Creepy - Made with Love, Born in Dirt

Episode Date: April 18, 2022

The miracle of life...***Written by: NM Brown***Bonus Episode: "The Golden Egg" written by: Michael Burt and narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***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.

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Thanks. To see how you can support the podcast, Anger Rewarded, and if your rewards have an impact on others, please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. Before we get to today's episode, there's something I wanted to let people know. I kind of went back and forth on this, as you might have noticed, there haven't been a whole lot of announcements lately, just as we're trying to focus on doing the best stories we can. However, as it came time to record this, I also realized there are a lot of people who have been listening to the show for a long time. I've been through a lot. There are those who've just discovered the show and those who are here when I was going through

the bad days, which is why I feel like it's only fair to let people know that I finally made the leap into podcasting full-time. No more juggling a day job and still trying to get content out. Maybe some of you just assumed I was podcasting full-time. But nope, this is it. This is my life now. I still remember working a boring office job years ago, whose sole benefit was I could listen to podcasts all day, and hearing David Cummings of the No Sleep Podcast talk about doing no sleep full-time

and thinking, how is that even a thing? Now I know. It took time. A lot of work and more ups and downs than I can count. From the bad days when it was just me and Steve Blizzard working on the stories to today, with over a dozen narrators working on the show, not to mention our artist Dakota and story coordinator Natalie. Sometimes I look back on the bad days and it feels like a different life.

And in a lot of ways it is. So I just wanted to say thank you to all of you for listening to the show. You're the ones who help make this a reality. Without you, it would just be some dude in Minnesota talking to himself. Just like in high school. So, as a guy who's seen what's possible, all I can say is to try that thing you want to do. Give it a chance.

Maybe it'll change your life. your life. 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 not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Lister Discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Made with love. Born in dirt. Written by N.M. Brown. A heavy mist rolled over the lush grass of the cemetery, muting the hues of Greenland and blue sky with a heavy veil of gray. The already moreauce atmosphere was exaggerated with the crowd of friends and friends and

family members swallowed in black clothes. We must have looked like something out of an old black and white drama film to those late to the service. If I hadn't been among the first to arrive, I certainly would have thought so. Blobs of black with white trim, growing larger and more clear with each mournful step, I clasped my hands together respectfully, unsure of what else to do with them. Each time I strayed from that position, I found myself doing something, inappropriate for the situation.

Scratching at a muted mustard stain on my tie, scratching my beard. I even reached inside my pocket from my phone once. The words of the minister faded into a dull drone, becoming inaudible altogether once my sister Lana's shoulders began to heave with sobs. I felt so many emotions all at the same time. All the wrong ones. I felt awful.

awful that I didn't understand what my sister was going through. Awful that I didn't feel more broken at her loss. Awful that I couldn't wait to get her home so I could get something to eat and put to stay behind me. Nevertheless, I put my arm around her and pulled her close, ignoring the wetness of tears gathering on the front of my shirt. As weird as it is to say, I think at the time I was honestly just relieved to finally know what you. do with my hands. Lana was on the cusp of entering the second trimester pregnancy with her first child,

and the pregnancy hormones had not been kind to her. She'd gotten sick before she even bought the first test, and the relentless nausea showed no signs of subsiding. This accompanied with her not wanting to eat due to grief and anxiety made for a difficult pregnancy. I was thankful to take her in. I loved my sister. However, I had less than no experience with grief and even less with pregnancy. I always figured if I ever lived with a pregnant woman, I would have been the one who made her that way. This was a different ballgame entirely. Of course, it was only natural that the death of her husband, co-parent and love of her life, accelerated her symptoms.

She and Johnny have been together since they were teenagers. high school sweethearts and all that. She'd asked our father if you could take Lana to his senior prom. Despite his initial reservations due to the fact that she was only a sophomore at the time, he eventually agreed, not wanting the dazzling smile to wane from his only daughter's beautiful face. In some ways, I wonder if she secretly blamed him for the amount of pain she was in. Was she ultimately thankful to have loved and lost?

or did she wish to never experience any of it at all, erasing it in her mind and heart completely, loved ones gathered after the Reverend's final reading, each reaching into the mound of dirt that would soon consume the outer casket of my dearly departed brother-in-law, the mixture of petricor and fresh flowers filled the air as they lined up to help bury their lost. Lana clawed her bony fingers into the fresh soil,

grabbing far too much for a single hand to carry. Clumps of umber tumbled from between her fingers. Though her fist was clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. She hesitated once she reached the freshly lowered casket. The gleaming white of the wood glistening in the tears of her melancholy eyes. Her fist trembled as she realized this would be the last act of kindness and respect as she can physically show it towards her husband. However, those same actions would be the ones to help seal him in the ground forever.

It didn't seem right, even to me. And I could tell Lana was beyond having a hard time of it, grasping my own handful of freshly unearthed land in my own palm. I walked over to stand beside my shattered sister. I reached my hand out over the recessed hole that would be her husband's new home and waited for her to gather the courage to do the same. After a few moments, her eyes met mine as she held her hand out. I nodded.

We both took deep breaths and released the soil over the grave. Proud of you. I whispered to her. Johnny would have been too. She smiled at this. And even though it was slight, I was still intensely grateful for it. Lana's frail figure looked downright sickly as we left the procession. arms bone-like and gangly

Like a bird's wing that had had its feathers violently ripped off Her collarbone pressed desperately against the skin of her neck As if trying to break free Her knees and elbows resemble tiny nubs under the skin Connectors for the sticks and twigs It had become her arms and legs She looked ethereal in her grief and heartache Crying out in anguish each time her hand-graved

her growing belly. At first, I thought something was wrong. Maybe this was all too much for her and it was causing problems with the baby. She later told me that it was the realization that the cemetery, a sad and barren place, would be the only location that her family could ever gather at. She described wanting to have birthday parties there for her baby, then cried because she knew no one would come. So either his dad misses his birthday party or no one shows up and he's heartbroken. She sighed through hitching breaths.

The air was silent and tense on the short ride home from the cemetery. I was torn between rushing to get home and out of these stiff clothes and taking my time, knowing my sister was in no hurry to leave her husband behind in the cold, wet ground. Lana held her breath the entire way down the length of my driveway. Anxious to greet the new and unfamiliar place, she'd have to learn to call home. She walked her all in the yard a bit before I decided to take her inside the house. Lana stopped to observe the garden, seeming fascinated with it. I chuckled under my breath as she reached down into the ground and pulled up a carrot.

Hey, those aren't... I started to scold her, but thought better of it. Ready yet. I let the rest of my sentence trail off in the wind as she'd bet into the dirt-dusted vegetable. She reminded me of a modern Scarlet O'Hara in the field, holding her fist high and swearing she'd never go hungry again. I can get us pizza. I suggested as she walked back toward me, tiptoeing to avoid damaging any plants. Nah, I don't want anything heavy sitting in the pit of my stomach.

My emotions are all over the place right now, and the last thing I want to do is puke again. She held up the carrot. This is good. Did you do all this yourself? Johnny and I always said we were going to plant one when we stopped renting and bought our own place. Her eyes welled up with a fresh reserve of tears, and she held up her hand, a signal that she wasn't ready to continue her train of thought. I cleared my throat sympathetically.

Well, um, it wasn't all me. The land was already tilled and plotted when I moved in. I just kind of dropped seeds into the ground and smeared dirt over them with my foot. I rubbed my hand over the back of my neck, surprised to find its sun-kissed and tender from an afternoon spent under a cloudy sky. Let's go inside. You can check out the guest room I made up for you. I had gone out and bought pinks and purples of everything like,

she had in her room as a teenager. After the bed and curtains were all set up, I thankfully thought better of it, opting to go with navy blues and grays instead. We weren't kids anymore, and as much as I was sure that she longed for a simpler time, it just made my stomach queasy thinking her walking out of a graveyard and straight into Candyland. She seemed pleased with the room, just overwhelmingly tired. Who the hell could blame her after all she'd been through? It was hard to sleep that first night.

The first few nights, actually. Lonnet had cried herself to sleep in a room not ten feet down the hallway from my own, and the walls were less than thin. As much as I would have loved to have offered her something to help calm her down. I knew she needed to do this her own way. My sister had never been a fan of medicinal healing, and I didn't want to make things worse by offering. or something that would be of no use to her.

Eventually, over the coming days, she was able to find a form of peace when she lay down at night, and I was glad to hear her snoring instead of sobbing every night. That all changed the night of the lightning storm. Tree branches scratched against my window, waking me from a silent sleep.

The wet outside sky illuminated with lightning. I hesitated while I waited for thunder that never came. After tossing and turning fitfully, I decided to give up the ghost and go to the kitchen for a drink. Once I visited the restroom, I paused outside of Lana's door. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb her, but I figured maybe it still wouldn't hurt to check on her. This was one of her first nights sleeping alone in a new place during a fierce lightning storm. Nothing but silence greeted me as I tapped my knuckles lightly on the doorframe. I peered inside, hoping to find her sleeping.

However, the bed and room were empty. She wasn't in the bathroom. I knew this because I'd just come from there. Hey, Lana, you all right? I called out as I headed towards a kitchen, assuming that's where I'd find her. But my words drifted out to an empty room. The only hint I'd received that she had been there was that the side door was left wide open. The cold and wet wind blowing streaks of moisture into the house.

Five-toed footprints led away from the back patio, followed by the imprint to the side of her foot and heel mark. Her footsteps led me to the middle of the yard, where I found her crunched down in the middle of the garden. Her soaking wet nightgown whipped at her ankles in the blustery wind. She had her back to me, so I couldn't see what she was doing at first. It looked like she was digging at something, throwing chunks of mud over her shoulder wildly, similar to a dog catching the scent of a long-lost bone and digging it up in a frenzy.

My mind flooded with worst-case scenarios. Oh, please tell me she didn't give birth in the middle of the night and was burying the baby among my lettuce and cucumbers. My mind screamed. Fearing the worst, I approached her from the rear-left side, maintaining a good distance between us. As much as I wish I could say it was for her sake, I'd be lying if I did. I took my time because I didn't know if I would be ready to see whatever she was doing. And I desperately wanted to take my time. The thought nagged at me to turn around,

silently tiptoe back into the house and pretend the whole thing didn't happen. Juan and I would be no wiser in the morning and things could stay the same. That's not what happened, though. I called her name a few moments after I came into her line of sight. Her brown eyes shot up wildly, and her whole body froze like a deer in headlights. Dark smears covered her cheeks, chin, and lips. And her teeth were gnashing frantically at whatever she chewed on. Tears rained down her face, washing clean trails down the muck spread over her cheeks and jaw.

She choked on whatever it was, sending brown sludge spewing from her mouth on the ground in front of her. Lana, what's going on? What are you doing out here? It's raining like crazy, you're soaking wet. Ray? She sputtered through slime-stained teeth. I pulled a radish from the garden yesterday and ate it. Ever since then, I can't stop thinking about the taste.

I tried fresh produce from the store, and I didn't want any of it. I realized now that what I wanted was the dirt. Jesus Christ, what's wrong with me? I held up my hands in a feeble attempt to gain control of not only her emotions, but the situation as a whole. First off, is the baby okay? Her hands flew to her stomach in a panic. Yeah, I mean, I think so. He kicked me not five minutes ago.

Why? She stood up and twirled around, searching the ground in front of her dreadfully. I'm not bleeding, am I? No, nothing like that. I just got scared. I thought maybe something bad had happened, you had the baby early. I admitted ruefully. So you thought I'd just hobble out here in my nightgown and bury my baby in the garden like a head of cabbage in the middle of the night?

She demanded incredulously. You watch too much ID Discovery Channel. That's what's wrong. with you? With that, she strode past me and into the house, leaving an angry set of muddy footprints for me to clean up in her wake. People could call me a lot of things, but unsupportive is now one of them. I'd gotten her the most organic vegetables that I could find, cooked up mushrooms for with the dirt they grew in, and still dusted on them. Hell, I even downloaded fucking Pinterest and made her one of those graveyard cakes. You know,

the ones. They have chocolate cake on the bottom, putting in the middle, and crushed up Oreos on top to represent dirt. After it's set up, you insert her little gummy worms right at a fact, texture and taste, I hope the childishness of it all would cheer up at least. As much as she loved it, she gagged in revulsion after only two bites, just as she had with everything else I'd presented her with. Two gratefully, uneventful weeks later, It happened again. I woke up to the eerie side of Lana's empty bed and my side door wide open, leaving my house completely vulnerable and unprotected.

I was a little less freaked out this time, but all the more worried. Her next appointment with the doctor was still three days away, and I had no idea what kind of affects the ingestion of dirt had on a growing fetus. Something was different this time. A crunching sound resonated from between her teeth. A sound that I knew dirt couldn't make. She held something unidentifiable in her hands, gripping it tightly as she ripped pieces from it with her teeth.

A four-fingered hand stuck sideways in the dirt. The missing digit eventually being gruesomely identified as the thing clutched in my sister's ravenous clutches. The meat attached tore away semi-easily, and she sucked on the bits that clung to the bone like she was eating buffalo wings. The sound alone was enough to drive someone to nause on great mental discomfort. Holy fuck, Lana! I stammered. She dropped the bone she held in her hand, spitting out the detach fingernail into the dirt at her feet before addressing me directly.

I couldn't stop. She began Is he She paused As if she wasn't sure she wanted the answer to the question she was about to ask Is he someone you knew I jumped back My feet sliding slightly in the mud around me

Someone I knew No No he isn't I gestured the mound of dirt she was still squatting in front of You can't have thought I did this I demanded my voice shaky with a fence and shock. Well, it sure the hell wasn't me.

I can barely put my own shoes on by myself, let alone bury a body half-assed underneath your grown garden. No, whoever did this put him here before you started planning. How did I not notice it while digging before? With all the rain we've had this month, there was bound to be erosion of the soil, more than you could have caused yourself by digging. We need to call the police.

I said flatly. Yeah, sure, Ray. And say what? Hi, can you please send someone out? I just found my sister eating the body that's buried in the garden in my backyard. We are both just as fucked here. That's a child protective service's wet dream,

not to mention all the questioning impossible prison time for a murder that neither of us committed. Another thought entered my mind, pushing everything else over the precipice of vital importance. So it's not the dirt you're craving, but... I paused, grabbing a lump of fat from my arm between my thumb and forefinger. This? I gagged in spite of myself, not wanting to hurt my sister's feelings.

I knew better than to make her uncomfortable by waiting for an answer that we both already knew. A few days later, Lana and I took a walk around the town plaza to get her out of the house and expose her to some much-needed fresh air and socialization. Someone had run over a squirrel in one of the pathways that we had to cross to get to the other row of shops. Lana froze in place the instant she saw it. The corners of her mouth twitched before she wiped him on the sleeve of her shirt, the fabric coming away from her mouth dark and wet.

Strings of drool poured through her lips as she struggled to keep it in her mouth. She seemed to be producing it faster Then she could swallow it back down When she tried to spit it out It only made it worse Her eyes looked at me through tears of shame and panic As we made our way back to the car Once inside Lana began to cry uncontrollably

Oh my God Ray I wanted it I wanted it so Bad I looked at her in confusion Appreciative of the fact that our salivating and ceased. Wanted what exactly? The squirrel! I wanted to eat that fucking squirrel. Worse than I wanted to eat anything in my whole entire life. She cried in anguish.

My sister refused to leave the house much after that. My mind wrestled on what to do for the entire next couple of weeks. There had only been one instance where I'd heard Lana leave her bedroom and creep out the side door in the middle of the night. One which I'd left on an investigated. The pros and cons on each decision were endless and the pressure was quickly moaning. The prospect of involving anyone of an authoritative capacity terrified me, if I was honest. Not to mention the idea of my niece or nephew growing up an orphan. To have lost their father before they were even born was one thing. To sever the emotional and biological link altogether by losing both parents was just too much to bear. And I've never really been too crazy

about children, more than anything. I just wanted it all to go away. And it did, in a way. For a little while, at least. I woke from a nightmarish sleep to a blissful smell of cinnamon and sausage wafting from the kitchen. Lana was not only feeling better, but awake and cooking breakfast. My heart soared at the bit of normalcy after such a bizarre and heart. wrenching months.

Hey, kiddos, I joke gesturing towards her pregnant stomach. How are we doing this morning? As better as I can be, she answered. My stomach feels settled enough to eat something normal for once. No, odd cravings then? Her cheeks blanched slightly as she shook her head in confirmation. Ray, what are we going to do about the garden? I've actually been thinking a lot about that.

I say we move the hell out of here the first chance we get. Find somewhere that's a little bigger for you and the baby to have more space to thrive and grow. Let the body be someone else's problem. Just like the previous tenant left it to be our problem. I explained matter of factly. In fact, I've already started looking here and there. Relief flooded her features as she sat a steaming plate of food down in front of me. Her labor was already.

but swift. We've been through so much together in such a short time, none of which either of us were ready for. I was hopeful that the birth of the baby would bring an anticlimactic end to it all. No more cravings. No more dead bodies. Just a normal life. I found myself counting the ceiling tiles in the waiting area to keep myself occupied in the meantime.

Mildly put off by how many of the nurses assumed I was a child's father, They wore looks of judgment and disgust as I refused their offers to accompany Lawn into the delivery room, heavily opting for the waiting area instead. Sure, I could have gone through the whole song and dance of explaining how my brother-in-law died, leaving my pregnant sister a grieving widow and that I took her in to help give her a sense of stability and family during this hard and trying time. But I was tired. So very tired. My mind was filled with things that didn't make sense.

Things that I wished to God and the devil didn't exist. If absorbing their judgment was the price I paid for the peace of silence, well, then that was just fine by me. By the time they allowed me back to see her, the baby was just being dried off from its first bath. It was a beautiful baby. A boy, she requested to be named Jonathan Raymond. Jonathan, after his late father, and of course Raymond, after me.

I didn't think that I deserved the honor. But at least she didn't name him Jeffrey, right? The color had almost returned to my sister's face. She was no longer the sallow ghost of a woman that had graced my home for the past five months. Lon is attending nurse came in to take her vitals and deliver a dinner tray a couple hours after I'd arrived. Baby Jonathan had just fallen asleep in my arms, and a nurse had just helped Lana take her first postpartum shower. My breath caught in my throat as I waged from my sister to regard the food in front of her. The plastic lid was lifted away as it was sat down in the table tray in front of her.

Cutlets of chicken breasts said in a golden-colored sauce with broccoli and plain rice accompanying it in the side tray areas. She was given a small carton of chocolate milk and a sealed plastic cup of juice. Shewes, reminiscent of her school lunches as children. Thankfully, after a few pokes and prods of trepidation, she inhaled the food with relief as she took her first bite. Holy fuck is this good! She beamed through a mouthful of food. The entire tree was gone in a matter of minutes.

Despite me suggesting she slowed down so she didn't take the risk of tasting it all twice. I'd figured she'd done enough vomiting, for a good while and was more than sure she agreed. Just then, the baby woke up and began cooling while I held him close. He turned his head until his mouth met the tip of my finger. You're not going to get anything out of there, little guy. I joked. The first of what I hoped would be many between cheeky uncle and nephew.

Something in the way he looked at me unnerved me. They say that babies don't have clear vision until their other. at least a year old. But Jonathan was looking at me. His mouth mashed down on my finger voraciously, aggravating a cut had suffered while patching some of the holes Lana had dug the morning before. An almost infinitesimal amount of blood trickled onto his lips before he wiped it away.

A lucky reflex that he had no control of yet seemed to go exactly where necessary. The moment he tasted the blood, I swear to God and all that is unholy, he smiled. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, The Golden Egg, written by Michael Burt, and narrated by Cole Burkart. It was April of 1982 when my life changed, Easter Sunday. I was raised in a small town with the population no higher than three digits, nowhere near hitting four. At seven years old and the eldest child in a devout family, the annual egg hunt at church was the only thing I could think about. Chocolate and candy! Things my parents hardly ever let us have. Given freely by the church was a guaranteed sugar high I wouldn't be denied.

The church itself was old. Been there so long only those long dead could remember a time before. Gothic in every sense, painted black with high walls, sharp angles, and gargoyles perched all over the roof. I remember always being a little afraid of the place, kind of spooky for a house of God. Wasn't really keen on going every week, but that had more to do with being a young boy at the time. Running around outside and playing with friends was always a higher priority. That day was a different story. Even with having to sit through a boring sermon about the crucifixion and Christ rising three days later, I was happy to be there.

To be honest, I had been looking forward to this for weeks. The youth minister, who taught us after the sermon, swore that this year's Easter celebration would be unlike anything we'd seen before. The smile on his face when he said it assured us that this was a good thing. Instead of our typical class after the sermon, each child under 13 filed out the main doors with their families to the back area. This is where the youth sports teams practice, church picnics were held, and the playground equipment resided amongst the trees. It had always been my favorite place, the swings, my go-to. I don't care for sports, but my father was a coach for the baseball team. I'd spend every one of those practices at the playground, and at least half of that was on the swings.

Youth Minister Raven gathered as children in the playground while the family stayed outside the fence and watched on. He called out the rules of the egg hunt like always, but this year's rules were different. There are 33 participants in the hunt this year, and only 33 eggs hidden around the playground. That means only one egg per child, and once we find our egg,

we return to the center with Minister Raven to wait. Only once everyone has returned, to the center, are we allowed to open the eggs and reveal the goodies inside? I was less than thrilled upon hearing this. One egg, really? My young mind had dreamed of a dozen eggs filled with all sorts of goodies, enough sugar to rot my teeth. I felt so betrayed until he showed us what we were looking for. I felt so betrayed, until he showed us what we were looking for. In years past, there were real painted eggs and plastic ones of a similar size. This egg was half the size of a bowling ball and not brightly colored either. No. The paint job was so expertly done in

varied shades of green that when he placed it on the grass, it could hardly be seen. Had we not witnessed him placing it down, no one would have realized it was there. Once released, the other children exploded into action, stirring about in every direction. I stayed where I was and surveyed the land, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It was like those puzzles in kids' books, looking for hidden objects that don't stand out until you see them. The first one I found sat amongst a pile of large stones. The edges were too perfect, too smooth to be a true stone. I began to step in that direction, but noticed my six-year-old sister only feet away. She did that one, I decided. Families were cheering on their children from the sidelines as egg after

egg was discovered. From my spot near Minister Raven, I spotted six more eggs moments before they were found. One nestled in the low branches of a tree, another half buried in the sandbox. There was even one painted to appear as the tiny smooth rocks surrounding the swings. None of them really called out to me as the one I was meant for. One by one they were all all found until I stood alone, the other children sitting on the grass around the minister. All eyes were on me, but none felt as strong as Minister Ravens. For some reason, his stare had substance to it, in a way that I felt more than any other. Locking eyes with him, he simply nodded at me, signaling it was time.

It hadn't occurred to me that I'd been waiting for this, but my sudden movement told me I was. While standing the area over the last 20 minutes, my eye kept coming back to one oddity. I couldn't identify what made it stand out to me, but I kept writing it off as not a viable possibility. There's a good reason for this. The playground equipment consisted of a raised platform with monkey bars, a cargo net, one of those poles to slide down, a ladder of sorts, and two slides. The taller of the slides is covered by a shiny silver cylinder with an onion dome on top and a ball on the point. It's this kind of shiny metal that gets burning hot in the summertime, but it never stopped us from playing on it.

Last year, several of us were yelled at and berated for climbing on top of the cylinder, trying to retrieve the silver ball we were convinced was detachable on top of the dome. It wasn't, and I'd found out the hard way. I had nearly convinced myself that I had been wrong about the last egg's placement. My father had grounded me for two weeks for climbing to the top of that onion dome. When I finally got up there, I had pulled so hard on the ball that, when it didn't budge, my hands slipped and I fell backwards. By some miracle, I had grabbed under the edge as I fell.

My father got up the equipment quick enough that he pulled me back to safety before I fell. Now, there I was, climbing up that cylinder again, because the ball on top of the onion dome wasn't round enough to be a ball. My mother and father were yelling out to me, but they were cheering at me. Everyone was. All the families on the sidelines, the kids surrounding Minister Raven, everyone was cheering me on as I retrieved the final egg. There has always been encouragement and support from the members of our church, but this seemed a little much for the egg hunt. I wrote it off as everyone eager for the picnic to start.

It did feel kind of cool that everyone was paying attention to me in a positive way. Back in those days, I wasn't used to that, at all. Once I made it back to the center of the playground, we were instructed to open the eggs. Inside, we didn't find the goodies we were promised, but another slightly smaller egg. The paint job on those inner eggs were drastically different from the varied camouflage of the outer layer, more traditional.

All around me, I saw brightly painted eggs of solid color, except for mine and a few others. These different eggs were painted in two colors, diagonal lines wrapped around to create slanted rings. Mine consisted of black and red rings, but not a typical red that I see a lot. No, this red I had only seen once before on a medical show my father watched when we were asleep.

As soon as he'd realized I'd gotten up from bed and went to the living room, he turned the TV off quicker than I've ever seen him do anything. It was too late, though. I had already seen all the blood pouring out of that massive dash in a man's chest. That's the kind of red that was on my egg. Minister Ravens said that there were eight eggs with diagonal stripes on them. Everyone who had a solid-color egg was to proceed with the families to the picnic area. The rest of us were to follow him back to the church,

for a special treat. As he spoke, I realized that the eggs I had found, but never touched, were the ones painted with stripes, like I somehow knew. The minister promised we wouldn't be gone long, and that someone would announce when it was time for the children to open their solid eggs for the treats inside. Like lemmings, we followed, while the rest went to stuff their faces with sandwiches and potato salad. I had thought we were going into the church proper, or even maybe the youth hall for whatever we were doing. Instead, Minister Raven led us down a hall where his and other offices resided. Just beyond those doors was a bend in the hall I had never noticed before, and the single door it led to. The hall was dark here, and a knot formed in my stomach

as he unlocked the door. What lay beyond wasn't much better lit than the hall, but it was enough that we could walk down the stairs without having to guess where the next step was. Minister Raven waited at the door until the last child, me, of course, went through. He closed it behind us, but I noticed he didn't bother to lock it. I took this as a good sign, needing that since this was so bizarre to begin with. The space we were in was large, vast in a way I couldn't really begin to understand. As far as I knew, there were no natural cave formations in or around our small town, yet there we were in a large underground cavern. A few torches were spread across the walls, showing where the ground suddenly dropped off into nothingness. Never, in my seven years, had I seen such a space, and it would come to haunt my dreams for years to come. Though, haunt might not be the right word. Minister Raven stood in the center of the floor, and, without instruction, we formed a circle around him.

He told us that each egg held its own unique secret inside, but one was especially special above the others. Inside, one of the eight eggs was a golden egg, and that whoever possessed it would join him in the center of the circle. One by one the children opened their striped eggs, revealing a chocolate egg, until I opened mine. Inside wasn't chocolate, but a shiny yellow that caught the torchlight in a way as to make it glow. My six-year-old sister standing next to me expressed her jealousy by sticking out her tongue as I moved to the center. I was too young to think beyond a boatload of sweets being my reward for having the golden egg. Never had it occurred to me that something sinister was going on behind the scenes, and I was finally getting to see what it was. Minister Raven told the others to eat their eggs and said my prize was to bear witness to the events as they unfolded.

The way he said it turned that knot in my stomach into white-hot fear. I reached out to my sister to stop her from eating the chocolate egg, but I was too late. She crunched down on it and immediately began spitting out blood, as if the dewy center had been a blood pack. As a rambunctious boy who loved to play outside, I'd scraped enough knees and gotten enough scratches to know what real blood smells like. All around me, the children were vomiting blood, disgust and horror on their faces. Minister Raven began chanting, but the words he spoke weren't the ones I knew. As a seven-year-old, my vocabulary was very limited, but later I would come to discover he wasn't even speaking English. His voice was normally a little quiet and calm, but not this time.

He grew in volume and intensity, soon booming around the entire cavern. In moments, the children went from spitting blood to choking on it. At least, that's what I thought was happening. My eyes wouldn't close. I couldn't not see it. A boy of eleven grabbed his throat and fell to his knees as a serpent's head pushed out from between his lips. Several feet of wrist-thick serpent slithered free of this boy's mouth and found its way to the floor. Once free, the boy fell over, choking and convulsing until he wheezed out his last breath,

dying in a bloody pool on the cold floor. I watched spiders crawl out of a ten-year-old's ears and nose and mouth. Rats burrowed out of a twelve-year-old's mouth, frogs out of a nine-year-old. I saw them all as they choked out things that crawled, slithered, and stittered, as each child died painfully. Last was my little sister. Flies swarming out of her head.

I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. Every one of the critters that came from the children made their way to the center of the circle. Completely ignoring me, they rat themselves around Minister Raven like a blanket. His strange words finally stopped as he took out a golden egg like the one in my hand, swallowed it, and said the ritual was complete. The bugs, reptiles, and vermin took the last parts of him I could see, covered him completely in a large pile.

Slowly, the pile shrank in size, but none of the nasties ran away. They just slowly disappeared until all that was left was a dark, red, leather-bound book. At the time, I couldn't say why I'd wrapped the book in my mad dash for the door. The only thought going through my little

mind was to get help, that mom and dad would know what to do. Adults always knew what to do better than us dumb kids. When I made it outside, I remember smelling barbecue, which was weird because the picnic had been a potluck. There wasn't to be any grilling. Rounding the corner of the building, I found the source of the burning, and I violently threw up in the grass. Twenty-five children were instructed to open their eggs at the same time. Being that young and always eager for candy, they tore into the eggs without hesitation. Unaware that inside, each was an extremely potent fire bomb.

In a single moment, the church Easter celebration picnic had become a fiery inferno. Over 200 people burned to death. unaware they were a sacrifice to power the dark ritual happening underneath their feet. I walked away from that hell with nothing, but the clothes on my back, a golden egg at the size of a quail egg, and the red book. I wandered the earth, speaking not a single word for a year, before I was brought in by another small-town church.

They put me up and tried to figure out where I'd come from, I never told. As far as the authorities knew, I died along with everyone else at the church that Easter Sunday. Fingerprinting children wasn't a thing back in the 80s, so there was no way I could be identified. I was raised and educated in the church, even a new name, too. As time went on, I learned how to read and speak different languages, enough that I could decipher the red book and learn the truth about the ritual I witnessed. My working theory had been that it was a pagan ritual, since the whole eggs and bunnies aspect of Easter was pulled from pagan fertility symbols to coincide with the rebirth of Christ. Turns out, the date is only important because this ritual can only be performed every 40 years, not a day sooner.

It had taken me years to reveal the truth. This ritual calls for a large sacrifice of both innocent and impure people, not necessarily an equal amount, but not too far off either. Only thing specific about the sacrifice is that it must be done in fire. Once the sacrifice begins, it fuels the ritual happening directly beneath, in an enchanted cavern. Seven pure and innocent souls must take in a symbol of willingness to begin the ritual. ritual. Their insides transform and become very nasties or crawlies that will devour the one chanting, praying to the powers to be transformed into a demon and taken to a darker plane of

existence. After this long explanation in the Red Book is a how-to manual, every step and necessary spells listed with exact detail. The 33 eggs in the hunt were conjured from a spell that knew exactly how many children were attending. Each egg is enchanted to call out to the children they were meant for. The one meant to find the golden egg would always be last. As this child is the most important aspect of the ritual, he or she must bear witness to everything, to keep up the tradition for the next generation. As I've said, I've worked on this for years to truly understand what happened to that day. It's been a long

40 years, and Easter Sunday is fast approaching. I've got a lot to do to get ready for my church's celebration, and a quail-sized golden egg to polish. Wouldn't want to swallow a dirty egg, would I?

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