Creepy - Manifestation of Destiny & What Lies Beneath The Ice

Episode Date: August 4, 2022

Manifestation of Destiny***Written by: Anthony Paderes and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***What Lies Beneath The Ice***Written by C.T. Flaska and Narrated by Nate DuFort***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***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 creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. Violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Manifestation of Destiny. Written by Anthony Paderas and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. Becoming the new sheriff in town is one thing. But seeing that the town had no more than a saloon, general store, and a jailhouse attached to an inn. can make it quite mundane if you were lucky. The town hadn't even been given a proper name yet, seeing that the residents are those that were left of the family

that helped secure the territory from the locals, and the passerby were folk heading west in search of gold, or those looking to work on the railroad all the live-long day. To be quite frank, those who founded this town were tasked to do nothing more than to clear the way for the railroad with the promise of land and riches beyond their wildest dreams. The men were handpicked by none other than the big man himself, and were sent with goods of all kinds. to make the interactions with the locals as easy as pie, but it didn't always go as well as one would hope. Some of the locals went on peacefully,

while others not so much. Those locals spat curses that were sharp as their arrows that dwindled down the families on their journey, of Western expansion, not to mention those who suffered from injury or disease. So when the families finally reached what they now call home, they would never experience a day of rest. The sheriff of the town was appointed by his father before him, second generation to be exact, and it was everything but subtle. Every day was trouble for this new sheriff. Whether it be outlaws looking to stir up some trouble, or someone looking for work getting a little too comfortable with the ladies after

hitting the saloon, the hanging tree and jail never had a dull day. The sheriff had his sheriff's shootouts and attempted robberies throughout this short time in the new world, that he was said to fear no man, but the locals were another story. His pa would share stories of the locals, disguising themselves as animals, or lighter-skinned folk, then wander into town and leave ruins of the residents in their homes when they started settling down in these parts. They were just things he'd ramble on about after coming home with the smell of whiskey on his breath. He was a good man that had seen his share of shit, who became too feeble and proud that he sat in it, with a glass in his hand until the end of his days. Out of bed with the sunrise, the sheriff got

ready for his day. A quiet morning with the birds chirping. And that was an issue. The sound of railroad spikes being hammered into the earth is what he was used to hearing. But there was no sign of the workers, just a coyote watching in the distance. His cousins that ran the general store were nowhere to be found, and he knew there was no one in jail because he's the one that ran it. The last place to look was the saloon. He figured if everyone decided to pack up and leave overnight, it was because of the locals, so at least he can drink up what was left before going on his way as well. The sheriff made his way to the saloon, and to his surprise, he wasn't the only one left in town. There stood old Tink behind the bar, and he had himself a customer sitting all by his lonesome

in the corner. Tink was an older gentleman that ran with his paw back in their youth, but he never drank the poison, only sold it. The sheriff pulled up his seat at the bar and ordered, The usual, please. Tink poured the sheriff a glass of his finest whiskey, then placed the bottle and glass in front of him. The sheriff took a swig of his glass and noticed Tink wasn't being quite himself. Granted, the geyser didn't talk much, the sheriff caught him cleaning the same spot on the bar

as he shot glances at the customer in the corner. Again, not a drop of liquor has ever touched that man's lips. And that was his word. So you can see how it would peak the sheriff's curiosity. Hey, uh, Tink, that gentleman's stirring up trouble over there. The sheriff asked, taking another sip of whiskey. Tink moved in closer and spoke softly. You don't make me feel, rat, sheriff.

The sheriff stood up straight and put his glass down before responding. What? He tried to get a free drink out of you or something? Tink shook his head and started cleaning the spot on the bar even harder. No, no, sheriff, nothing like that. He just has one of those faces, I guess. The sheriff stood up, gesturing for another glass and poured two drinks. Well, seeing that we're the only ones left, might as well get acquainted. Tink shot the sheriff a confused.

look, but the sheriff had already stepped off to greet the stranger, sitting alone in the corner. The sheriff pulled up a seat and placed a glass of whiskey in front of him as he took a sip from his own glass. So, uh, what brings you around these parts, my friend? He was a local with long braids and a dark complexion, yet pale at the same time. The stranger did nothing more than look down at the glass and nudged it to the side. I do not fall for your people's tricks like my father. Do you not recognize who you are speaking with? The sheriff was thrown by such a comment. He squinted his eyes, thinking of all the faces that have crossed his path in his short life, and his eyes grew wide.

Longhorn, is that you? I thought you and your folk left the land to us and went on to join the rest of your family or something. The local scoffed, Longhorn is no more. You will refer to me as man-eater. You were young, not stupid. Your people came bearing.

gifts and spoke with reason. But throughout their stay, you had given us disease. While speaking with violence, we gave you shelter and food. But you took our home and gave us poison. This land is not your land. is our land. The sheriff sat speechless across from an old forgotten friend as he rose to his feet. Man-eater unsheathed a blade whittled from bone and placed it against his throat. May your people feel what I felt for an eternity, and opened up his own throat. The sheriff reached out to stop him, but he felt his throat open all on its own,

replacing his gaps for air with gurgles of blood as darkness filled his vision. The sheriff was awoken by the smell of decay, and immediately tried to grab at his throat to find that his space was limited. He was in a box, but seeing that he can draw breath once again, he assumed that he had been drugged by his once-called friend. The sheriff punched and pushed against the box until it finally gave enough for him to break open the top to see that he had been placed under the hanging tree.

That was now home to some locals who were bare, bound and strung from their necks. The sheriff was confused from the sight, considering the fact they hadn't seen these locals around in quite a while, and lifted himself from his makeshift casket. A storm was brewing, and this would have been a good sign since they hadn't seen any rain in a few months. But the clouds blocked the sun,

bringing a darkness darker than a moonless night. There sat a pack of coyotes down by the general store, watching the sheriff collect himself as he felt their leers. The sheriff took one last look at the hanging tree, as lightning brightened the sky, revealing the family that ran the general store were the ones up there. not them locals. The sheriff fell to his back and scurried away from the reality that he was forced to endure.

Oh, man, them drugs he gave me must have really fucked me up, said the sheriff trying to convince himself. I... I should go check on them. No telling how long I've been out. He continued to ramble on as he rose to his feet once again. The sheriff noticed the pack of coyotes were gone, on his way stumbling to the general store. Cries came from the small alley between the saloon and the jailhouse that chilled the sheriff to the bone. The sheriff patted himself down to see if he had anything to defend himself. but even the knife his paw gave him was at his side.

He lit out a sigh of relief when a couple of residents, he could not recognize, were dragging out a few locals. One had a torch in hand, while the other carried a knife. The resident with the knife looked up at the sheriff and held the local by the hair, bringing the knife to their scalp. With a flash of lightning, the local had a railroad worker by the hair as they reached out for the sheriff, letting out a scream. The local began cutting the scalp of the railroad worker, while the other local set his prisoner ablaze by forcing the torch down his throat, both keeping eye contact with the sheriff. The sheriff vomited and ran to the saloon, stumbling over himself, with the hope that Tink was still alive. He burst through the door to a vacant domain. Tink!

yelled the sheriff, running into the empty bar, almost knocking the wind out of himself. He looked over the bar and started bawling. Oh, Tink! What have they done to you, man? I'm a bar your gun, pal. I got to deal with some shit. Tink laid there, split in two with his entrails, bled out and chewed on.

His throat was ripped out that left him with a face contorted by horror and a shotgun by his side. The sheriff reached down to grab the shotgun that lay next to his dismembered friend, feeling an icy breath on the back of his neck, and spun around to an empty saloon. Lightning struck once more, lighting everything up, and the doors began to shudder. Men on horseback darted past the open windows, yipping and hollering louder and louder, as more

came to join in. The doors swung open once more, and in walked his paw. who looked like how the sheriff remembered back in his younger years. The sheriff raised the shotgun and yelled at the imposter. I got two shells right here for you, you son of a bitch. I know you ain't my paw. He shot the thing once in the chest, leaving a fist-sized hole, and then again in the head, splattering its brains everywhere.

The sheriff started to reload, as he watched the thing drop to its knees, but realized he had no more ammo. Man-eater rose from behind the dead imposter, naked and covered in blood. He raised his hands from his side, and the corpse of the sheriff's younger paw did the same. What do you want from me? The sheriff cried, dropping to his knees. Hair started to grow on the shoulders of the man-eater, as did his size, making him tower over the sheriff. For your existence to be pain, said man-eater, as he leaned forward and licked the sheriff's forehead.

The sheriff began to convulse as liquids poured from every orifice of his body of all kinds, until his body dried up and withered away, leaving a skeleton wrapped in skin in his place. Man-eater lowered his head to the sheriff's smiling. Let this land forever be a town of ghosts of the damned. Then touch the sheriff's forehead with the tip of his claw, making him turn to ash and float away in the wind. Creepy presents what lies beneath the ice, written by C.T. Flasker and narrated by Nate DuFort.

I've never felt a coldness more piercing than the wind at the remote research site in Antarctica. Five days by myself conducting my first solo research expedition. It was my chance to prove. that I have what it takes to endure the cold and gather samples of existing or possibly new organisms from a frozen lake nearly 4,000 meters under the ice. In fact, there were several work sites currently active alongside me, all with new researchers, eager to produce some sort of rare find and be given a permanent position. We were positioned a few miles from one another, extracting samples from the same underground

frozen lake. I had two days to collect samples, as we expected a white-out blizzard on the third, of which I would then hunker down and analyze my findings thus far. After that, a couple more days of sample gathering, and then we'd be evacuated. Excited doesn't quite embrace the absolute joy I had for this opportunity. My first day went smooth enough. I maintained the work site, only losing a couple tarps when the winds picked up, and I inspected the excavation hole that was drilled by the research center when they deployed me. The hole was drilled by a mechanical boring drill,

plunging deep into the glacier crust. Hot water and steel broke past the frozen layers and took quite some time. The greasy contraption that did the hard work lied a few meters away from my work site. It wreaked a powerful gag-inducing stench, The hole in the ground was large enough to fit my whole arm down. Luckily, there's no need for that, as they provided me with a pulley and sample collector to lower down.

All that remained in my work site was some wire fence to keep the wildlife out, a tent that's seen its fair share of expeditions, and me, a shivering kind of, know what I'm doing, fake it till I make it, me. The first day was a success? Not successful as in I retrieved any usable samples or anything. I did stare far too long in an elephant seal who was snooping outside the northern perimeter, but I mean a success as in I'm still alive and didn't lose any more tarp and had a better idea of how to use the equipment, at least.

Once I covered the pulley system, extraction site, and remaining gear, I ducked into my tent for the night and began preparing dinner. The first night I had imitation potatoes and, in quotes, Salisbury steak, consumable dinner tray. In fact, every night I was blessed with that meal, if not just the potatoes after the first night. That night, I was woken by howling winds. The entire tent was shaking, and the sounds of loose rope were flogging the sides. There wasn't supposed to be a storm until two nights from now. It was hard to sleep to say the least.

The sound conjured all sorts of nightmares from my restless mind. The thoughts of unimaginable things lurking outside my tent. I imagine that elephant seal coming through the wire fence and greeting me through the opening of my tent. Seals are fine and all until one just flops into your room. I held my sleeping bag tight and closed my eyes. The next morning, I inspected the perimeter and fastened any loose tarps and rope. It wasn't until I looked at the work site that I noticed the tracks and the snow. They had been lightly covered after the wind and were very faint.

They were probably mine from yesterday. I shook any doubts. I'd work to do and samples to catch up on. I can't be empty-handed when they returned to retrieve me in the supplies. I yanked the covering off the hole and pulley system, and was immediately taken aback from the smell. The smell that I noticed on the drill had come from the hole, a stench like decaying fish,

a sweet smell followed by bitter iron and rot. I pulled my scarf tighter around my nose and began to work. I pulled out a few ounces of dirt, water, and small fragments of rock. The pulley small engine block struggled a few times, so I was sure to let it warm up once I started it and let it cool after each use. Light flakes swam around the water sample like a snow globe. The dirt was clumpy and black, and the rocks were small and fragmented. Sharp and dense, though few rocks were the size of marvels and granulated untouch.

I kept the remainder of the samples contamination free and set them aside for tomorrow, when I would look at each sample under a microscope and record my findings. My hopes were low, and so were my test samples. I needed more. I dropped the pulley a few more times that day, but was only able to pull up more water and ice all the same. My second night of sleep, or lack thereof, will always resonate with me. I was awoken yet again by violent winds.

The sides of my tent flailed wildly, and the sounds outside mimicked that of rubbing metal and screeching animals. The sound was unbearable, even after hiding under my pillow. I heard a crackling, low-pitched, splintering growl from the direction of the work-side. I sprung out of bed, assuming the worst, that my work-side had been destroyed or something fell on to what samples I did have. But when I flung open the tent entrance? Nothing. Literally, nothing. No storm, no wind, only the stars in the sky, and a single light from behind the tarp covering the work site. The silence of the Arctic wrapped itself around me, and the horrific stench pierced the freezing air. I secured the flap to my tent and laid back in bed.

I grabbed a book to read, but only held it closely as I stared at the entrance of the tent, inevitably fell asleep. When I woke the next day, the air was still, and snow fell silently. The storm should have arrived, and perhaps it did, but the high winds were absent. I made my way to the work site, bumping into the drill now covered in snow. Peeling back the tarp to work site, I started the engine block to the pulley and let it warm up. I wrapped another scarf around my head, attempting to block the stench from reaching my frozen nostrils. I should have been in my tent looking over what samples I did have, but I needed more.

I dropped a clamp and swabbed down the hole into the ice. It takes roughly 15 minutes for it to safely reach the bottom. I paced around for a while, trying to keep warm, and I noticed the area around the hole. The ice had cracked in three different spots. Little fractures were visible, crackling off the cylindric hole two inches and width. I averted my attention to the pulley, which was still dropping. It had been twenty-two minutes.

I stared at the remaining line on the spool, and there seemed to be plenty to spare. But how far down could this possibly go? I decided to let it run. I thought this was the break I'd been waiting for. Maybe I'd pull up a new microorganism, a fossil from some long-forgotten ocean-dwelling species or new species. When the line ran out, I pulled the joint to snap the collection tray on the other end, shut and pushed a button, opening the swab. After a few moments, I switched the motor in reverse and began pulling the samples back up, refilling the empty spool with line once again. I began prepping what samples I'd collected for transfer back to my tent when a line from

the pulley snapped tightly, halting completely. The motor made a god-awful screeching noise as white smoke erupted from the top, then suddenly began pulling normally again. The line must have gotten caught on something. I checked the temperature of the motor and placed some snow on top of the block to cool it down. The weather outside had been slowly picking up after my couple hours in the extraction site, and there was zero visibility outside. I placed my hand into the snow outside the opening of the tarp and felt around for the safety line attached to my tent so I could find my way back.

I yanked it above the snow, and it hung fastened in my hand. The other end disappeared into the wind and snow. I turned my head back to the pulley as the motor shut off. The sample had been retrieved and dangled above the open hole. I placed the swab into a sealant and open the collection tray. From it fell what seemed like black straw, thick strands of black, still wet from water, but pristly and stick-like. I felt like I had something worth investigating and began to get excited, imagining myself being appraised for discovering a new species of seaweed. But Christ, the smell must be from whatever this is. I closed the extraction site and made my way to the tent. Holding the safety line, I walked what seemed like hours in the blinding snowstorm.

Sure that I grabbed the wrong rope, the tent finally unveiled itself through the white haze. Once I made myself comfortable, I began setting up for sample inspection. And I was so excited, I nearly dropped it on the ground. I opened the sample container and instantly filled the tent with the smell of decay. If this wasn't a plant, it might be from a carcass on the ocean floor. The winds from outside began to grow violent again. I placed the sample on the microscope tray, then turned to warm water for a cup of tea. I could hear the noises from outside like the night before, howling and screeching noises from all around,

but my excitement for this new find distracted me plenty from worrying about the wind. I peeked into the microscope and saw movement, lots of movement, in not one shape of cell, but many. I grasped for air suddenly when the entirety of my tent was lit up from outside and the sides began to unravel slightly. The wind became so violent that I hadn't even noticed the sound of a helicopter. A member of the response team burst through the opening of the tent and was startled I was even in there. Hey, are you okay? Yeah, I'm fine, but the extraction isn't for another two days. What are you?

We're leaving. Now! In the chopper! He pointed out the tent with his assault rifle and shouted again. Now! I grabbed the remaining sample from the collection tray and slipped into my snow suit. We ran out of the tent and into bursting spotlights. I was helped into the helicopter,

and we began lifting off the ground before I could even put on a seatbelt. As we lifted, the chopper blew snow off the work site and the tarp for the work site as well. The cracks I had seen earlier grew so big that the machine used to drill the hole had slightly fallen in. I was informed that something had gone wrong. I was the only person alive from the five teams dispatched. One site had broken completely open,

swallowing the work site and scientist entirely. Another had sent a distress signal, and when the response team arrived, they couldn't find her. Instead, what they found was a ten-foot trail of blood leading into the excavation hole. The entire inside was coated with frozen blood as if she was dragged down. The response team quickly noticed the smell from the sample I had grabbed.

It was confiscated immediately, and I was told I'd be given credit for the find, but would not be informed about any further research on the sample. When asked if I wanted to do another expedition, I declined. I took a cozy desk job instead, and though it's been years since the incident, I still have dreams. about the violent winds, and I'm woken to the smell of decay.

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