Creepy - My Summer Internship As a Fire Lookout

Episode Date: November 6, 2023

Just follow the rules...***Written by: Kyle Harrison***Bonus Episode: "Demolanicon" Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content Warning: Infidelity, intimate partner violence***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

John? John, hello. What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Are you okay? Yeah, I'm... Fine. Just a little, I don't know.

Hey, listen, are you sure you want to record this week? We just wrapped up an entire month, and I'm not positive, but I think this might be the only podcast in the world not to take a week off in the last seven years. I'm sure listeners would understand. It's fine. Really. I must not have slept well last night. I'm good. Okay. Let's start at the top with the Patreon. Thanks. All right. Time to play catch up on some overdue thanks. So please bear with me while I welcome and thank new patrons. Michael Benson. Serena Simmy. John Montgomery. Angela. Kate Van Wingen. Phillips, Mia Besslegia, Darla L, Patricia Miller, Michael Bolerice, Full of Woe, Tracy

Valancourt, Jonathan King, Aaron the Smelly Man, Cerna, Chelsea Ray Gunther, Kira, Albi, Blade, Mark Adams, Nicholas Allen Pui, Amanda Bear, John Sao, Jerry Stone, and Nikki Greenleysher. All patrons get early commercial-free access to all Sunday and Wednesday episodes. From there, tiers include weekly bonus episodes, immediate access to our entire back catalog of over 1,000 Patreon exclusive episodes and logo merch. To see how you can support the show and be rewarded for it, please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepy pod. Perfect. Okay. Let's roll right into the Sunday read. Pacific? Yeah, what's up?

Never mind. Okay, if you say so, whenever you're ready. Now, this is 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. My summer internship as a fire lookout came with a strange list of rules.

Written by Kyle Harrison. These jobs are really hard to come by. You can check if you want to. But actually right now in the United States, the majority of fire lookouts are already handled by veterans who really have no intention of leaving until they're ready to kill. the bucket. When I got the call that I had the chance to spend a summer doing this, I really thought it had to be a prank. I've been on the waiting list for almost two years now, and practically

almost forgot I ever put an application in. This isn't the type of work you want to do if you need something that pays immediately, in other words. It's for the troopers who want to sacrifice the time and energy being stuck out in the middle of nowhere for months. To me, it felt like a dream come true. I've always loved the outdoors, even though I knew taking the job meant I'd be away from home for months. I wanted it. I didn't really even think about the isolation until I made it here. I was so excited to be able to have this chance, I didn't say no. It's not that I want a future in forestry or anything, but this kind of job looks really good on your resume,

even though you normally sleep most of the time. It was cushy, easy, and lonely. lay back. Or at least that was what I thought before arrival. I thought it was going to be an easy job for a few simple months where my biggest worry would be figuring out how to fight the boredom. And that's honestly how it all started. I arrived via a forest ranger jeep. The guy taking me hardly saying two words to me on the ride up the mountains. When we finally got to the deep Woods, he did ramble a bit, though. Not many people out this way. Not many fires either, he said, I think. Or maybe that was in my imagination, I was just nervous. I wasn't getting good

cell phone signals and something told me it would be worse when I made it to the lookout. This is going to be like sitting 30 to 60 days in a holding cell, I thought to myself. So why did the last guy leave or quit or whatever. I asked him a driver as we went over a bump. The driver slowed down as we approached an old wooden bridge. You could feel the entire structure wobble as we drove over the top of it. Very anxiety-inducing. As we did, this dude finally opened up.

He couldn't stop talking about what the story surrounding the last ranger was. He told me that the last ranger that worked his lookout hadn't had. actually left, but it died well on duty. In fact, the rumor was he took his own life, a bullet to the brain because of the isolation. I thought maybe the driver was trying to scare me, but he was dead serious. He also mentioned that they took the service pistol away so that no one else got the same crazy idea. Then he left me in my small backpack of supplies at the foot of the lookout with no fanfare or even a horn honk. For the next few months, I was going to be completely alone.

So what did I bring? Honestly, a lot less than I should have. I had my chargers, my phone, my switch light, and a few good books. These were my busy tools. And then I brought a few changes of clothes and some snacks. Nothing major. unless you call my rifle case. I was told to be some instructions about how the drops for supplies were handled out here,

so I didn't think anything would be out of the ordinary. Instead, I was taken in the sights and silence as I climbed the wooden stairs to the top of the lookout. The forest stretched in almost every direction. A blanket evergreens and mountains so majestic, it definitely could take your breath away. It was almost so beautiful that I forgot about what. my driver had said. But it didn't take long for me to remember when I made it to the top and pushed open the door to the lookout.

There was still a bit of blood standing in the carpet where the previous lookout had decided to eat his gun, and that was enough to damper my mood and focus on trying to make this place my home. These places aren't exactly designed to be private. There are windows all around so I can see in any direction for a possible fire, and no actual heat source besides an old wood-burning stone. dove, which I guessed also meant that was where I was expected to cook. I put my supplies down on the bed and took off my boots, worn out from the trip, and then laid my head on the pillow.

That was when I felt something firm right under the soft material and pulled it out, realizing it was a book. I opened it to see what it was, and a flimsy piece of paper flitted it out to the wooden floor below. Dropping the book, I chased after the paper. snatching it up as I leaned back toward the bed. All lookouts must follow these rules while occupying their current position. Many thanks, the top of the note said.

There's a short list, but I found them a bit peculiar. 1. Lights out after 10 p.m. No electronics usage after this hour. 2. Supply drops are every Monday and Thursday. Use red flare to request extra. Use blue flare to indicate no supplies needed. Do not use them together. 3.

Absolutely no guests are allowed in Lookout. 4. Safe combination is 8-913. Only open if necessary. 5. Radio transmissions should be logged properly and sent to HQ every Sunday. Don't make copies for yourself or others. 6.

If reporting a fire, use the emergency phone. No other emergencies will be handled via this method. 7. Remember to call your sister station before you sleep. I studied the list a little longer, taking out a pack of ritz crackers and sitting at the table. It didn't look like the list was made by an official source, so that led me to guess that the previous rangers that compiled these requirements shorthand. And that was why a few missing pieces of information weren't among the rules. Like, why would I even need to do that?

to open the safe. What exactly was in there? Or how was I supposed to handle other emergencies besides fires? I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I pinned them to the refrigerator and looked out across East Horizon to where I could spot the next lookout, my sister station. Better get to work if I want to run my keep, I thought to myself as I found the radio and turned it on. Since cell phones don't work around here, this would be my only choice, I thought.

Morning from Station 5, I said. Since there was no telling when I would get a response, I put the radio down on the table and then sorted out my other supplies. The fire lookout didn't have much to do here. A few board games, a few books that I could read once I finished the ones I brought. I checked the one that was under my pillow first, realizing it was likely the journal of the previous ranger. Unfortunately, it was also written in what looked like French,

so I wouldn't be able to get a clue about their story here anytime soon. Odd they hired someone who doesn't even speak the local language, I thought, as I tossed it among the others. But then again this job isn't exactly about that anyway, I figured. I kind of squirled away and organized the lookout for the remainder of my shift until it was time to rest and then sent out a transmission to my sister station, telling him I was signing off for the day. To my surprise,

This time they replied and said they'd be active for the next 12 hours. I was starting to wonder if anyone was out there, I sat into the speaker, but no reply came. Leading me to guess whoever was in the other station wasn't much of a conversationalist. I got into my pajamas, took a leak, and settled down. I haven't shut off my cell phone even though I knew it didn't work out here. Best to listen to the rules, I thought, with the chuckle. and then it was time for sleep. The next day was Thursday, which meant the supply drop.

I tried to ask my sister's station where that would happen but got no response. So I spent most of the morning using my binoculars to scan the horizon for a helicopter. Finally around 10 a.m., the radio chirped with static and announced the drop had been made, which surprised me. I hadn't seen any drop, and I've been paying attention most of the morning. I would have thought I would see that. I got dressed and went to the base of the lookout, surprised to see that the drop was also so close by.

Three crates sat waiting for me in a metal less than 500 yards away. Maybe they drove them here and I wasted my time scanning the skies, I thought, as I checked to see what I was given. This was probably the first red flag since my arrival. But I was a bit perplexed to find that the first box contained nothing except some rifle ammunition. I figured that was a good thing I brought my own weapon, but no bullets due to the security at the airport.

I tried to move it and weighed almost a ton. I decided to get as much as I could and left the rest in the crate, wondering if this was meant to deter bears. I certainly want us to protect ourselves, a reasoned as I took it to the lookout. But then why take away the service pistol from the previous lookout? And for just a second, I wondered how they knew what caliber ammunition I needed for my rifle. When I returned to get the second crate, I was surprised to find the other boxes were gone entirely. They thought I didn't need the rest of the supplies and left already?

I tried to call over to my sister station and find out, but as usual, he got no response. Guess this means I snack on more crackers until Monday, I said to myself miserably as I looked to toward the window. Then I remember the flares. I went to the box and took out the red one, stood out on my balcony and fired it up in the air. A long streak of red strung across the sky and then static filled the radio. Extra supply dropped confirmed.

The voice sounded so robotic and made me wonder where in the world they were observing me from. After a few hours, and without me even noticing that they dropped them, At the base of the stairs I found three crates again. This time I chose the one to my right. I had a few loaves of bread, lunch, meat, and cheese. Exactly what I was hoping for. I couldn't take it all, and just like before when I came back to gather more, the crates were all gone.

Somebody nearby must be getting supplies from the same drop, I thought, as I went back to the lookout tower. Checking the red flare as I counted that I had six altogether. I guess I'll wait and ask for more another day, I thought to myself as I prepared my lunch and let the day slip by. Nothing was off just yet, but I was already starting to feel the loneliness of this place. The oddities I'd seen so far were not enough to cause alarm, just peculiar. So when I signed off that night, I told myself that it was just another quirk of the job.

I kept telling myself that over the weekend and the first week too, as I said, into a very mundane routine. I never thought much about the missing crates. I just thought it was another aspect of this quiet and lonely job. Every day, kind of just blended into the next. I finished my first book by the middle of the week, and I was honestly starting to get kept in fever. And the contact with the station on the rise was about the same.

I never heard more than two words from them when I signed off for the night, and they certainly never never changed. checked on me. I began to wonder whether there was even anyone over there. After all, the ranger that drove me up here hadn't said anything about a sister station or rules. What if the previous lookout had just made those silly rules for no reason other than to mess with me? Of course, I also didn't know for sure who wrote the rules, but so far I'd followed them explicitly. I almost opened the safe on Friday, out of curiosity. But something. told me it was a bad idea.

I didn't start to feel uneasy until I almost finished with my second week. I realized I hadn't received a single radio transmission. Then, on Sunday, I got a request from the nearby HQ to turn in all necessary communications. Was I supposed to trek to the sister station to pick theirs up? I had nothing better to do, so I grabbed my gear and stared to hike toward the west rise. The terrain was brutal. Keep in mind, this is the middle of June and temperatures are already starting to rise here. On a normal day, it could be 90 degrees, and that would be considered cool.

The day I decided to hike to the sister station was almost 101 degrees, and there wasn't a breeze to be felt. I paused about halfway through the trees to set up a marker. I figured by the time I returned, it would be sunset. I was kind of hoping that whoever was stationed at the Western Rise might offer a drink or two. We could shoot the shit. I was desperate for some kind of interaction, even if the person was an ass. But something happened before I got a chance to find out. It was an hour later as I went up to rise.

A shadow crossed my vision, and I looked up between the trees and saw what looked like a skin deer carcass. It was dangling upside down on a tripwire between two strong fir trees, and there was a bucket under it that was catching the droplets of blood. I covered my mouth to avoid vomiting as I checked the scene. It looked like a fresh kill because blood was still slicking down the antlers into the bucket. I saw signs of freshly pressed grass that told me someone had been here to set the trap off or to handle the bucket. Then I heard a noise from the thicket and I instinctively shouldered my firearm to see a tall man entering the clearing. His face was covered.

He was wearing traditional hunting gear like he'd been out here for a while. One thing was for certain, though. This was not the ranger I hoped to meet. I warned him not to make any sudden movements. To my surprise, the stranger actually fell down against the nearest tree and started to convulse. I realized that they'd been traveling around the woods for a while, likely lost, and it collapsed the moment they saw me. I checked their vitals and confirmed they were still alive.

Then I checked to see them. where the sun was in the sky. I'd have to take the stranger to the sister station with me. I struggled their comatose form over my shoulder. They were hardly awake and blubbering like an idiot. I couldn't understand the word they said. It sounded like French or Russian, maybe. I told them we needed to start walking toward their eyes.

They were looking at the deer I'd come across with fear in their eyes, and I realized that meant they weren't the ones. it had trapped it, meaning the ranger also I'd be a poacher in training. Great, I thought sourly, as I realized we might not get a warm welcome when we arrived at the station. I decided to leave that station out of my mind until we arrived and focused on the trail ahead. The stranger was heavy, and I was exhausted already. The added weight wasn't making my hike any easier, and the sun was already certain to set.

or so I thought When I finally reached the clearing where the station was I found myself very perplexed looked identical to my own I laid the stranger at the foot of the stairs and ran up calling out to the ranger when I got there though I discovered the lookout was empty of anyone

and it was an exact replica of my own lookout I mean I know that sounds crazy but I've been at this place for almost a month. I've memorized every single detail. And this was like I was looking at a mirror. I stepped toward the balcony and looked towards the rise. The surrounding forest looked familiar too,

as if I'd gone in circles. That couldn't be possible. I have an excellent sense of direction, and I've never gotten this loss before. I sighed in frustration and tried to check the radio to send out a transmission. This is station five. I'm reporting a hunter down near the lookout tower.

Please send rescue crews immediately, I told them. But there was no response at all. I went back down to the base of the lookout to check and see how the stranger was doing, only to find that they weren't there. The area was empty. No sign of them being there at all. I became immediately super alert of everything around me, suspicious of every breeze or glimmer of light.

Something was off. I'd felt this since I arrived, but now with this latest development, I was certain of it. I went back to the lookout and sent out an SOS. Then I went to the red phone and attempted to dial HQ. This wasn't a fire, but I felt that it qualified as an emergency. See? While I got back with static.

I've never felt uncomfortable in the woods, but this put me on edge. I was alone here in this forest, and now possibly had no means of escape. The sun was setting and the stranger disappeared. I didn't know what else to do except to sleep. Even though I didn't want to, I knew I couldn't investigate it without proper rest. I placed one of the chairs against the doors of blockade and slept in the only spot that could surveyed the entire cabin, an old leather back recliner. The night was as empty as everything else, but this time it felt different.

I was uncomfortable with my situation. The next week, my unies grew to a boiling point. I spent each day trying to survey and map the area, but it did little good. I would go out as far as I could and mark trees and then return to the lookout. When I went to find those same marks, they were gone. The only time I ever saw signs of life besides myself were the supply drops and the occasional game kill from the stranger. I realized by the end of the week that I was trapped here, but I didn't fully know why. This mountain was experiencing something supernatural.

That I was certain of. I was beginning to realize that every day was actually identical to the previous as well. A groundhog day effect that made me wonder how the supply drops even worked. If this was some kind of temporal loop, these supplies don't fit into the equation, I told myself. Then I focused on the rules.

That strange list I wasn't supposed to be breaking. I've already gone against one mandate by using the red phone and nothing bad happened. Time to break the other rules, I thought, as I used the code on the safe to see what was inside. The cabin had an old rabid ears TV with the VCR built in, but couldn't get reception, and up until now I didn't have any tapes to play.

I pushed it over near one of the outlets, connected it, and put the tape in. Soon I found myself staring at a recording of, well, and myself. Except that I could tell the, this version of me had been in the lookout much, much longer. As I listened, my gut dropped and my heart raised. It's been three years, two months and 17 days since I took up the position as a lookout here.

I have exhausted all means of escaping this place, except for this. When I opened the safe, there was a tape here too with a recording just like this one. one. Except the video showed a much older version of myself trapped here for almost five years. I think that by recording over it, I can shorten the time I'm trapped here. Or maybe bring an end to this once and for all. I have no clue. Once I finish this recording, I'll be using what supplies I have and head out to the woods as far as I can and not stop. I hope when you see this, you have better look than me, the recording told me.

It ended there and spit the tape out. My mouth felt dry as I looked toward the horizon and considered the implications. Had there never been a previous ranger at all? If so, then that meant the people that ran... and this place were behind my entrapment. I tried to radio HQ again, this time with a different message. This is Station 5.

I will be signing off permanently from this location and setting this lookout on fire. You heard me right. I'm not going to be your lab rat anymore. Good luck finding someone else from this place is nothing but ash. I shouted into the receiver. As usual, there was no response. Frustrated by the silence, I pushed furniture over and made the place nothing but a horrible mess.

Then I overfilled the stove and started a fire, keeping it going as hot as I could until I was certain a blaze would spread. Grabbing my things along with the diary and the flares, I left the lookout with the smell of smoke on my back. I didn't even look to see the place starting to burn. as I moved towards woods. I'm honestly not sure how long I traveled until I found a trap. I set my gear down and waited for the stranger. They were a part of this.

I knew it now. I wasn't sure if this strange poetry was another iteration of myself or not, but I knew that they would have answers. I kept my gun on my shoulder and waited for their arrival. It was nearly midnight when I finally came to the trap.

This time, They didn't seem surprised to find me there. And they looked considerably younger than the first time I'd seen them. Sit down, I ordered as I waved the gun in their face. They complied, and I ordered them to take off their masks so I could see their face. A stranger did so only for me to realize that my guess was wrong. It was just some young kid that I'd never met. disappointed by this revelation I started asking questions

how long they'd been there what this time loop was and who was behind it all then they began to speak a different language and I realized at last who they were you wrote the rules I said I took the diary and tossed it to them demanding they translate but all they did was babble again in their foreign tongue

my frustration built to a point in no return and I aimed a rifle at their chest and fired without even thinking. The stranger looked at the blood that gushed from their body, and to my surprise, they smiled. They said something else, and if I had to wager a guess, they were saying thank you. They fell down on their side and bled out as I watched an abject horror, wondering if I had just let an innocent man die. All I had left now to do was used a flare to ask for supplies. This time I fired three times using the red one.

Stupid rules that had never helped me the whole time I was there, I thought. Nothing happened at first. Then I heard the sound of a helicopter rotor. I looked up and sat approaching with a spotlight on me. I probably looked like a mountain man myself, but I didn't care. I waved my arms frantically until they landed. As soon as I saw the people inside, my excitement turned to anger as I realized that they had likely been monitoring everything here. I aimed my rifle at them and ordered them to let me aboard.

The men let me in and also gathered the corpse of the stranger, checking a tattoo on his side which had the Roman numeral 12 on it. As we lifted off towards the horizon, they asked me a simple question. that I hadn't even stopped to ask myself. Why did I break all the rules of the lookout? I took a moment to stare down at the fiery abyss that remained at the lookout. I was desperate. I needed out.

It was the only thing I had left, I told them. They nodded and then issued strange orders to the superiors on the radio. Send the next experiment. The rules weren't strict enough, they said. Before I could ask, what they meant. I felt a sharp sting in my neck, and the world went black. I woke up in a military hospital and the ranger that first recruited me brought me a hefty paycheck, and a waiver I was told to sign, which I assumed was meant to buy my silence. I had so many questions that I needed

answers for, but he refused to offer me any solutions. Damn it, I was your guinea pig for almost a month and a half. I deserve to know the truth. He mulled it over and then offered me something else instead of answers. A job. He told me the only way to find the truth be to remain in the fire lookout longer and agree to be an experiment. My hands trembled as I signed the agreement. I know this is a mistake, but I feel drawn to this place.

Trapped there, it's the only time. in my life I've ever felt a part of something beyond my understanding. I am frightened to return, if I'm being honest. But I also suspect that I've never actually left. The lookout never burned. I never killed the poacher. I never got rescued. All this was just a part of their experiment to see what rules I would break, to test the limits of my humanity. So when I return and all of that resets, I'll be tested in new ways, given new rules, and be forced to face my sanity. I may go crazy. I may become the very thing I hate.

But I have nothing left except a desire for the truth about this place. This is Station 5 of Sentinel Peak. Signing on again. End of Log 13 of the Icarus equation. Further analysis of the anomaly will be conducted abroad. All iterations of subject 13 will be disposed. opposed of properly within the anomaly. All iterations will have no knowledge of each other, nor any recognition of alternate universes.

If at any time an iteration is compromised, another will be disposed of. New rules will be implemented, and the cycle repeated. John, listen, I don't mean to pry. Are you sure you're okay? Yeah, no. Yeah. I'm better now. Really?

Um, so who's doing the bonus this week? It looks like Michelle. Where are they? I think she's in the break room. Right. The break room. Hey, John. Hey.

You okay? Yeah. Yeah. You sure? Yeah, just looking around. Um, you're up to record. Okay, thanks. For your bonus episode,

creepy presents Demolanicon Written by Noon of Consequence And narrated by Michelle Kane Have you ever reached the point Where you just hate the world? Everywhere you turn There's someone doing something so asinine

That you want to start yelling Idiots driving like assholes in traffic morons so engrossed in their cell phones that they step onto a street without looking. Self-entitled dumb-ass 20-somethings wearing $300 jeans and asking for spare change on sidewalks because they're too lazy to get a fucking job. I guess that's why I wrote Utopia, a book I ended up publishing. I certainly didn't expect it to take off like it did. Sometimes I wish I'd let it collect dust on my shelf.

It was a book about moral corruption of the youths in our society, and a woman driven mad by it. Her only child had become a drug-addicted douchebag, and she decided not only to punish him, but all those like him in the community. Denise was tired of the rotting cesspool of filth that she lived in and sought to turn it into a paradise. It was some pretty dark stuff, a cross between the Stepford Wives and the Punisher. I know it sounds like an odd combination, but apparently it worked,

so much so that Utopia became not only a bestseller, but one of the most popular books in the country. I made enough off of it that I quit my job. Every single person I knew started talking to me about my book. These are people that never gave a crap about my writing before. Granted, it was just a hobby that I never expected to go anywhere, but now it was all anyone could talk about. Before long, everyone from family to people I barely knew years ago started reaching out. It always started out as them wanting to talk about the book, but soon devolved into them wanting money,

either to borrow some or to invest in some project they were working on. Even one of my exes showed up on my doorstep after eight years and wanted me back suddenly. This was a breakup so bad and degrading that I became asexual. Not bad enough to make me gay, but enough that I lost pretty much all interest in sex and relationships. Having that much money was good and all, but it paled in comparison to slamming the door in that cunt's face. After that, I put my house on the market and started looking for a new place in a new city. Unfortunately, my publisher talked me into doing one of those author photos on the back cover. Instead of using a picture from when I was younger, she insisted on having a new professional

photo taken. This meant that anyone who read my book knows what I look like. I couldn't go anywhere without people recognizing me. And though I was happy for my success and their support, it didn't mean that I wanted to talk about it. Even my publisher was up my ass about the book, but more specifically for me to write another. I had more money now than I knew what to do with, so I did the only thing I really wanted to do. I dropped off the grid. Selling my house and relocating to the woods wasn't enough.

I canceled my cell phone plan, erased all social media and email accounts, then moved all my stuff alone. It was hard work, but I managed. For the last six, months, I've lived peacefully. I barely have to go into town for supplies. For most things, I have a guy that delivers to me directly, and I pay him well enough not to ask questions. My cabin sits on a hundred acres of land that I work on daily. Between mowing with the tractor and removing underbrush, it seems like

a never-ending process. The majority of the land is covered in trees, and I'm working to remove brush to make roads and trails all over the place. The only places I'm leaving overgrown are along the property line. That way, no one outside can look in and see what I'm doing. Hell, outside of satellites, no one can see into my land. And that's just the way I like it. Though it did make putting up my no trespassing signs rather challenging. Another thing I'm getting used to is having a gun on me 24-7. There are a variety of venomous snakes indigenous to this area, and a 22-LR pistol is enough to take them out. Granted, something with a widespread like a shotgun would be better, but those are heavy. A nice, lightweight Ruger Mark 4 tactical outfitted with a flashlight on the front rail is perfect for taking out snakes and scaring off anything bigger.

I occasionally use it to hunt rabbits, but that's only when I'm running low on my own. meat. So far, I've only killed two snakes, half a dozen rabbits, hundreds of empty beer cans, and scared off some wild boar. Even though a 22 LR bullet won't penetrate the rough hide, it will deter them from getting closer. Hell, the noise will do that well enough. One of the things I had to pay someone for was putting in a custom fire pit. I wanted more than just a place to have a fire, and it required more than I could do myself. The pit itself is made of stone. It sits on a 10 by 10 foot concrete slab with a pavilion covering the whole thing. I even had them install a large cabinet for holding firewood. The first three shelves hold 18-inch logs. The next two are loaded with thinner sections of the same

length. As for the top, there are two bins with twigs and small branches. A third bin is loaded with plastic bags full of dryer lint. This way, even if it's pouring down rain, I can still have a fire every night. Well, as long as I keep the cabinet stopped. With as much brush as I'm taking out regularly, a fire every night is pretty much necessary. Each day, I'll bring in at least two loads of brush in the tractor's front bucket and dump it in a pile near the pavilion. From that point, I'll spend an hour or two cutting that down with a pair of clippers and fill a couple of tubs with the pieces. Having a bonfire would be a lot easier, but that could easily get out of control, and I sure as shit don't want that. Besides, I love having a fire every night.

I'll sit out here in a comfortable chair with a bottle of wine and some good tunes playing. After a life of being surrounded by people that never shut up, this is my slice of heaven. It's a typical Saturday night. After a long day of clearing brush and restocking the firewood cabinet, I took a shower and had a nice dinner. Now I'm kicking back in my comfy chair, tossing on more sticks and broken up branches to the fire, listening to some hair band's power ballad while sipping at a lovely apple pie wine.

I spent my whole life as a typical blue-collar employee, so my idea of the finer things in life is a dessert. dessert wine that actually tastes like dessert and costs less than 40 bucks a bottle. The music is low enough for me to still hear the sounds of nature. My first week here, the nearby howls and calls of coyotes, Tamnir gave me a heart attack. I fumbled getting my pistol out of the holster, but I shined that bright light around. My intent wasn't to shoot whatever was making the noise, but to make them go away since they sounded so close.

I didn't see anything in the immediate area. Turns out they can sound really close without being close enough to see. Tonight, I don't hear their calls. With the season changing and temperatures rising, the wilderness is flooded with the sound of cicadas. In the cooler months, there's barely more than the coyotes, an occasional owl and the wind in the trees. cicadas make their chirps and clicking as a mating call,

and it can be deafening at times. Last night was bad enough that I actually listened to my music with headphones, but tonight isn't so bad. It's a low drum. Tossing a handful of sticks into the fire, I hear something unfamiliar, something I can't identify. It's either too far away, too quiet, or the cicadas are too distracting, just in case I pull out my pistol and make sure there's a round-chambered. Having a loaded firearm with alcohol may not be the smartest thing, but I'm on my land, and I'll do as I please.

Besides, I haven't had that much yet, right? Looking to that nearly empty bottle, I guess I've had more than I thought. Pausing the music, I listen to the sounds of the night, trying to figure out what I'm hearing. The drum of the cicadas isn't a steady noise, but waves. During a low point in their song, the noise is easier to hear, but still unidentifiable. It almost sounds like voices, but they're low and rumbling, not something you'd hear in the murmurs of a crowded restaurant. Then I hear the distinct sound of something close in the brush. The first area I cleared is around the house, but back here, it only goes about 20 yards from the pavilion.

Whatever is out there must have a thick hide. There's a lot of thorns in that brush. I have to wear thick leather gloves when handling it, and even then I'll poke through sometimes. Could it be a large bore? Other than the movement, it's not making any noise. At least nothing I'm picking up on. The vocal rumbling appears to be getting louder

and sounds even more like voices. Part of me thinks it could be a hunting, party chasing whatever is moving in the brush. But hunters typically try to make as little noise as possible. Well, that and hunters usually won't be wandering in the woods at night like this. I swear if some dumbass fucking hunters are on my property, I'm going to make them regret their trespassing. Something burst out of the brush. I pick the gun up and flip on the flashlight. Scanning the area, I see a person on their knees, just this side of the thicket. It appears to be a young woman in a tank top in shorts.

She's covered in cuts and blood. Several tears in her shirt, but the denim shorts look to have fared better. She's covered in bruises and has an eye swollen shut. Someone beat these shit out of her, which explains why she was pushing through the thorns. I call out to her asking what the hell she's doing on my property. Clearly out of breath and extremely afraid, she walks slowly to me with her hands up. Please, you've got to help me. They're trying to kill me.

Great. This is just what I needed. Reluctantly, I get her inside. She's young, late teens at the most, and weighs maybe a buck ten. I don't have a cell phone. Not that there's reception out this far, but I do have internet. I ask her what the hell is going on as I try to get a hold of emergency services on the computer. The first thing she tells me is her name, Halana.

Of course, the first thing that pops into my mind is a character from my damn book. And come to think of it, she's been wearing a similar outfit when she was abducted. She was the fourth victim and received some of the worst punishments. throughout the story. She didn't live. Me and my friends used to larp a fantasy series on the weekends. We'd dress up and use foam weapons to act out our favorite scenes. Then we read a new book and started larping it instead. Small stuff at first, but then they wanted to reenact one of the torture scenes. This is the kind of stupidity I left society to avoid. Dumbass people. doing dumb-ass things.

Who, in their right mind, larks a fucking torture scene? Sadists, masochists, and fucking morons. That's who. I don't try to hide my judgment when I ask why she'd agreed to take part in such a stupid thing. I felt like I didn't have a choice. My boyfriend Jacob was already mad at me because I got drunk and slept with his twin brother by mistake. I've been trying to get back on his good side, so?

When he suggested this, like an idiot, she agreed. I really liked the book, and I thought we were just going to play a game. But then Jacob and the other two started doing it for real. He also got his hands on an old yellow book called the Demalonicon. Hearing her say that makes me pause and typing my message to the sheriff. Now I understand what those rumbling voices were before Alana came out of the brush. It was Hellspeak. The first version of my book had some elements that didn't make it to the published edition.

Denise was originally a physically weak character that called on dark forces to give her strength. She used an old yellow toome called the Demalonicon to conjure a high-level demon and strike a deal. The Dimalonicon was something I'd heard about while researching the demonic angle, but it wasn't supposed to be real. I sent out 30 advanced reader copies to some well-known influential book reviewers, and most of them agreed that the story worked without the demons. This was before I got a publishing deal, of course. After Utopia took off, those arcs became incredibly valuable. Now I wish I'd let my publisher tried to get those arcs back. Naturally, I think this was all bullshit cooked up by a crazed fan, but Alana doesn't seem to recognize me. Admittedly, I look different than I used to, and it took a lot of

work to accomplish. I've lost enough weight out here that my facial features are a little sharper than before. It also helps that my last known residence is three states away. If this Jacob got his hands on the real, Demalonicon, then nothing I have is going to stop him. From my research, the only supernatural deterrent I have on hand is salt. Before I can ask Alana what the idiot had read from the book, I hear shouts from outside. With a container of salt in one hand and my pistol in the other, I go out the back door. Demons are not, this is my fucking land, and I'm pissed. I came out here to get away from stupid people and these little bastards brought it to my doorstep anyway. One way or another, I'm going to make them regret it.

There are three cloaked figures standing between the house and my fire pit. I can't see much of their faces, save for their glowing eyes. I don't know if it's because they're demonically charged or they're catching light from the porch lights. Either way, I pop open the easy pour spout and throw a plume of salt at them. They recoil, but recover quickly. The salt doesn't travel well, even though there's only a gentle breeze. The one in the middle, Jacob, I presume, demands in an unnaturally deep voice that I release Alana into their care. He claims that she's sick and needs to be purified.

Not the most original mind, but I don't expect better from a few demonically charged teenagers. and as calmly a voice as I can muster, I inform them that they are trespassing on private land and the police are on their way. The three exchange odd glances between each other, then proceed to throw things. I hadn't noticed them holding anything, but their cloaks can hide a lot of secrets. The rocks that crash through my windows are very real. Jacob shouts for Alana to show herself, and I've had enough. of the shit. I fire three quick shots aiming for their shoulders. I expect demonic laughter to come at me in waves, but that's not what happens. They crumple to the ground and cry out in more normal voices.

What the hell is going on? They don't sound like demonically charged idiots. They just sound like dumb-ass teens that tried to be menacing and had their bluff called. With my guns steady on them, I go to the ringleader. His shoulder is covered in red. The bullet only grazed him, but he's acting like I shot him in the gut. I noticed something heavy in his cloak, and with as focused as he is on the pain of his flesh wound,

he doesn't notice me taking the book from the inside pocket. I'm expecting to find the old leather tone, but that's not what this is. It's a yellow book, all right, but a hardcover that's done up to look like an old tone. He didn't have the Demalonicon, but one of the arcs for my original book. Going back inside, I get right in the girl's face. I've been too focused on her injuries to notice her non-swollen eye is dilated like a saucer,

just like those idiots crying outside. She won't admit to being on drugs, but her injuries are real. I'd noticed each of the boys had busted up knuckles, the kind you get from beating up on another person. There was no magic or demonic empowerment here, just a bunch of dumbass teens on some kind of hallucinogenic, acting out as seen from a book that never should have made it to the public. And a slightly drunk adult that bought into their bullshit. I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do when the sheriff gets here. Hey, John, I'm going to... Owen. What are you doing here?

Not stealing office supplies, if that's what you mean. If you're talking about that copy machine in my car, I keep it in the passenger seat so I can use the carpool lane. What? Never mind. Anyway, look, I was just going to say that some of us are heading out for margaritas. You want to come with? It's 10 a.m. John, it's 6 p.m.

You okay? Why does everyone keep asking me that? Nothing. It just seems like your mind is somewhere else. What's that supposed to mean? Okay, I think maybe you should pass on tequila right now. I'll see you tomorrow. For what?

Work, John. Work. No day off, right? Uh, yeah. Right. Okay. Well, um, have a good night. Go get some rest, John.

Sleep tight. Don't let the monster under your bed, see that your foot is dangling out because that's when you'll die in your sleep. And you know that when you die in your sleep, you die in real life. Thanks? I don't understand. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons share-a-like licensing,

or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the story's author.