Creepy - Lucky & I Saw My Mother In The Graveyard

Episode Date: March 16, 2023

Lucky***Written by Christopher Pate and Narrated by Nate DuFort***Content Warning: Descriptions of death, Death of pet***I Saw My Mother In The Graveyard***Written by: Summer Harris and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of biocations of biocations. Silence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. Lucky. Written by Christopher Pate. And narrated by Nate Dufort. Hey. Yeah, sure. Nice to meet you, too.

No, I don't mind. Record away. That's what you wanted, right? An interview with a real-life-like-and-throat. A werewolf? Skin changer? Lugaru. I like that one.

Sounds so smooth and hoity-toity. Anyway, here I am, pal. What? Or claims to be? Huh? Okay. I get that. I mean, I could just be jerking your chain

and looking to get my 15 minutes in the limelight, hmm? playing a prank maybe or maybe I'm just nuts. Guess you'll have to figure out which one for yourself. Lovely evening, ain't it? Want a beer? I'm having one. You sure?

Okay, suit yourself. I like a good beer three as the day winds down. Nice buzz as I enjoy the sunset and they clear the palate and wet the appetite. Right there in the cooler, if you change your mind. Oh yeah, just one rule for the interview. No names. Real names anyway. You can call me lucky. How did it happen? Well, it really ought to be a gruesomely romantic story, right? Bit by a cursed relative or mulled by a beast out on the moors or a radioactive coyote under a big fat full moon night air heavily perfumed by wolf's bane and a damn ground fog creeping along in old forest's gnarled twisted roots something with gothic flare

thick enough for you to cut with a knife right now those are all so much cooler than what really happened sorry to disappoint, but life is never as interesting as it's made out to be between the covers of a book or splashed across the pages of the pulp magazines I read as a kid, you know, back when I dreamed about being a space pirate. That's a thing, isn't it? Yeah, an imaginary thing anyway. Ah, the dreams of youth. But then the weight of family expectations are piled on you, crushing those,

poor little dreams. Not going to school, getting a job, the pressure to become something better and more than your parents. Transforming, so to speak. Someone to make the family so very proud. Life is a way of saving the kick to the crotch for when you least expect it, though. Then it's the road least taken, you might say.

More like forsaken, right? Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Well, it was a night not too different from this one. Summer, warm but not scorching. Walking down a country road, whoopper wheels called and lightning bugs danced to their luminous rhythms. The evening fell, and the moon rose, big and lovely.

A perfect night. That's most of what I remember. You know, the little atmospheric moments, leading up to the attack. But the attack itself and immediately after? Yeah, not so much. Complete blur. Really?

Nothing but a big muddle in my head. Even after all these years are trying to sort things out. Turns out that being savaged by a bloodthirsty werewolf is a taincy-weensy bit traumatic. Shocker. Talk about some PTSD. All I remember is a lonely, country road, a musky smell, a crouching shadow, and running. Still have the nightmare of running sometimes. Never get away. Ever. Didn't get away that night either. I'm not sure why it didn't just

mangle and kill me. Devar my flesh like a ravening beast. You know, the thing about being in the grip of bloodlust, that bone-deep urge to rend and kill and feed? Nothing like it, believe you me. It could have, should have, just left my mangled corpse behind with all the choices, bits raggedly torn away. I don't know. Maybe I didn't taste good. Perhaps it left me half dead on a whim, or someone interrupted, or it caught the scent of more sporting prey. Who knows? Anyway, when it was done, I looked like a wood chipper to go at me, but chucked me out just before it could finish turning me into little red bits of meat, grisling bone. Scars? No, I heal really good. Not always fast, but way faster and better than you ever would if your flesh was stripped to the bone. Shoot me, stab me, hit me with a car, toss me off a roof. Sure. Hurts like a blazing hell at the time, but give me a few weeks, and I'm right as rain, pal.

By the next full moon, I'm ready to hunt again. Little perks of being a bloodthirsty monster three or four nights out of the month. Sure you don't want another beer? I'm having another. Oh, I'm kind of a beer guy. Hanging out at a wine bar or paying big bucks for an exotic single malt or high-end Hollywood stuff. jar-endorsed tequila isn't my thing. I'm a man of much simpler tastes, undfinitely intended.

Huh? Oh, it was a long, long time ago, and we'll leave it at that. Yeah, I know. It sounds like bullshit the way I look, right? I don't blame you. Thanks, I do try to take care of myself. Lots of exercise and eating right.

Sorry, I couldn't resist. Oh, how's that? Why didn't I find a way out of it after all these years? That's a good question. Don't think I haven't thought about it day after day, especially after knowing what I did to some poor schmuck the night before. But, you know, that's the thing about a curse, isn't it? You can't just opt out of it.

Can't make it right, despite what fairy tales might say. Can't get more followers to assuage it, can't dilute it with good deeds, can't drink away enough brain cells to somehow forget about it. Can't wait it out either. It's on you, in you, and you have to learn to deal with it. Curse like this gets hardwired in the overtime, believe you me. It becomes you, and you become it. A little beer philosophy for you. I had a dog once, huh? Oh, you'll see. Just an illuminating little side story you can use if you ever get the chance.

Lucky, that was his name. But he wasn't, as it turned out. He was a good-natured mutt, just showed up in my parents' yard one day and never left my side after that. I only had him for a few weeks, really, though. A car. Yeah. Hit him while he followed me across the street. That was a dumb kid and wasn't paying attention. Nor is the driver lucky. I still remember the squaw of breaking tires and his yelp. Yeah. Turning time to see him bounce out from under the back tire. The driver never even stopped. Didn't even slow down. Man, did I blubber over that poor mutt.

Worse than any old yeller moment, believe you me, I buried him myself out in our backyard and went to visit him every day. I guess I didn't dig the grave deep enough or whatever because bugs got to him. I saw them wriggling and squirming their way out of his grave a week or so later. Guess they would have gotten to them one way or the other, and that's just life, right? But I didn't know that as a kid. I guess I kind of lost my head and dug them up. Not sure what I expected to find. Poor old lucky, or what was left of them, was riddled with maggots, worms, beetles.

I screamed and cried and tried to bat them away, smash them, crush them, but they're all through them. Then it hit me. Between one crazy moment of squalling and flailing at his corpse and the next of intense, clarity, a kid my age, had no business having. C. Lucky wasn't really gone. He was just something else now. He was my dog before, but now?

He became flies, worms, beetles, microbes, fungi, and all sorts of new life, all kinds of new things. What's the word? Transmographication. I prefer transubstantiation. I'm a good Catholic boy, you know. Well, I was raised that way, anyhow. You know, the Eucharist and all, the blood and body of Christ, and then there's Corinthians.

How's it go? And we all with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to an hour. for this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit. See, I realized lucky was just changing form. He was still there, always would be, but he was a few degrees of glory south of what he once was. Good philosophy, especially for someone with my peculiar condition.

I've just changed. That's all. God made everything, didn't he? Even poor old Lucifer. I'm just part of the grand plan, my friend. Not sure what that plan is, and I don't worry about it. Not anymore. I'm just along for the preordained ride.

That's how I live with this fucked up curse. Guilt. Oh, hell yeah. I didn't tell you I was a Catholic, right? Yeah. church heaps guilt on you in bushels before you're ever drag squalling into this world, pal. But I am what I am. The beast will out, like the movie says.

You know, the wolfman? No, not the old one with Lonchaney Jr., the one with Del Toro and Hopkins. Good flick, and there are even some things they got right. Anyway, sometimes you just got to play the cards you're dealt. Man, try to enjoy the game. too. I mean, I'm a monster, but only for a few nights each month. The rest of the time, I'm your neighborhood pizza delivery guy, the cool ride-shared driver, or the chill, idigmatic bartender. I might be your mailman, or maybe I'm just the friendly,

homeless guy you see around, pushing my cart full of all my worldly possessions. Could be anyone, really. Anyone at all. But when the moon's full, believe you me, you don't want to be out on the street after dark when I'm in your town. You might not arrive at the bar where your friends are waiting and getting increasingly worried. Or what about that date you've been so anxious about all week? Maybe not show up for your shift at the hospital or the convenience store. Keep the babysitter up way past their curfew waiting on you. Hell, if we meet on a Friday night, you might not be missed at all until Monday.

Or shame, really, but that's how it goes sometimes. Life is a stone-cold bitch. Now I get my kicks and my fill over a few bloody, terrifying nights as a slavering, howling monster, but you? Your last moments might be spent gasping as you run, screaming as you've been. fight futilely, or cowering and pissing yourself in fear in a dark alley. Different prey? Different strokes for me, but don't you worry none. I get my kicks any way it goes. Believe you me. And the best thing? Well, the best thing aside from the thrill of the hunt and the actual kill, you know, best thing of all is that I do it all practically in plain sight.

Who notices a couple, maybe three missing people over a full moon weekend these days? Nobody. They hardly ever find what's left of the bodies anyhow. And when they do, there's a lengthy investigation. Evidence has to be gathered and leads have to be followed. Routines, procedures. It all takes time. Lots of time.

And I'm long gone by the fourth day. After the last full moon of the month, I'm already across town, living a new life for far down the highway toward the next hunting ground. I've had lots of practice, believe you me. Horrible? That it definitely is, pal. Like I said, I know what I am, and I've come to terms with it, but let me tell you, on the night of a full moon, I hunt and kill one person. Who's not so lucky? One. I'm not the greedy sort. How does that stack up against the things you read, watch, and hear about every damn day?

Mass shootings, school massacres, block party slaughter, workplace shootouts, please. My work. Okay. My pleasure. Never even makes the local six o'clock news or garner's anything more than a paragraph on page three of the local newspaper. if there is one at all, or hell, even buried somewhere in the online police blotter. Hey, do you have Italian last night? Oh, nothing. Just curious.

Enhanced senses, you know. I can still smell the garlic on you. I love Italian seasoning. Where was I? Oh, yeah, thanks. The first morning after the full moon plays out, out after a really long hot shower, believe you me. I'll read about the most recent mass killing over a coffee, see the latest string at gang shootings, rouse over the people who OD'd and left

their kid to die of slow dehydration and hunger in the crib. The estranged father who busted in on a birthday party for one of his kids and snuffed the whole family and all the friends with their little party hats on and then took out a few of the neighbors just for good measure and Maybe even shot a few cops as icing on the cake before blowing his brains out. Flip the page, and I'll find out who's gone to war with who, based on the shittiest of excuses. See the drone footage of mass graves and the old people lying where they were gunned down in the street. All in the name of greater peace and security. Hallelujah.

Just your average day of the cruelty humankind visits on their brothers and sisters, pal. You see, that's the real horror. This world, the one we live in today, it's saturated in the blood of innocence and not so innocence. Every damn day. I'm not so bad. Don't even compare, really. You'll see me coming.

No blind-sided ambush. I like a chase. You even got a chance to get away from me. Hell, if you're smart enough, quick enough, or lucky enough, You might even take me out. Me? I do what I do out of cursed instinct. There's no hate, no malice.

I'm not working out a grudge against people of certain skin shades. Don't have a beef with coworkers. Don't care about anyone's religion or identification. Nothing personal at all. I'm just fulfilling my role in the ecosystem, pal. You people slaughtering each other so gleefully and wantonly, every damn day? Well, I say you're the real monsters. But you're not. Not even close, really. Your kind is making the apocalypse happen, and you don't even realize it. What was that about a frog

getting boiled? Anyway, I think you get the drift. You're just the end of the line for your species. Homo extrema magmin. tearing your world apart in a frenzy because you no longer know you're place in it. Never did, really. That's okay, because I do. Beneath me, in the food chain, my kind used to be hunted by your people, viciously and relentlessly. Back in the day, a messy death made the headlines and sent rumors flying of a monster in your midst. The peasants snatched up their damn pitchforks and torches, and they got down to serious business, believe you me. What? No, silver bullets are a bunch of crap. So is holy ground and crosses.

Wait, I think that's more for vampires, who are, in my humble opinion, insufferable pricks, one and all. Oh, where was I? Oh, yeah, but just imagine being dismembered, burnt to ashes or both. Yeah, that kind of thing? A little hard to walk off, believe you mean. Still, avoiding the peasant. is pretty easy nowadays, even if you're not very savvy. All it takes to make out nicely is a little careful planning and a flexible travel schedule,

know what I mean? Of course, that also means no family ties. No family, no friends, at least none you keep for more in a few weeks. Look at that sunset, will you? Now, that's what traveling is all about. taking the time to enjoy the little things along the way. I do like travel, pop into a scenic or homey place, or get lost in a new big city.

It's been a few weeks casing things really well. Make a few plans, and then bingo bongo. When the full moon rises, I'm right where I need to be, near who I want to be close to. And then the beast does the rest. rest. And remember planning ahead? I'm a long-time minimalist, and my stuff's already packed, so I'm off by the time the moon is no longer in her robust splendor. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Do people still say that? Anyway, then it's off to a new town and new people,

a new hunting ground. And why am I telling you all this? Remember my dog, lucky, And now he wasn't really. Well, while you've been engrossed in recording our conversation, getting a few snaps on your phone and making notes for your YouTube expose, twibber, twabber, blog, or Insta, whatever, the sun is set. And, oh, hey, looky behind us, the moon is rising. You can almost feel her arrival, can't you? I can.

I already have goosebumps. fat and gloriously full. Isn't she a butte? Oh, ye, ouch. Yeah, there come the claws. Yeah, that's still smarts even after all these years. What? You didn't really think this through very well, did you, pal?

Did you think I was just some wacko who'd give you and your ardent followers a good laugh? Some rube that'd make a great story at the bar or a party? Some headcase I'd make for the beginnings of an expose on mental delusions that I'd become an internet legend like Bat Boy with you getting all the seemy glory. That would be super cool, by the way. A Bat Boy is a freaking legend. Don't worry. I'll post your stuff online.

Anonymous find, of course. Plenty of people really dig the phone footage stuff. You'll get your very memorable sliver of fame. Post-humously, of course. You know what you ought to do? Run. Well, right now, as fast as you can. Go on.

I'll give you a good head start. I like the chase, remember? Still have to finish my beer, too, you know? Stuff's too good to waste. Who knows? You might just get love. Lucky. Creepy presents. I saw my mother in the graveyard, written by Summer Harris and narrated by Rissa Montanez. My mom died when I was 17 years old. She left one morning to take a jog through the park and

didn't return. The police were called and they quickly found drag marks leading off of the trail she usually took. When they followed them, they were led to a pile of human bones, and they were still sticky with shreds of flesh and gore. Dental records confirmed that it was my mother. I overheard the two detectives say it was the worst thing that ever seen. The theory was that she must have been attacked and consumed by some kind of wild animal. But there wasn't enough left to get any clues as to what kind of animal. And they didn't find any animal tracks either. Something that big should have left some kind of trail.

But there was nothing. Nothing other than the bloody drag marks. We had a small service with Just Family about a week later. There wasn't a viewing, of course. They had cremated what little remains they had. Dad had them bury her ashes in the cemetery, and she had a headstone and everything. It said, beloved wife and mother on it.

And we'd left some flowers in the vase for her, not real ones because they wouldn't last. But the fake ones we got were really pretty and almost looked real, so that was fine. When I went back to school, my dad asked me if I wanted him to drive me there and then pick me up. He worked from home, so he could do it easily enough if I wanted him to. He thought I might want him to drive me because my walk took me straight by the graveyard where mom was buried. I thought about it, but I told him I was fine to walk.

I knew I couldn't avoid it forever, so I might as well. well just get used to it. The first morning, I just kept my eyes on my feet and hurried my steps as I passed. But on my way home, I couldn't help but pause. Her gravestone was about five rows back from the fence that ran along the sidewalk. I could find her headstone easily enough by the bright, yellow sunflowers that we left for her. Sunflowers had always, always been her favorite. She was buried in the older part of the cemetery, and hers was one of the few that had flowers on it that hadn't faded, or had been blown away to get stuck in a pile at the base of the nearby fence. The yellow stood out in stark contrast to the bleakness surrounding it. I had moved past the

initial overwhelming grief and was now in that tired kind of sadness. You know, the quiet inside kind. You can't see it, but it's always sitting there. waiting to pop back out when you aren't expecting it. The next couple of days, I stopped at the cemetery on my way home from school. I would walk up to the fence and just look over and think about Mom. It actually became a comforting daily ritual.

She would have smiled at the sunflowers, that's for sure. Something cheery to look at in a sad place, I bet she'd say. Mom always had little sayings like that for everything. It was annoying a lot of the time, but now I really wish I could hear one of those again. Even if everything was going wrong, she always managed to find the good side of things,

and glancing over at those flowers made me feel like I was sort of telling her, hi. In the mornings I was usually rushed, but on the way home, I could afford to dawdle by the fence for just a little while. That Friday, when I stopped, I was surprised to see someone in the cemetery. I didn't notice them at first.

I was standing in my usual spot, just staring over at the flowers, when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. To the left of Mom's tombstone, about 20 feet away, there was a huge old oak tree, and standing under it was a figure. It was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman because they were in the shadow of the tree away from the light. They didn't seem to be visiting a gravesite or anything.

They just appeared to be standing there. Something about that made me really uncomfortable. As I left, I looked over my shoulder, but the figure hadn't moved. That feeling of unease followed me home, though. If Dad noticed I was quiet at dinner, he didn't say anything. He was quiet, too. Now that the family and well-wishers had fizzled out,

our house felt unnaturally still. It's as if we still existed in a bubble of insulation. Sounds were muffled, voices were really low, and even our dog was a little quieter than usual. I went upstairs to my room to read before bed. I was still a little bit rattled, but unsure as to why. The figure hadn't done anything, but there was something unnatural about it. Every few minutes, I would feel the need to get up and go check outside my window.

The street was always empty, of course, but when I checked right before I went to bed, I saw a shadow in the neighbor's yard that looked a little off. I thought it was from their trash can, but as I turned away, it moved. And when I looked closer, I saw nothing. But I stayed at the window until I grew cold and then decided to return to bed, shivering from the sudden chill in the air. The next day, I was exhausted. My sleep the night before had been restless at best.

my dreams were strange, full of visions of open graves and silent watchers. That afternoon when I stopped by the cemetery, mom's flowers were missing from her grave. But on the fence where I usually stood, there was a single sunflower. Its wire stem had been twined around the wrought iron fence, like someone had placed it there specifically for me. I looked around, but I didn't see anyone. I approached the flower, and then carefully unwoved the stem and stared down at the silken yellow petals. I'm not sure how long I stood there, but I noticed dusk was approaching, so I shoved the flower into my bag and then went home, my mind racing. That night my sleep was again disturbed by strange and very unsettling dreams.

In one of the dreams, yellow sunflower petals swirled around me in a whirlwind as hands reached up out to grab me. I ran from them, but there was always someone or something behind me, no matter how fast I went or in what direction. The next morning I was tired and really on edge, so I had Dad drive me to school. I didn't even look over at the cemetery and just played with the radio. Dad didn't look either, I noticed.

He said he was going out of town for work and would be gone for the next two days. He asked me if I would be okay staying alone and I told him that I would be fine. My courage had grown in the light of day and I wanted to see if there would be another gift left on the fence for me today. When I arrived, I found nothing on the fence. What I did see was that the flowers had reappeared on her grave. They looked a little bedraggled, but they were back. I didn't see the figure from before anywhere, or anyone else for that matter. And I still had the sunflower from yesterday in my book bag,

so I decided to walk around to the side gate and return it to the grave with the others. I followed the fence around the corner to the gate. There wasn't a lock on it, but it looked like it hadn't been used in a really long time. The latch was rusted and came open with a loud pop when I pushed on it. Entering from the side opposite the old oak tree, I approached the grave and stared down at the flowers. When Dad and I had left them,

they were tied up in a neat bunch with some smaller white flowers wrapped up in an orange ribbon. Now the ribbon was laying in the still somewhat fresh dirt, and the flowers were squashed and dirty. I pulled the flower out of my bag to put with the others and tried to straighten them up a little bit. They could have blown off and maybe even one could have gotten tangled up in the fence, but I couldn't figure out how they would have made it back to the vase.

It was possible that a caretaker or someone had picked them up and put them back, but looking around at the moldering fake flowers, along with the bows that had collected at the base of the fence like fall leaves, it seemed really unlikely. Zipping up my bag, I had turned to leave when I heard a rustle behind me. When I turned, there was once again someone under the oak tree. Frozen, I stared as the form stepped out of the shadow of the tree

into the dim light of the evening. It was my mother. She stood there, looking just as she looked. always did. And she was holding a sunflower in her hand and smiling at me. When she began to move towards me, my fight or flight kicked in, and I turned and ran towards the gate and to the house as fast as I could, slamming and locking the door as soon as I was inside. I spent yet another sleepless night staring out my window. I startled myself awake every time I dozed off, and I would scan our front yard as far down the street as I could.

Only once did I think I saw someone. They were too far down the sidewalk for me to see clearly, so I couldn't be completely sure. But somehow I knew it was her. How she was there, I don't know. There wasn't even a body. I don't believe in ghosts, so maybe I was hallucinating. The flower on the fence wasn't a hallucination, though.

Neither were the flowers disappearing and reappearing on the grave. This wasn't something I could ignore either way. I had no choice but to find out what was going on. The next day, I had a friend give me a right to school, but I decided to walk home that afternoon. The flowers were still where they should be, and there was nothing on the fence. When I went around to the side gate,

it was still standing open just the way I had left it yesterday. Slowly, I approached the grave, and sat down beside it. Then I just sat there and waited for something to happen. I felt as twitchy as a cat, and I threw nervous glances over my shoulders at the oak tree. When it started to get dark, I gave up on my morbid stakeout and decided to head home.

I didn't want to be there when it was fully dark outside. So standing with a sigh, I had reached down to grab my bag, and that's when I saw her again. She was standing under the oak tree, once again holding one of the shabby sunflowers. She smiled at me and reached out her hand towards me. When I started to back up, she stopped moving forward. Her face fell and her arm dropped back down to her side.

Mom? I whispered. A slight smile reappeared on her face, but she didn't move. She had the air of someone attempting to rescue a feral and injured animal, as if she was trying not to spook me off. It's me, honey. Everything is okay now. Her voice sounded the same, and tears formed in my eyes. But I studied her closely.

I don't understand. There wasn't a body, I said, taking another couple of steps back. What? What are you? She looks sad as she answered me. I'm your mother. Don't you see? I got.

I got another chance. A do-over, I guess you'd call it. Didn't you miss me? Of course I missed you, but... Then come here, darling. She took a single step forward and opened her arms to me. My feet started to move if there are. own accord, and I began stepping closer to her. She was still several feet away, but seemed

content to let me come to her. As I got closer, I noticed a foul smell that increased with every step I took towards her. It was the smell of something rotting, and the earth, and very, very dark things. Now that I was closer, I noticed her. skin was grayish and parts of it appeared to be, falling off of her body in large, wet chunks. I stopped, and she looked at me in confusion. What's wrong? I've been waiting for you. I need you. Her voice sounded rougher than it had prior. There was an edge to it now. I don't think you're my mother. My voice shook as I said it, but I tried to sound firm.

I was inching my way slowly backward, trying to calculate how long it would take me to get back to the gate. Her voice grew hard, and her eyes glinted as she screeched at me. I'm hungry. I had already started to move as she lunged forward. That was the only thing that saved me. instead of heading back towards the gate as I'm sure she expected, I raced right for the fence. It wasn't too high, and I thought I could climb it. If I had to go out the gate and circle back around to the street,

I knew I'd never make it before it, or she, was on me. I threw myself at the iron fence and heaved myself up and over as fast as I could with no concern for the metalwork cutting into my hands. I dropped heavily to the ground and ran, not stopping until I was in my house with the door locked tightly behind me. After I ran around double-checking that the back door and all the windows were locked, I collapsed onto the couch to try to figure out what the hell had just happened. I knew that thing wasn't my mother. And it was solid enough to hold the flowers, and I could hear footsteps as it ran.

so I don't think it was a ghost either. This was insane. The closest thing I could think of would be a zombie. But that didn't make sense either because there wasn't a body to reanimate. And zombies were supposed to be stupid, right? None of this made sense, even assuming I wasn't just having some sort of breakdown or something. I had to keep my mind active, or I would really break down, though. I grabbed my laptop and began trying to figure out what that thing,

was. I began to search undead creatures, but that mainly just brought up zombies and vampires, neither of which were very helpful. After digging around for a while, I finally stumbled upon something that seemed to fit. GOOle. It had to be a ghoul. I had only heard this word used to describe someone people thought were creepy or morbid. But apparently, that's not the original meaning of the word. According to what I read, ghouls first showed up in Arabic folklore. However, they have appeared in legends and stories all around the world. While some of the legends differed slightly, there were some basic things that most agreed upon. Gules were humanoid creatures, with intellect seemingly equal to that of a human. They devour the flesh of the dead, and they

like to hang out in graveyards, although they were not restricted to them. Once they've consumed human flesh, they take on the appearance of the person. But they can only stay that way for so long before they need to feed again. Some legends said they were of the gin and loved trickery almost as much as feeding. While they are often scavengers digging up and eating fresh corpses out of the cemeteries, some have come to prefer the taste of a fresh kill. I set the laptop down on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch. Of all the things I'd read, this made the most sense. And my stomach turned at the thought of my mother being eaten by that creature.

I took a drink of water to wash the taste of bile out of my mouth. And checking out the windows, I saw nothing. but still had the feeling that I was being watched just the same. I kept all of the lights in the house off other than a couple of lamps. If it was out there, I didn't want it to be able to track me through the house by the lights. I thought that it wouldn't break in, though. From what I'd seen and read, I think it would prefer to toy with me instead. If it had wanted to take me, it could have many times over by now.

Instead, it offered me glimpses of itself and left the flower to tempt me to come to it instead. I'm sure it was waiting for me to return. But it didn't know that I now knew what it was. That could make it think that, although I'd be scared, I'd also be curious, still wondering if it could possibly be my mother. It would be expecting me to return, but for answers, and not an attack. I was not interested in answers, though. I already knew everything I needed to know.

Now all that was left was to come up with a plan. From what I read, ghouls were strong and really fast. It made me think that it could have easily caught up to me as I ran today, but it chose not to. It's fucking with me and taking the form of my mother to do it. The one thing that 100% of the websites I looked at agreed on was that to kill it, you had to destroy the head.

Either by separating it from the body or by bashing it to a pulp because they could heal from just about anything else. Some places said that fire would also take them out too, but I figured I'd have better luck just trying to smash the thing. If I could catch it off guard, I may have a chance. A small chance But a chance at least

Feeling like I was in a zombie apocalypse movie I headed out to the garage to look for something I could use as a weapon I grabbed an old wooden baseball bat Simple But I believed it would be effective At daybreak I grabbed my bat and started walking And before I reached the cemetery

I cut through a neighbor's yard so that I could approach it from the opposite side The more I could do to catch it off guard, the better. While I knew it was going to be a face-to-face confrontation, unless I happened to be very lucky, maybe I could give myself a second or two advantage if I surprised it. Passing into the older section of the cemetery, I began to walk slower,

staying on alert for any noises. The smell of decay was in the air, so that meant it had to be close. When I was almost to the oak tree, I heard a laugh coming from my left side. Spinning around, I saw it. It grinned, revealing rows of sharp white teeth. The condition of its skin had worsened since the night before. And it obviously needed to feed.

Gray strips of skin hung down, revealing the wet gray flesh underneath it. What do you expect to do with that bat? I'm going to rip you apart and lick the blood from your bone. It snarled at me, no longer borrowing my mother's voice. I didn't reply and just braced my feet and waited for the attack. I gripped the bat with both sweat-slicked hands, but kept it down at my side. We stared each other down for a long moment.

Then its face twisted, and it's spiced. sprinted towards me, moving so fast it was nothing but a blur. I jumped to the side, a split second before it reached me, and twisted to swing the bat around to strike the back of its head. It had expected me to swing from the front, not the back, and it stumbled forward onto its knees. Throwing myself upon it, I raised the bat over my head and brought it down hard. The stent was almost overpowering as I struck it again and again and again. After the second or third blow, it stopped struggling, but I didn't stop swinging until its head was nothing more than a rancid pile of stringy flesh. I stood up and pulled out a small can

of lighter fluid I had stashed in my pocket. I poured it all over the remains, stepped back, and tossed a match. The rain from the day before would keep. the fire from spreading, and I wanted to be sure it couldn't come back as my mother or anything else. I backed up to stand under the oak tree, far away from the noxious fumes of the flaming corpse, and watched it burn until it was nothing but ash. And then I headed home, leaving the baseball bat under the oak tree. Tomorrow I would replace my mother's flowers. But that could wait. For now, I just wanted to sleep. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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