartment each night, leaving me alone to deal with the monster under the bed, myself. I didn't speak to the monster again during these days. Instead, I hid and listened, trying not to make even the slightest sound or motion. Each night the voice came again, but the anger and malice seemed absent from the voice. Instead, the monster murmured its words in a soft and almost comforting tone. I don't know what changed in me, but eventually I became frustrated and decided that I needed to know what was hiding under my bed.

That night when the voices started, I slowly worked my way to the edge of the bed. I leaned over the edge, barely letting my eyes peer into the void beneath. Staring back at me were two blood-red, unblinking oarrow. Every hair on my body instantly stood on end. Aside from my bated breath, I was utterly frozen in time. As the two of us stared at each other, the crystal slipped from beneath my shirt and dangled in front of my face. To my surprise, the crystal was glowing just as red as the monster's eyes. In an instant, a hand-covered in black scales shot from beneath the bed and grabbed whole.

of the crystal. Despite the speed, the monster's motion seemed delicate in the way that it handled the crystal. The creature guided the crystal to my hand and closed my fingers around it. This time, when the creature spoke, I understood every word it said, little one. I have hoped we would have the chance to meet. I am sorry for scaring you. It was never my intention. The creature explained to me that my attempt at bravery had scared it, just as much as its response had scared me. I had been so quiet and still in the bed that the creature never knew I was there. The creature didn't respond out of anger, but rather out of fear, and had been trying to make amends ever since. The creature explained that at night, the veil between our realms

thins, and there is occasionally some overlap. My room just happens to be one of those places. The creature explained to me that it is a gatekeeper of the other realm, and was positioned to ensure that nothing travels between the realms. The creature told me that there are many scary things in both its world and mine, but the creature assured me that it meant me no harm and was nothing to fear. In time, my chats with the monster under my bed became a nightly occurrence. I would tell the monster about my feelings, fears, and concerns,

and the monster would comfort me and reassure me in my times of weakness. We would talk long into the night, and in time, I considered the monster under the bed to be my closest friend. One night during our conversation, my mother came home early, only to hear me speaking in the late hours of the evening.

She quickly opened the door, fearing that someone was inside with me, but was surprised to find me in the room talking to myself. When she asked me who I was talking to, I told her that I was talking to the monster under my bed. My mom laughed and gave me a hug, telling me how proud she was of me for being so brave. I told my mom that I wasn't joking and that she should check. But she laughed in response.

Although she said she believed me, I could hear the incredulity in her voice. Despite my mother not believing, I did, and I kept having my conversations with the monster every night. One night, I was awoken by the monster's voice exhibiting a notable sense of panic.

I couldn't understand much of what was being said due to just have woken up from sleep, but when my mind finally began comprehending what I was hearing, I heard the monster telling me to climb under the bed now. Though the idea of climbing under the bed with the monster scared me to my core, I found that I trusted it enough to obey. As I climbed under the bed, a scaly hand wrapped around my ankle and pulled me much deeper than should have ever been possible.

I tried to scream, but another hand clasped over my mouth. There I lay under the creature's scaly body, unable to move or hear anything beyond the beating of the creature's heart. The silence was broken by the sound of the door to the apartment opening. I heard two men enter the apartment and announce themselves as police. Finding nobody inside, the two men discussed how my mother had been found murdered, in a back alley, and that their records had shown she had a daughter that would not. need to be cared for. Tears filled my eyes, but no sound escaped past the creature's hand. In time, the officers exited the apartment and closed the door behind them. Concurrent with the

sound of the door closing, I felt the creature pushing me back out from beneath the bed. I scurried away and leaned against the wall, staring back under the bed, an utter horror. They were going to take you away, the monster said. I couldn't let them take you. I sat silent in the darkness, eyes fixed on the orbs under the bed. At some point I unknowingly fell asleep, and when I jerked awake, I found the room illuminated by daylight. The orbs under the bed were gone, and just outside of the threshold of the bed, there lay a basket filled with fruits that I had never seen. The fruits were vibrant and multicolored, and a part deep inside warned me not to touch them. As I weighed my options, I noticed a note atop the basket. Viewing the note, I saw that it was

written in a strange language that I couldn't understand. Something about the writing beckoned to me, however. I felt a warmth on my chest and looked down to see the crystal glowing red. I held the crystal and everything changed. I still couldn't read the writing, but somehow knew exactly what it said. I'm sorry for scaring you. I won't let anyone hurt you. You are my friend, and I will protect you from the evils of both of our worlds. Hesidently, I picked up a piece of the fruit and brought it to my lips.

As I took the first bite, I was amazed at the complexities of flavor, racing across my taste buds. This was by far the tastiest thing that I had ever eaten. I ate and ate, and before I knew it, the basket was empty and I was full for the first time in my life. I searched around the apartment and found a pen. On the back of the note, I scribbled, Thank you, before placing it back under the bed.

As the days went on, the monster under the bed continued to care for me. It made sure I was fed, safe, and comfortable. One cold morning, I even awoke to find a coat lined with jet-black fur that seemed to fit me as though it were tailored. The leather was more soft and supple than any I had felt before, and the stitching, though clearly done by hand, was flawless and strong. I came to rely on the monster more with each passing day. One night I awoke to a noise in the apartment.

I was my friend, I called out and waited for a reply. To my surprise, no noise came from beneath the bed. Instead, the closet door creaked open slightly, showing nothing but the empty blackness within. I stared quizzically and waited for something to happen. Suddenly, two glowing eyes burst to life in the darkness. Strangely, these eyes weren't the red that I had become accustomed to seeing. Instead, they glowed in eerie, iridescent yellow color. I tilted my head to the side, trying to understand what I was seeing.

Out of the darkness, a tentacle slowly emerged. The tentacle was covered in dark brown hair and seemed to wiggle organically as it made its way into the room. I sat, frozen, in a combination of fear and confusion. The tentacle brushed my face before slowly receding back into the closet. The closet then slowly slid closed and latched. Not knowing what else to do, I crawled under the bed, hoping my friend would be there.

Unfortunately, the area under the bed was empty. There I hid, and there I slept, until daylight began showing through the curtains. The next morning, I found no food, no gifts, nothing to indicate that my friend had been there at all. Though I was hungry, I did what I could to get myself through the day. That night I lay in bed and again called out to the monster beneath the bed. Again, the only response I received was the creaking sound of the closet opening.

Again, the tentacle found its way into the room. The tentacle brushed the hair from my face and then seemed to point at me. I was shocked to see a small hole on the end of the tentacle open to about the size of my fist. The opening was lined with row after row of tiny teeth. The tentacle shot forward and latched onto my upper arm. The pain was instantaneous. I pulled as hard as I could, but despite my struggles, the tentacle continued dragging me toward the edge of the bed, and ultimately the closet.

The pain was worse than anything I had ever felt. and my vision started going fuzzy in response. As my vision faded out, I saw a black scaly arm shoot out from beneath the bed and slice through the fur-laden tentacle. The last thing I heard before passing out entirely was the heavy thud of severed tentacle hitting the floor and an inhuman scream from the closet

that painfully vibrated my eardrums. When I awoke, I reached for the spot on my arm where the tentacle had grabbed me, Instead of an open wound, I found my arm bandaged with purple-colored leaves. Leaning over the edge of the bed, I again found a basket full of fruit with a note atop it. This time the note read, There are things happening that are out of my control. I'm sorry I failed you. I won't let that happen again.

My breath caught in my throat. It was clear to me that the events of my heart. I was experiencing were far beyond my complete comprehension. That night I found myself unable to fall asleep out of fear for the monster in the closet. When a familiar grumble emerged from beneath the bed, I finally felt my body relax and I let out a deep breath of air. There in the darkness, my friend beneath the bed did his best to explain the situation in a way that a six-year-old human could comprehend. What I took away from our conversation is that there are some creatures that believe themselves to be superior to all others, and they want to conquer my realm for themselves.

The monster under the bed is one of the only things standing against them to ensure that the balance of power is maintained, and our realms remain separate. My friend told me that the monster in the closet had caught him by surprise, but he was never going to let that happen again. Knowing my friend would be there to protect me, I settled into bed and quickly fell asleep. The next night I awoke to the sound of the closet once again sliding open. Before I could comprehend what was happening, a tentacle shot out from the closet and slithered its way beneath my bed. I heard a thunderous roar, followed by the soft hiss of the tentacle, making its way out from under the bed.

Once the tentacle fully emerged, I was shocked by what I saw. In its maw, the tentacle held a scaly black hand with long claws that had been severed at the wrist. The tentacle held the hand in front of my face, seeming to gloat before retreating with the appendage to the closet. For the next week, I didn't hear from my friend again. Every night I would hear a rustle or a bang and jolt awake, only to find the yellow eyes

staring at me from the closet. On the seventh night, I was struggling with my health. Without the help from my friend, there was little to eat in the house beyond the scraps that I had saved from previous baskets. I was not sleeping well, and it left me feeling altogether unwell. As I lay in bed with a crippling stomach ache, I heard that. the door to the closet slide open. This time, the door opened fully instead of just a crack.

Emerging from the darkness, I saw multiple wriggling tentacles similar to those I had seen previously. Those tentacles were followed by an amorphous mass of dark brown hair. Other than the two gleaming eyes, this creature had no defined facial features, though it doesn't even come close to conveying what I saw. The best way I can describe it is an octopus crossed with the bear. As I stared transfixed at the creature before me, I nearly missed the tentacles wriggling their way throughout the room to surround me,

remembering what my mother had told me about being brave. I removed the crystal from my shirt, but was horrified to find that it was not glowing at all. Trusting in the crystal and myself, I gripped the crystal tightly in my hand and yelled out to the creature in the closet. I am not scared of you. You have no power over me. Whether it was out of anger or some animalistic response to my scream, I'll never know. But the creature from the closet leapt towards me. From there, everything seemed to move in slow motion. I felt familiar warmth suddenly

appear in the palm of my hand, shortly before a burning sensation caused. caused me to drop the crystal. As it fell from my hand, the crystal illuminated the entire room in an eerie red light. With a bang, the bed bucked upwards, launching me against the wall. My head hit the wall hard enough to put a hole in the dry wall. As I lay motionless on the ground, the upturned bed obstructed most of my view. The last thing I saw was a flash of black scales collide with the brown-furred monster,

knocking it back into the closet. As the door to the closet slammed shut, the world around me faded out to black. I awoke disoriented in a sterile white room, lit by an array of blinding halogen lights. I looked to the side and locked eye contact with a nurse who quickly hurried out of the room. A few moments later, a team of doctors rushed into my room

and surrounded me. The lead doctor began explaining to me their understanding of what had happened. According to the doctor, police had been searching for me following my mother's death. When they were unable to locate me, I was deemed a missing person. Unfortunately, due to a lack of leads, the case went cold. The night I was found, the police received reports of a struggle at my mother's former apartment. Upon arriving at the apartment, they were surprised to find the apartment in complete disarray and me lying on the ground, unconscious, due to acute head trauma.

I was transported to the hospital where I remained in a coma for four weeks. The doctors were beginning to lose hope that I would ever recover, when all of a sudden, I regained consciousness. The next morning I was visited by two police officers, and a woman wearing business attire. The woman introduced herself as a child psychologist and informed me that police had some questions for me. When the police asked me what had happened,

I explained everything about the monster under the bed and the monster in the closet. The police officers didn't say a word. Instead, they shared a look with each other before turning to the psychologist for an explanation. The psychologist explained to the officers that children can sometimes create an imagined explanation for real-life experiences that prove too traumatic for their brain to handle. The officers nodded in understanding and left their contact information, in case I ever remembered anything else in the future, that would help them find my attacker. After a few days, the doctor determined that I didn't have any injuries that warranted long-term care,

and as a result, I was able to be discharged and go home. This proved complicated, however, since I no longer had a home to return to. A social worker spoke with me and gathered some information about my parents. The next day, a social worker and an unknown woman arrived at my hospital room. The new woman told me she was my mother's long-lost sister, Since I had no other family, my aunt agreed to take responsibility for me and raise me. While my aunt helped me gather my belongings, she told me about the house and the family I now found myself a part of. Before we left the hospital, I asked the doctors if I could have my necklace

back. To this, the doctors replied that I didn't come in wearing any jewelry. Not knowing what else to say, I nodded in acceptance before leaving empty-handed with my aunt. In the following years, my aunt provided me with a happy childhood and did her best to take care of me in every way she could. In time, I found myself considering my aunt as my second mother. She helped me succeed in school and provided emotional and financial support for me to follow my dreams. As a result, I graduated high school with honors and was accepted into a prestigious college to study psychology. While at college, I met a man named Kennedy,

who would later be my husband. Upon graduation, Ken and I moved in together and relocated near the school where he was pursuing his Ph.D. I was able to get a job working as a counselor for troubled children and couldn't have been more thankful for how my life turned out. After a couple of years, Ken and I welcomed our beautiful daughter Caroline into the world and our hearts. Looking down at Caroline, I was so thankful that my daughter would never have to grow up,

experiencing the things that I did. I was so proud of the life that Ken and I were able to build for our daughter. I had become so accustomed to our happy, peaceful little life that my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I awoke to my daughter's blood-curdling screams late one evening. Ken and I rushed into Caroline's room only to find her cowering under the blankets on her bed. Ken picked her up and began to comfort her.

I told him that I was going to look around just to be safe, but I was fine if you wanted to let her sleep in our bed for the night. As Ken carried Caroline out of the room, I got the distinct feeling that something was out of place. Looking down, I noticed Caroline's diary sitting on the ground, just beyond the foot of her bed. The diary looked as though something had been wedged between the pages to keep it from closing completely. As I opened the diary to the marked page, I was surprised to see writing of a strangely familiar, yet illegible. style. In the crease of the page sat a crystal, bound in a wire setting, and a single black scale. Gripping the crystal in my hand, I felt an all-too-familiar warmth, and I instantly knew what

was written on the page. You forgot something. I smiled, tears pouring from my eyes as I tore the page from the book. I wrote my own response on the paper before tucking it under the bed and walking out of the room. Thank you for everything. I've missed you, old friend. For our final story this evening, a retired truck driver stops to help a stranded rig in the desert, only to find a bloodstained cab and no driver. Soon, the night spirals into a nightmare of eerie movements. Burning Flash and more. Creepy presents. The Best View in Truckin.

Written by Nick Stabille and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. I've been trucking for nearly 50 years. Only stop when the boss suggested I retire. My old Chevy's good enough, but she's not a big rig. At least I can enjoy the view. Fells thorough fit over the best view in trucking, whether it's Blue Ridge, Skyline, 94, bare-tooth, or a hundred other roads I left in the wind.

I enjoy forests and oceans, an open country, all right. But they're not the best view. First, you've got to leave the cities. Harder with every year, it seems. Then find an empty stretch of interstate. Late at night without any traffic, or cops or worries in the world. It works best in the desert,

where the sky's clear and there's nothing but dirt all around. I near flipped the truck on nights like that. I was looking at the stars. That's the best view in trucking. When it's only you, you're rig and them. There's more little dots up there than anyone can count. There's something special to be under them. Like, you're cozyed under a blanket

And you could sleep outside in a hail storm and keep warm I was never alone with the stars looking over me I'm lucky to spend my later years in the desert It's peace and quiet And the stars shine bright as ever I don't need more trouble and laugh Just my pickup and the best view in trucking But trouble tracked me down

long past sunset on the interstate when a million stars lit the sky on fire I almost pulled over to take a picture for my grandkids until I saw a rig off the far shoulder his calves swung right of the trailer parked about 30 feet into the dirt I figured he oversteered or something no chance I could ignore him

Truckers look out for each other, and that's not how Pops raised me besides. That's a mind everyone ought to have. I stopped on the roadside and hopped out on my flashlight. A piece of garbage was dimmer than me in algebra. But it helped me avoid the spike of shrubs around the truck. Its trailer said, Samson Family Farms on the side, painted in red with an apple basket blowing. Nobody answered when I called out. A heavy smell suckered me from the cabin.

A bizarre burning or melting scent. Both fleshy and plastic. Like a steak barbecued on cellophane. I figured the truck was on fire and I jogged to the door. I peeked inside. No fire. Or smoke. But the charred stench ate.

through me. And the place was a mess. Potato chips and empty water bottles covered the floors. Liquid stained the dashboard and cuts and gashes tore up the seats. Why keep a cabin this bad? I cringed from the odor and all the chaos in there. I yelled at the ratty beige curtain that separated the sleeping cabin, asking if anyone needed help.

The engine kicked up its noise. I climbed into the cabin and over to the passenger seat. I hollered into the curtain again before yanking it open. No trucker. But the fiery air back there twisted my guts. I wretched and nearly threw up before I turned away from it. Nothing to see but a plain bunk with a duffel bag on top. Must be their first night on the road.

I killed the engine. The silence spooked me. And I've been silent most of my life. A breeze slapped my face from the driver door. I pointed my light at it. Window pieces littered the panel on footwell. I gassed and fell into the driver's seat when I looked lower. Blood coated the vinyl and handle.

Judging by the amount someone was either dead or soon would be. I reached for my phone, but it wasn't in my pocket. Fran used to say, remember your phone, Sanchez. With that old smile of hers, should have listened to her more. Another thing she'd happily remind me of. More unwanted silence. My neck whipped to the passenger door.

I wanted to sprint to my Chevy, but I couldn't move. I just froze and listened for anything. After a minute I clambered over the seed and onto the ground. I waved my light over the endless dirt ahead. Nothing but shrubs. A coyote call startled me, but it sounded far away. I creeped along the trailer. My eyes focused on the desert.

Every crunch of the dirt racked my nerves and gave away my presence. A mesa loomed in the distance. Since, its shadow rose far above the flats and blocked the stars behind it. I thought I saw movement that direction, but I kept inching to my pickup. The melting smell faded as I reached the trailer's end. I glanced at the interstate. Then back into the nothing.

I saw him. A black figure stepped from the Mesa's shadow. He looked tiny beside the massive wrong. My back slammed into the trailer and its metallic thump borne to my bones. The person or thing stopped. I couldn't tell whether he glared at me. My light wasn't too bright and the stars didn't help neither. It moved on shortly in a shamble across the desert, about 50 feet from me.

My hand shook as I wiped my forehead. I panted like a dog too. But something ate at me. They might have needed help. Maybe they were bloody a burn or lost than all along. I wonder why he didn't head for the road. Nothing but more dirt besides. And if he was dangerous, God forbid.

Why not charge me? He wasn't even hauling fast. I walked quicker than he did, as a matter of fact. Even at my age, that fell wrong. The whole scene felt wrong. Fran would tell me to run like force and not look back. But Fran isn't here. I shouted an offer of help into the dark.

The shadow paused for a few seconds, then continued. I eased away from the trailer, no less afraid of whatever was out there, but no less curious. My light carved a route through the low bushes. I called out again. but the shadow didn't stop. It didn't speed up either. I gained on it, the trailer. Now well behind me was only a shadow.

A breeze chilled my face. Sweat drenched my jacket and pants, and my eyes felt tired of squinting into the void. I yelled one last time. He stopped in silence, and I approached him from behind. He didn't turn to me. My life revealed a pale man, tall and thin with skinny limbs.

He wore a navy sweater, but thick and fleecy one you'd see in the Midwest. A plain rust-colored shirt peaked from under it. I couldn't see his black jeans and sneakers well in the dark. The way they blended into the night looked creepy. His stubby hair resembled an army. hair cut. His stance put me off. He stood stiff, I almost at attention, with arms bolted to its sides and legs together. He didn't face me. No way he didn't hear me. He didn't look hurt,

no marks on his hands, neck, or the back of his head. Maybe he was strung out or plain crazy, but that doesn't explain the bloody cabin or the broken window. or that hideous burning smell. Then his torso jerked forward, like Frankenstein in that old movie. Another coyote howled as I watched him. Never seen anything like it. He drooped over in a deep bow. I thought he'd grab something in the dirt,

but his right knee jolted past his waist, then leapt forward in a lunge. His whole body shuddered when his foot hit the ground. He barely held his balance. His head can boast in a steady side-to-side pattern. He moved so unnaturally, so mechanically. It reminded me of that toy robot I gave my grandson. I'm surprised the winder wasn't sticking from his spine.

His chest heaved with a sharp inhale through his mouth. Like a diver coming up for air. He exhaled the same way. Then repeated that awkward step with his left leg. He regained his balance no quicker than last time. His arms never rose. He'd soon escape my light. I whisper, do you need help?

He gasped in another desperate breath. His head kept twitching. I had more fear than blood in my veins. But I'd seen a freak or two in my trucking day. You need a cool demeanor on the road. I closed the gap between us and reached for his sweater. Do you need? A strained and primal moan silenced me.

You'd think he was pushing pallets uphill. It droned on for several seconds. My hand hovered over him. He'd scared the wits out of me, but I couldn't take the suspense anymore. I gripped his shoulder. Sorry, but I thought he'd shudder. He shot up to full height. I sprung away.

He pointed his right foot out and tugged at his left leg, but it didn't budge, like someone nailed it in place. After a few spasms, he leaned on his right foot. Then he forced his left knee up. His leg seized, and I figured he'd topple over. The right foot shifted, cracking the dirt underneath. He was trying to pivot his body on one lip. His heel grounded him while the ball of his foot inched to the side.

His left knee remained in the air. It would be funny in a sitcom. His neck rose as he rotated. I felt eager to glimpse his face. In around fifteen seconds he'd wheeled less than half-weight to me. I couldn't wait. I marched in the side. Sir?

A silent gas. choked me. His face. Oh, Lord, I'll never forget his face. It looked human at least. Blue eyes, lean cheeks, a butt chin, and patchy facial hair. But his expression near stopped my heart. It was anguished, beyond anything I'd ever seen.

Like he'd spent an hour in hell. Every inch of his skin clenched into the tight wrinkles. His panic stare pleaded at the sky, at God himself. It barely peaked from his scrunched eyelids. A tortured smile beamed through his open mouth. Either sweat or tears flooded his cheeks. I held in a scream as I stepped back. His face didn't change.

His glare didn't leave the stars. More steps back. His knee posed, his mouth gaping. One more step. I couldn't look away even as the darkness overcame him. Croaking breaths whined from his mouth. My heel caught a shrug. I shrieked and collapsed onto my back.

My left shoulder snapped on impact. I cried out. Aimed my light in his direction. Nothing. The pounding of his strides tore through the desert. How did he run? He couldn't hardly walk a moment ago. The sound trailed off, but I worried he'd come back.

My shoulder ached badly. I knew it would feel worse soon. I had to leave. Now, I hustled to my Chevy in a panic, frantically weaving around the bushes. The shoulder pain blurred me. my vision. I couldn't steady my flashlight hand. Blood hammered against my ears. I couldn't move faster at my age. I wasn't sure if I heard footsteps behind me, and I didn't want to know. Quit running, I thought. Pops didn't teach me to run. He'd tell me to fight like a man. And if I lost,

at least I'd see Fran again. She always said I won. So I spun around and braced for. Nothing, except bushes and dirt. Was there even a sound? Could have been my own two feet. That thing toiling with me. I coughed from the dust, hunched over and winded. Fatigue chased the fear out of me for a while.

I took a breather there, about 50 feet from my pickup. them. Then I sniffed the same toxic odor as before. The one had fissed in that sleeper cabin. Except I wasn't anywhere near the ring. And that man didn't smell like it either. My shoulder throbbed. A fracture I reckon. Maybe all the way through. I grunted against it and shoveled to the interstate.

But Christ, the stench. I could hardly breathe. I bowled over and coughed the fumes out. The Chevy seemed so close. I pushed myself on. I'd drive home and forget all about tonight. I waded through more shrubs and dirt before I spotted something to my left. Two shadowy outlines rose a foot off the ground.

I trained my light on them. Black sneakers. Still attached to a pair of legs. I should have beeline to my pickup and headed home. I should have left that creepy, whatever alone. Should have kept driving instead of trying to help some poor soul in near midnight. I should have walked away, but I was never the walkaway time. I approached the body.

Already convinced that's what I'd see. Good thing pops couldn't see me then. I went stiff as a flagpole and lost my breath. My nose sealed at the stench. Shock and awe stopped me from barfing all over the gravel. Him. It. The person, thing, whatever.

Splayed on the dirt. Dead-ass roadkill. Same thick navy sweater. Same rose-colored shirt. Same black jeans and sneakers. Same face. Same twisted skin. Same begging eyes.

Same agony. But how? He's... It's not the same. I would have seen it past me. The thing didn't smell like a chemical fire. This body did. I couldn't think about it anymore.

Or stick around any longer. The flashed last. The light beam rippled as I pointed it away. I snapped back. Then repeated it a few times. Tiny waves of steam escaped from the corns. Easily seen against the dark clothing. Steam.

Desert nights are frigid. And the dead man seemed fresh, not decayed or slow roasted or nothing. The gas reached higher and spread to his limbs. I surveyed his torso for flames. There weren't any. More steam hissed out and the smell grew worse. The haze surrounded him.

I wretched and gagged his eye backed away. The knuckles on his left hand melted. Their skin crinkled and peeled as blood dripped all over the dirt. Then the muscles dissolved into white mounds of bone. The steam dispersed. in an instant. As if someone dumped water on the man. None of his left side burned except the knuckles, where a skeleton poked through the bloody gore. But the rest of his hand looked normal, not burned or butchered or nothing. I couldn't explain how that body cooked itself, or why it didn't catch fire,

or why only his left knuckles seared off. I hadn't seen his right side yet. I didn't want to neither, but he blocked my path to the shabmy. I passed him at a distance in case he steamed up and spit that acid stench again. When hummed through the bushes, my shoulder pounded away that socket or outside of it, I wasn't sure. My life revealed the corpse's right sign, scorched knuckles again, but normal besides. Except. his face. The whole side of it was caved in, smashed and mangled like something mauled him. His eyes swelled the near bursting. Gore's sinkhole stretched from his eyebrow to the top of his head. Skull fragments littered the dark blood seeping from the gash. Blood isn't dark unless you've been

dead a while. Was he? No way. He looked fresh five minutes ago. before that steam and that smell and his knuckles melting. I couldn't stay there. I heard it in my pickup, numb to the world, to that thing, to that burning man, to that huge mesa lording over me. I didn't care anymore. Nothing beneath the stars is worth my life. I remember that night whenever I crawl into my big empty bed, that crime scene caviariness. that horrible man thing,

that maim corp spewing steam like a geyser. Then I get to thinking, if that man's wounds explained the bloody cap, if he ripped his knuckles apart fighting who knows what, if his pummeled head meant he'd lost, if that thing in the desert killed him. If it took his clothes of his body, his face, Why didn't it come from me too?

What if it did? And I'm... I just shove everything else aside. And sleep. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube.

All stories told on this podcast, are done so through Creative Commons share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.