Creepy - Midnight Dialogue & Chumming Charlie

Episode Date: August 1, 2024

Midnight Dialogue***Written by: Timothy Wilkie and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Chumming Charlie***Written by: Kriston T. G. Evenson and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. Midnight Dialogue.

Written by Timothy Wilkie and narrated by Michelle Kane. But suddenly there was no joy, and the sun disappeared. The Eben Fish Story. I am a lonely creature, born of the dirty swill of where the water meets the docks. I watch the men as,

they clean the fish guts off their decks and prepare to go out at dawn. It is late, but I always wander the waterfront and listen to the dialogue at midnight. For some reason, it soothes my soul and calms the beast in me. My name is Belle, and I'm 13 years old. My father used to take me out on his fishing boat, the Kelly Bow. It was named after my mother, who died giving me life. I never knew her, but I know she was beautiful, and my father loved her very much. I sit down on a green wooden bench and watch the waves as they reflect the dock lights. Long metal poles that glow yellow on top flicker in the water like fireflies. The salty air runs through my veins, but I am forever fallen from grace

and left at the very brink of where the sea meets the land. longing to be set free like a gull riding the air currents to some exotic port of call. When I was ten, my father was lost at sea and I was placed in foster care with the Myers. They take a lot of children in and are fine church-going people. The house we live in was once a fine seafarer's inn called the Looking Glass. But its days have come and gone and now they foster children to make a meager living. The places down by the waterfront were victims of boom and bust. Warehouses now stand deserted with boarded windows. Empty houses gone to seed where once families lived. Now spiders spin their

silken webs freely in the windows. And nothing but darkness lies behind the glass. These make up my playground now. They are the buildings that I haunt late at night as I wander the waterfront. Cutting across the old brickyard, I climbed through a hole in the wire fence and cut through the high grass to the crumbling sidewalk. Just a little ways away, colored lights beckoned me from the strand. Overhead, I can see the headlights of cars crossing the metal bridge on the other side. As dark and scary as my playground is, I feel safe within its hope. Like rusty fingers, it keeps me tight within its grasp. On the strand, chaos is the norm.

No less than four bars with neon signs of yellow, red, blue, and green promote the beverages within, such as Budweiser, Coors, and Genesee. Up and down the strand, the bartenders know me, and when the owners aren't looking, they slip me a Coke or a Mountain Dew. Sometimes they have bands playing, and I listen, but I never stay for long. There are almost as many people outside the bars as there are inside tonight, and most of them know me by name. Captain Bob smiles as I walk up and says, Good evening, Miss Bill. He has a big pot belly and a handlebar mustache, and I can't help but smile back.

I nod, and he pats my head as I walk into the bar. I haven't talked to anyone except ghosts since my father went missing. It has been three years now, almost four. When Mrs. Myers took me to old Doc Barnes at the clinic, he told her I had selective mutism, most likely due to the trauma of losing my father. After that, she never took me anymore. What Dr. Barnes meant by what he said was, she doesn't talk because she doesn't want to.

But they don't know, I do talk. and I listen, always hoping that some lost soul will have news of my father. I talk to the dead. Wash the salty brine away with this. One of the barmaids says, as she hands me a mountain dew, I mouthed the words thank you, and she smiles at me and gives me a hug. They know that I'm an orphan of the sea, and somehow that makes me one of them. As I stand in the crowded bar, shoulder to shoulder with the regulars. There feels to be a constant assault upon my silence. Slowly I bleed out my need for their company and silently, like a phantom.

I make my way toward the door. Just before I exit, I turn and see that Ellen is watching me. She smiles sadly as I catch her eye and then disappears into the crowd. Her round drinks tray held like a shield high above her head. When I went to bed earlier, Mrs. Myers, with that same twinkle in her eye that she always has, bent down and kissed me on the forehead. Sweet dreams, my angel. She told me, she knows and doesn't know, all at the same time. She knows the late-night waterfront has always been my home since I was little. And on Saturday nights, my father would drag me up and down the strand from one bar to another.

But to admit to herself that I sneak out my window after all the lights are out at the looking glass would be too much for her troubled heart to bear. It's like a secret she keeps from herself. I walk down the strand and cut between two deserted brick buildings. An untended graveyard comes into view and I slip between the cast-iron bars and give witness to the lost and lonely souls that linger there. A cool breeze makes waves in the high grass, and for a moment I'm lost in the shades of gray. There is a scent of salts and decay in the air, and I reappear by a headstone that reads, Molly Warren. She died for love. She waits for me there, as she always does. I can hear her moans and feel her suffering. She tells me the same thing every night.

About her lover that was lost at sea, and in her grief she threw herself off the bridge that runs high above our heads. Tonight, her grief is so razor-sharp and agonizing. All she can do is moan. Her mouth is stretched wide open so as to distort how stunningly beautiful she was in life. I reach out to touch her, and she shrinks away from me. Tonight is the 20th anniversary of his death, and she is inconsolable. I fill tears well up in my own eyes as I watch her suffer. But that is the way of those who choose to stay behind, unable to let go. Beyond the gray stones, the moon shadows seem to move,

and the raven awakes from its perch with a cry of alarm, it darts away. I turn my face as it flies past me. I do not wish to see where death goes, because that only means that soon I will follow. The clock in the church tower across the way strikes midnight. It is now officially the bewitching hour. For the most part, there is no hope for the souls that linger behind, unable to move on.

But I offer them a bridge between the dead and the living. The dead do not sing, but when the bell and the church tower times, they raise their bony faces and moan louder. I call it the song of the dead. The first time I heard it, I was terrified. I thought I was losing my mind. Now I welcome its morose tones. It serves to remind me that I'm still on the side of the living. Here, buried beneath the earth side by side, are the great,

and the small. Death seems to make equals of them all. It makes no difference if their headstones are large or small. Those that choose to stay behind mingle together, yet forever apart, each to their own plane of existence. Sometimes, if they allow me to, I can bridge that gap with one voice. Mine. On their planes, I appear as a bright light, and they are drawn to it like a moth.

to a flame. My voice is soothing to them, as I ask them if the spirit of Patrick Boe is with us tonight? I am met with only silence. This is his loving daughter, Bell, I tell them. I make my way to the marker that has his name on it, for underneath is an empty pine box. I am ashamed, as the tears streamed on my face, that I hadn't been able to buy him a stone. and that his grave only consists of a cheap, empty pine box that the county paid for. My only solace is that he has probably never been there

and has no idea of his existence. His body rests forever in Davy Jones' locker deep beneath the sea. Suddenly there appears a swirling mist of white. It blankets the old church and the road and then rolls across the high. grass toward me. I stop and stare in silence at the wonder of it all. The moon is at its peak and around my head is a firefly. It seems so many years have come and gone with not a word. None that I have communicated with, know of his whereabouts or any details of his demise. Secretly, I hope for his return. I pray that it was all just a mistake. In all these years he's had amnesia.

just like in the daytime dramas that Mrs. Myers watches on TV. I dream on good nights that his memory returns, and he finds his way back to me. In silent desperation, I cry out and raise my head as tears drip down my chin and spatter on the ground. But still, the only thing I hear are the mournful cries of Molly's broken heart.

I wish I could make her understand that she is not alone in her grief. But her ears are closed forever, and her world is filled only with pain and sorrow. The eastern harbor borders a long beach that has been left to a slow and lingering death. A place where once lovers strolled hand in hand has been left to the whims of the tide.

From where I stand on the beach, I can see the back, of the looking glass. All its windows are dark, looking down on me with thinly veiled contempt. The torment you will have. A voice states from behind me. Startled, I spin around. Most of the time, I don't allow the ghost to sneak up on me. It is very dangerous to let some of them get too close. Richard is definitely one of them. In life, his name was Richard Stein, and he was responsible for the murder of a woman named Beth and her two small children. After they were all asleep for the night, he got up and torched their house.

Then, from down here on the docks, he watched the house burn, and when it was done, he got in his boat and went fishing. When they finally caught him two years later, he was down in the Florida Keys. They brought him back here and after a short trial they hanged him. That was almost a hundred years ago, and the foundation of that house still stands as a reminder. Making sure not to get too close to him, I ask, why do you stay? He says, the only thing waiting for me is hell, and I don't want to go alone. That's why you have to be careful not to get too close. If a soul is hellbound, it can drag you to hell with them, rip you right out of the living, and drag you straight to hell. I refuse to talk to him further, for I don't wish to make a connection.

Instead, I choose to ignore him in the fervent hope that he'll go away. His voice is angry, and he calls me an insolent little snob. Fire reclend your soul, he tells me. I tried to push him back into the spirit. crevice from which he crawled. I wrap my fingers tight around the gold cross I wear around my neck. Images of his house on fire, the flames shooting high in the air, and the sounds of his wife and children screaming. Fill my mind with vivid images, horrible images of his children, burning in their beds. His voice is always there. Heavy.

laden with some ancient evil. Allowing myself to linger there, I have allowed a mental pause, an opening, a crack onto the plane of the living through which his diseased thoughts can crawl and slither their way into my head. It is more than terrifying.

I know that somehow I have to break the connection immediately. I automatically start reciting, the Lord's prayer as loud as I can, and I feel his grip on me loosening. Louder and louder I recite it, until he completely let's go. I immediately start walking away from the old foundation, looking back over my shoulder to see if he's following me. I don't stop until I get all the way back to the strand. There are games to play, and some people get scared and never take the risk. The moonbeams guide me down a narrow path to an abandoned

amusement park. It is now just a blank canvas where lost souls go through the motions of imitating the living. The one they call gypsy eyes me with the face of a one-eyed girl. For those who were seers in life, now only have the one psychic eye in death. Her bare feet never touched the ground as she comes toward me. She whispers secrets that only I can hear. Have you seen my father, Patrick Bow? I asked her, and she shares her secrets with the cobblestone streets that were once here and are now long gone, overgrown with crabgrass and sod. She was once a dancer and a thief, but this is not new. She tells me this every time I see her. The skeleton of a teenage boy appears next to her, the victim of a carousel accident 50-plus years ago.

Can you tell my mother that I'll be late coming home? She gets so angry when I'm out past curfew. He says to me every time he sees me. She knows. I tell him. She knows. The drowsy night is slowly making the turn to early morning, as the moon sinks towards the dawn. A vacant river of the nostalgic path streams by me

as not a word of my father's tragedy falls upon my ears. I turn toward the sea where the raw winds are blowing cold, and it fluffes back my long blonde hair with invisible fingers. Lights ablaze on the strand are starting to dim as a single raindrop stings my nose, and I am unable to distinguish it from a teardrop as I sadly move on. The smell of burning oil and hotcakes frying lets me know that the fishing boat crews are up and raring to go, but it only makes me long for my father more. The nights we would sleep on the boat,

and I would awake to the smell of bacon frying in the galley, and my father would creep me with a hug and a smile. With the sunrise almost set to flourish, both humble and bold, the shadows slowly disappear as I make my way back to the looking glass. Again, I will wait for that one golden face, and until then I will remain a living ghost haunting the memories of my childhood. Until once again, I am reunited with my father and the great beyond.

Creepy Presents Chumming Charlie written by Kristen T.G. Evanson and narrated by Nate DuFort. It's probably just one of those rumors that started and got to be told so many times that people started believing it. And naturally, someone would swear their cousin was there and saw it happen, or their best friend's sister was there, and, you know, she'd never lie about something like that. Rumor has it, this 15-year-old kid named Charles was boating with his older brother Tommy and

Tommy's friends. They were all around 17 or 18, and they scored a case of beer and went out doing stupid kid shit like we all did back then. Showing off on a dare, this kid Charles climbs to the top of the lighthouse and dives in. The way everybody told it, Charlie showed no fear and didn't so much as scratch his ass while he was up there. He got to the top, posed long enough for everyone to see him, gave a wave, then he just went. The light is 50 feet high over the Chesapeake bay. If they were out there in a little Boston whaler, that bay would have to be smooth as glass that night. But those waters get choppy in a heartbeat. Neither way, it's not a good idea to jump in the water that far from shore. That lighthouse is there to warn seafaring vessels away from the shoal

and keep maritime commerce afloat, so some of the ships using the channels suck a 24-foot draft. That's 24 feet deep. We're talking about big ships. largest naval shipyard in the world is within sight of the marker, less than three miles away. You don't swim there is the point. So this 15-year-old kid is drunk and from 50 feet high just jumped in the Chesapeake Bay at night into a channel meant for commercial maritime traffic. The teens have a spotlight on board, so they grab it and they start looking around in the water for them, but they don't see Charlie come to the surface. They keep cold. They keep cold. calling his name, and I guess a couple minutes passed before reality sinks in, and everybody starts

to really freak out. Just when the kids on the whaler are starting to panic, a barge comes chugging up the channel from the ocean, set to pass the light, and the kids on the boat. Every experienced captain knows to pilot craft near the lighthouse to avoid running a ground or dredging its props into the shoal. The thing is, this time the craft was a barge, by a ship, not a boat. When I say the barge was enormous, I mean, this thing has acres of space on deck and can house approximately 9,500 people comfortably. My entire hometown of 312 people and all their homes could fit on the ship without stacking a single residence. Charlie's brother and his friends are going to feel the wake of this ship intimately. Fortunately, they're moored to the lighthouse because

it will act as a makeshift harbor for them. Plus, they know they can reach the ladder because Charlie has already done it, so if they need, they can disembark and wait for the flotilla to pass. Trouble is, nobody knows where the fuck this kid Charlie is. As the front edge of the wake starts rolling in, it doesn't seem so bad at first, but it's huge and right away, they know the back end of the ship's wake is going to do its best to take their heads off. They've turned off the music at this point, and each time one of them calls across the water for the boy, Charlie! The echoless voice dies without a response. All they hear is the distant vibrating rumble of the barge's motors and the sound of baywater lapping against the lighthouse. Back and

forth, they scan the dark surface, hunting for Tommy's little brother with the spotlight. He's just a skinny white kid with a haircut like Slim Shady in a bird cage for a chest. So if the full wake hits him hard before they spot him, who knows where the fuck he'll end up? His body might wash up in Jamaica, could be Nantucket, or maybe both places at once. The girls on the boat have started crying at this point. They're covering their faces and generally just flipping out the way you'd expect them to. One of the other young men is talking stupidly about jumping in the water to swim around and find him, trying to be a hero, but Charlie is in the goddamn Chesapeake Bay. They all are. Where are you going to swim to

find him? Meanwhile, the barge chugs along, shoving an eight-foot wall of water ahead of its bow. The swells from the barge race across the glassy surface of the bay towards the lighthouse. The kids see the waves coming their way and know all hell is about to break loose on the 22-foot ski boat. A Boston whaler isn't made for speed, so it's a shitty ski boat, but they're the Volvo of the sea. Their boat could break into hundreds of pieces, and each piece would stay afloat, so they're afraid, but no one on board is likely to drown unless they get knocked out or the boat capsizes. It's unlikely to happen, and they know that, but logic doesn't quell their terror. This will be a soul-stretching few minutes for them. Worse, there's nothing they can do to help Charlie now, even if they did spot him.

The pilot of the barge catches sight of the small craft moored to the lighthouse, bobbing around in the first few waves of its wake, which are just warm-up waves. The pilot calls to alert the Coast Guard, then lets their air horn blow across the channel. If geese go to hell, which I'm sure those mean fuckers do, The barge sounds like what happens when a goose in hell gets promoted to demon goose. It's alarming and not at all what Otis Redding was singing about with his feet dangling in the water. The kids are huddled together now, too afraid to get off the boat, but also too scared to stay on board. So instead, they freeze, clinging to each other for dear life.

That's when they hear Charlie's voice. Did you hear it? Of course, nobody shushes, and they all start gibbering at the same time about hearing it, but Tommy motions for them to quiet down and listen. The group of teens hushes, and they hear the sound again. It's thin and far off, but his voice is clear, so they know Charlie is breathing and still alive for now. Charlie! Charlie!

They all start shouting, and poor Tommy, I feel bad for the kid, I really do, did everything he could do, but still, couldn't save his own brother's life. I can't imagine that kind of guilt. Tommy speaks up. Everybody, shut the fuck up right now. Usually, he's a calm-mannered young man, so his out-of-the-ordinary aggression shocks everyone to silence. Tommy's heart is pounding, and he hears one of the girls crying, trying not to make any more noise, but she's sobbing. The girl holds it back, but her chest gets so tight with wimpers, trying to squeeze out that she squeaks a series of staccato toots like a cheap whistle that's missing the plastic ball inside. Tommy ignores her,

desperate for what else to do, his little brother in the water, his friends in a snoddy huddle, and his boat heaving up on the wake of the barge to crash against the iron structure of the lighthouse. Tommy does the only thing he can think of. He does the best thing, and quite possibly the only thing anyone could have thought to do. I shit you not, with all the mayhem going on around him. This kid Tommy has the presence of mind to yell out across the water. Marco! A second later, a voice comes back. Polo! Hang on little bro, we're on the way, Tommy yells. Of course, that's easier said than done, especially now that the whaler is slamming against the lights mooring station and rising with each swell, coming dangerously close to the underside of the

metal cage walk-around of the middle ground lighthouse. Tommy gives it his best go, though, working to get the bow and stern lines free and to shove off the little boat from the structure without letting it get slammed into the iron pilings. While Tommy dodges back and forth, stomping from port to starboard and back, the boat is listing from side to side in the waves. His friends blubbered, and on the floor of the boat and duck down as low as they can get. The girls are whimpering and holding their hands to cover their faces. One of the boys quietly pisses himself. I don't know how much luck it took for Tommy to get both his peer lines undone in inside the boat or how he got the boat away from the rusted paint-peeled metal without smashing some part of his craft beyond repair. But he did.

He got the boat running before the waves had a chance to slam it back against the morrow. throttled hard, trimmed the craft, and hauled ass in the direction they had last heard Charlie's voice. They got lucky, too, because Charlie's course had a bearing that meant the barge and the whaler's paths were diverging. Tommy eases back the throttle, and the mercury motor rumbles down to a purr as they troll around, calling out, Marco, and looking through the darkness with the spotlight. The barge is still close enough that it blocks out the entire shoreline. It's moving away, but the much larger craft still casts a looming shadow over the young group of sailors. They don't see Charlie, but eventually they hear his voice. Oh! The voice is thinner and weak sounding, gaspy. Plus,

the poor kid has drifted further out, and now he's about midway between the whaler and the barge, getting pulled back towards the bay and away from the shore. Again, Tommy ramps up the mercury and races through the stinging mist off the bay toward where they last heard Charlie. Around the midway point, one of Tommy's buddies sees the last thing any of them wants to see. The barge that had led away to its starboard side is now turning back to them. The pilot needed to maneuver to navigate the train of barges along the channel safely and keep them all in deeper water. First, he swung to a starboard side, allowed the bar. barge to settle into its snake-like parade. Then the pilot navigated to the barge's port side,

swinging the entire train of barges wide to his right, then back to his left and up the channel. This barge is the biggest, baddest boic instructor to ever exist, and it's coiled around them now, with barely an opening in the maw through which they can escape. What's worse, they can hear Charlie clearly now, and so they know he's close. Frantic, the spotlight swings back and forth across the relatively calm bay. The wake from the barge is still lobbing four-foot-tall swells, though, so even if they orient themselves to where Charlie is, there's a chance his head will be tucked between two rolling waves, and he won't be seen.

It looks hopeless at this point. The barge, seeing the teens, again sounds his demon goose air horn, but now there's nothing he can do to stop in time. These kids are out of place, not minding the right of way, and if they stay put, they will inevitably end up in pieces, floating across the Chesapeake and clinging to whatever piece of Boston Whaler they're fortunate enough to grab onto, and that's only if they somehow avoid the uncountable tons of steel ship and barges coming at them. I'll spoil the ending for you.

The group of teens makes it out. They hang on as long as they can, trying to locate charges. But time runs out and Tommy does the only thing he can do. He gets himself and the rest of the crew to safety. Tommy, if you ever hear this, you have the heart of a hero and cool head to rival the most seasoned captains. You did the right thing. The tragic part is, as they sped alongside the gargantuan ship, barely far enough ahead to survive the ordeal, one of the girls spots Charlie.

Tommy was too intent on piloting them the fuck out of there to see his little brother, and I reckon that was the luckiest day of his life, because nobody wants to see that, to see what happened to Charlie, but least of all if it's your own blood brother. The girl who sees him first snatches the spotlight away from the fellow scanning the water, and like a rifle, she hits Charlie with the beam, dead center, a spot on shot. Tommy can't see Charlie because he's driving, but the four teens can't tear their gaze away. First, they see Charlie, and he looks like he's yelling, screaming for help, but they can't hear him. The kids' two skeletal white arms flail around, and whether or not they can hear over the noise of the barge

and rumble of the whaler's mercury motor, or if the rushing white urgency of adrenaline is washing out their hearing, it doesn't matter because they know what Charlie is saying. His arms beg them, Please, God, somebody help me. I'm going to die. Please help me. Don't let me die. Please don't let me die.

Hopefully the spotlight blinded Charlie so he couldn't see the 14th staring off the starboard side of that boat with limp chins and gaping mouths watching what he's about to endure. Of course, there's nothing they could have done at that point. But dying that way, while people watch you feel so humiliating.

Like shitting your pants in front of an entire fourth grade class while you try to sputter your way through reading a book report. The teens watched, open-mouthed, as the suction from the ship's massive propeller begin to grab hold. It didn't generate a round whirlpool like you might expect to see featured in the jungle of an Indiana Jones movie. It was a flat, half cone. While it might not have appeared as dramatic that night, on the surface of the Chesapeake Bay, when it sucked Charlie's waving, begging arms underwater. Those kids found it plenty suspenseful. It happened fast, too. Charlie's face was there one moment, gasping for breath, contorted and begging for anything solid to grab hold of,

arms waving back and forth like a rubber pencil trick. Then, faster than the sweeping pass of a lighthouse lantern. Swirp! Just like that, the kid was gone. The whaler was equipped with some excellent safety features and the spotlight was powerful, which may have been a detriment in this case because not only did they spot Charlie in time to see him getting sucked underwater, but the beam also broadcast such an intense light that had penetrated the bay to illuminate the water three or four inches below the surface. While they didn't see exactly what happened to Charlie, they heard the propeller shredding, ripping and tearing him apart. The sound wasn't much more than one or two stuck ice cubes, finally coming free in a blender. But what gurgled up immediately after was something

none of them can ever forget. The water turned deep red, yes. They saw a lot of blood, but that wouldn't have been so bad that they could have tolerated. What came up instead from deep under the water was a frothy slurry of bone, clumps of flesh, patches of hair, of length of stripped bone and Charlie's left arm, still intact, severed past the shoulder so a nice wedge of his chest came along with it. Glugging up after the first surge was a reddish-brown foam contaminated with slick, pink-and-red meaty pieces, odd flaps with thin layers of meat and fat with strands of veins and muscles growing out of different parts of it bobbed to the surface, as well as other chunks so mangled they couldn't distinguish, not that they wanted to anyway, which of Charlie's parts

might be organs, and which parts might be slags of meat and muscle that had sheared cleanly off his bones. The grotesque slurry belched up all around them from the baywater, along with a distinct stench, the smell of shit and the reek of exposed organs, human blood, and Charlie's lacerated intestines, mixed with brackish air wafting off the Chesapeake. Slow and gentle, it washed over the teens in a sickening fog. Both girls vomited and one of the guys, too. Tommy didn't see his brother die that night, but he experienced the worst part of it all.

As Tommy gunned the whaler to avoid the turning barge, the ski boat launched its normal rooster tail, which would usually be a whitewater wake. The rooster tail was a lot darker that night, and as Charlie's remains bobbed around in the waves, his pieces made sticky slapping sounds when the bow of the boat cut through the tide of human compost. The deep-water waves of the Chesapeake licked at the side of the craft,

slicking up to taste off whatever remains tried to cling to the side of the whaler. Still, when the sheriff's department finally returned the boat to Tommy and Charlie's parents a few weeks later, it came back to them with a stern that was stained of faded maroon color. At the time, I was too young, self-serving and insensitive to realize it wasn't something to make a joke out of. But I think youth makes us feel invulnerable. That way, when the world shows us what a treacherous asshole it can be, we don't panic and just die right on the spot. I don't know. Maybe I'm rationalizing the nickname, but when it happened, none of us even knew it had a name.

So we gave it one of our own, and it stuck. We called it Chumbing Charlie. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Shera-like licensing, or with written consent from the author. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.