Creepy - My Wife Found Out I was Cheating; I'm Not Allowed to Stop

Episode Date: April 1, 2024

Written by: N.M. Brown and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer and Danielle Hewitt***Bonus Episode: "Invitation to the Dark Place" Written by: Sugarnitrate***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Invitation_to_the_Dark_Trails***This story is is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License.***Support the show and get a bonus in April 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.

Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons Joe, Rose Kakaluski, Mike, Joshua Ward, Princess Cherry, Dominic Grayley, and Azula. All patrons enjoy early commercial-free access to all episodes. From their tiers also include up a four bonus episodes per week and logo merch. Memberships either month by month or yearly, and if you sign up for the full year, you get 12 months for the price of 11 as a special thanks. To see how you can support the show and be rewarded for it, please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com creepy pod. Okay, I do apologize if this is strange, but I'm

recording this while driving down to New Orleans for a creepy production team meetup and my surprise for the narrators that were building a new camp this year, which I'm not sure if this is playing before I get to New Orleans or after I'm supposed to leave.

Now, I'll figure it out. Hopefully all went well, but I suppose you're going to hear all about it soon enough. First things first. Camp episodes will be every Wednesday and Sunday in April. As such, for April, we're going to put the Holders series on, well, hold, while we focus on sharing our 2024 creepway camp adventures. But I'll start them up again come May.

And as an added celebration this April, we're going to be doing an all-new patron drive for the month. So all new patrons from April 1st to April 30th will receive a limited edition creepy logo Marty Grau beads to celebrate our time in New Orleans. This applies to all tier levels. Beeds will start being shipped out first thing in May, so I can't emphasize enough to fill out your full and correct mailing addresses when you sign up so we can get them out to you. And they do apologize, but unfortunately we can't ship outside the United States at this time. Customs is questionable at best, and I want to make sure everyone gets their rewards. Again, all you need to do is sign up between April 1st and 11 p.m. Central Standard Time to get your own set of creepy logo Mardi Gras beads along with whatever other rewards come with that tier.

Okay, I gotta get going. But I'll see you all Wednesday. I bet this is gonna be the best, smoothest running camp yet. No. 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 wife found out I was cheating. I'm not allowed to stop. Written by N.M. Brown and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Damn Pete! My newest coworker Marlon exclaims,

as he nods his head across the bar. That woman's eyes are all over you. It's that time again, huh? I try to hide my devilish smirk as I give a nod of my own in agreement. I slide my hand down the side of my beer, using the condensation to loosen my wedding band. It pops off my finger and into my pocket effortlessly, as it has time and time before.

My eyes take their time surveying the room before finally meeting her gaze. Jesus Christ, she's got gorgeous eyes. I have always loved red hats. But green eyes just take it over the fucking top. Oh my God, Marlon continues. Is that one of those Marilyn Monroe beauty marks? Sure enough. Right next to her left eye.

was the tiniest of moles a period at the end of God's sentence a vibrating sensation in my pocket interrupts me just as I'm about to walk over to her it's Maggie my wife can you please bring home some dinner preferably something involving red meat I've got the weakness today bad fucking great Putting all plans of an evening rendezvous aside, I texted back that it was no problem. I told her my phone was dying and then I'd be home as soon as I could. As soon as I put the phone in my pocket, our eyes met again. As if reading my mind, she smiled coyly and tips her head back towards the back restrooms.

I don't bother to tell Marlon where I'm going. Just head on back. By the time I reach the men's room, I'm already fully engorged in anticipation of what's to come. It doesn't take a genius to see what I just did there, by the way. By the time I hear her heels click across the tile floor, I'm fully ready to go. All rationale leaving my mind as primal instinct takes over. She smiles and bites her lower lip at me. That's all it takes to let me know she wants the same thing.

By the time I get some steak at the store and arrive home, I pray Maggie is already asleep. My only desire is to go inside, change my clothes, and fall into a sleep coma. Her was a wild cat. She actually requested that I put my wedding ring back on before I gave her the best seven minutes of bliss that she's probably had all month. These fucking women these days. To my relief, my wife sleeping soundly crawled up in a ball on my side of the bed. She always ends up sleeping on my side of the bed, holding my pillows if she goes to bed before I do. Those nights seem more and more frequent lately, I think to myself.

Gell creeps into my mind like a toxic fog momentarily before I shove it away. Maggie scoots her ass backwards until it finds my body. As I snuggle against the back of her body, she starts grinding her hips against me. A telltale sign that she's feeling good enough for sex. Sensation sends uncomfortable jolts through my groin, having well satiated its needs moments earlier. Boss was really a dick today, and I got pulled over on my way home. Can I just hold you tonight? Please.

I pled softly. She murmured in agreement. My words not fully sinking in. Her head shoots up seconds later, almost hitting my nose in the process, asking why I got pulled over. It's okay, honey. I was speeding a little to get home to you. He only gave me a warning. I lie, smooth.

That seems to be enough for her, because only moments later she's snoring again. Two mornings later, I awoke to the smell of bacon and pancakes. Maggie limped into the bedroom holding the food on her tray. She picked up the remote disgustedly and turned off a breaking news report on the television set. Nothing but murder and madness, she muttered, as she sat on the corner of my side of the bed. She had started having vision problems in her late teens. A few years later after she married me in her mid-twenties, she'd started experiencing pins and needles

in her legs and feet. One day, we were walking in the supermarket and her leg just gave out, the muscle refusing to move. We went to the doctor expecting a pinched nerve at the very worst neuropathy from unknown diabetes which ran in her family. The MS diagnosis was one neither one of us saw coming or even knew anything about. She had good days and bad days, but the doctor said the bad days would grow more frequent with age.

That was ten years ago. She lustfully wished me a good morning, one of her sparkling eyes winking at me above a white smile. was different about her, though I couldn't quite pinpoint exactly what. My wife straddled me over the bed sheet, and I could feel the heat of need radiate from between her legs. My, my, Maggie May, I teased. Someone's feeling better today.

Not that I'm complaining. She giggled adorably before leaning down to kiss me. When she did, I noticed something that's never been there before. Maggie, honey, what's that by your eye? Did you hurt yourself? She climbed off of me, plopped down on her side of the bed and crossed arms over herself, protectively, before placing a strand of hair behind a dainty ear, so I can inspect it further. She said she always had this.

and that she'd never known if it was a mole or a beauty work. She chided me because apparently we'd talked about it before. Needless to say, the mood ended there. A few weeks later, I drove out of state for the weekend. The company I worked for was sending me to a seminar of a new piece of trial technological equipment that could change the way the world-viewed plastic surgery. I made up my mind that I didn't give a shit about whatever it was they had to show me before the plane even landed.

I was just grateful for the paid hotel and weekend. Maggie has become insufferably clingy in the past week or so, and as hateful as it is to admit it, I was glad to have the space. Are you sure you'll be all right? I asked her for the 14th time as I backed down the driveway. She nodded and waved me off, promising to have kisses and dinner ready when I got home. I gassed up the car to take to the hotel. All expenses paid by the company, of course. My room was decent.

A shower worked and the bedding was nice. It even had free Wi-Fi and a continental breakfast. One thing I'd learned over the years of travel was that, that the nicer the hotel that they put you in, the more tediously exhausting the event you were about to attend would be. This was about a seven out of ten on the sleep in the rental car or being obnoxiously comfortable scale. Meaning tomorrow should be bearable at best. On the first day, they wanted us to attend a conference in the hotel's main meeting hall before breaking for lunch. We were to be there from 8.30 a.m. until noon.

A grueling three and a half hours of blathering bullshit. Once seated. It only took a few moments before I felt a pair of eyes burning into the seat of my pants. I turned around subtly to see a woman staring hungrily from behind me. It was obvious the only interest she had in the activity of the room was right below my belt buckle. She was gorgeous. Once she stood, I was surprised to see that she was taller than me. A train I normally stayed away from.

Something about her smile, though. There was the smallest gap between her front teeth that drove me crazy. A perfect imperfection that caught and kept my attention. We spent our lunch break up in my room, so wrapped up in each other physically that we were almost late. for that second half. I didn't catch her name, and she certainly didn't care to know mine, was perfect. Maggie was waiting for me on the front porch as I pulled into the driveway.

The way that she looked struck confusion and fire into my heart. My wife, who not even six months ago could barely stand without assistance, now looked every been as good as she did on the day we got married. It wasn't until she began to walk towards me that I noticed the painful limb and weathered steps. She waved proudly and told me how happy she was that I was home. Even though I'm an asshole, I really do love my wife. It made me happy to see her, in a way, at my darkest moments, after the sexes faded from the air and the bed is mine alone again. I did miss her. What kind of man would I be if I didn't?

Once again, something caught my eye that was slightly off about her appearance. My wife took me and her arms and we swayed together to a silent tune. A smell of vanilla and roasted chicken melded wonderfully in the air as we walked inside. We continued to embrace as we were. We continued to embrace as I nuzzled my nose behind her ear and whispered words of affection and praise. My movements sent a tickle throughout her shoulders, as she threw her head back in a loud laugh. That's when I saw it. The hidden alteration that stood out to me earlier

was now out in the open and screaming in my face. Between her ruby red lips was a set of shining white teeth. Two of which, the front two, had the daintiest gap between them. Now, I knew that certainly wasn't there before. I had a picture in my wallet to prove it. My God, love. Are you all right? I asked, slightly pulling away from her arms.

Did you get hurt? It looks like you chipped a front tooth. Her eyes widened in nonsensical disbelief as she thought. gone over my question before saying she was sensitive about her teeth. She stiffened and hurt in offense, disengaging from my arms completely. I knew I shouldn't have. After everything Maggie's been through and all the strange behavior lately, I knew continuing to spend time with other women was possibly the worst thing I could have done.

But as you already know, that's exactly. what I did. An old friend named Carla from college. She had come to the next town over for the weekend and asked me to meet and catch on. She'd just found out that her husband was cheating on her. The irony of that wasn't lost on me, I assure you, and wanted to come back to her hometown, to clear her head and get some space. I got a room a few miles away from where she was staying.

We met up for breakfast and had coffee at a place I'd heard great things about but had never been to. She told me all about her marriage, the separation, and how she found out about the affair. In return, I told her about Maggie and how she got sick, along with the strange events that have been happening lately. I didn't delve too much into it, but I admitted things were off at home. I'm not sure if it was the connection from our childhoods. Back when things were uncomplicated and our hearts were light. Or the unburdening conversation that led to more than coffee. We didn't have sex.

In some ways it was worse than that. I followed her back to the motel room. We smoked a joint, held each other, and cried. The red in our eyes was. replaced with the color of tears as we talked about what could have been divulging secrets too evil for our significant others carla winced as i grabbed her hand and i noticed a long smooth scar across the top of her right hand she'd explained she'd gotten it in a car accident and the pain from the surgery flared up when the weather was just right our eyes met and lingered bringing our faces dangerous

closely close together our lips touched for the briefest of moments when all at once a myriad of flashes played out like the screen of a television set I yanked away from her as if she was acid on my skin it wasn't Carla it was my wife's rotted worm-eaten face also the room had changed I was now in a gauntly lit hospital room. Maggie lay pale in a hospital bed, a machine emitting wishes and clicks as it did the job her lungs were no longer strong enough to do. I saw my tired form sit beside her in an old metal chair.

The failing fluorescent lights flickering irritatingly against the yellow wallpaper. A doctor came into the room and said something to me, that made me break into sobs. A piercing alarm rang throughout my ears as the machines declared her dead. I stood at her funeral, silent, and solemn as those around me recounted memories of good times together. Everyone commented on what a good wife she was and how she loved her husband with all that she had.

Each word of consolment turned rotten. and the betrayal of my own actions stabbed through my back like a broadsword. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw her eyes pop open accusingly as they lowered her into the ground. My wife was terrified of fire and always made me promise to not have her cremated. Carla's voice interrupted my hallucination, like a hand making ripples on still water. She embarrassingly apologized explaining that she just wanted to hurt her husband like he'd hurt her. You should go home.

It was really nice catching up with you. And if you don't mind me saying so, hopefully now you can see how sometimes good people get caught in bad situations. Stay in town. Clear your head. Alone, I emphasized. Then, just when he can't stand it anymore. Go home. Carla left me in the empty room.

Her perfume lingering in the air like a shameful spirit. I should have been at peace, happy with myself for doing the right thing. Only I didn't feel that way at all. That night's sleep was fearful and fretful. The vision of my wife from hours before, plagued me through my dreams. Maggie's cell phone rang unanswered as I drove the two hours it'd take to get home. I told her I'd be away for the weekend and after all the shit I'd done to her,

I was excited to surprise her by coming home early. If we could start over, maybe I could fix the fickleness of my soul. I always felt the need for more, never taking the time to stop and think to appreciate what I already had. Relief flooded me as I saw her car parked in its usual spot on the driveway. I wanted to see her, hold her, rediscover all the things I'd fallen in love with before it was too late. She'd been feeling better lately, but who knew how long that would last?

Even the most promising signs at the doctor's visits. They still advised me to remain skeptical. A putrid stench emanated from inside, assaulting my senses the moment Maggie opened our front door. She wore a radiant smile with her arms outstretched to welcome me. She told me how much she'd look forward to me coming home. Her eyebrows arched as a look of lust overtook her eyes. She grabbed me by the waistband as she pulled me towards. our bedroom.

All the signs of difficulty were absent from her steps. Hell, at the moment, she was having an easier time walking than I was. The smell intensified the further that we traveled into the house. Halfway into our room, I had to stop and cover my airways. What the hell is that? I gagged through muffled lips. She remarked, dismissively, how she thought a possum had crawled up under the house and died as she fought with the belt of my pants.

Maggie, stop! I shouted. She broke away from me like a wounded animal. Her bedroom eyes instantly replaced with those of hurt and betrayal. An unsettling silence settled over us as I took stock of the state of our home. Nothing looked, moved around or emptied. The kitchen was clean and the trash. had been taken out.

There wasn't even so much as a dirty dish in the sink. So why did it smell like a landfill here? Maggie was still silent, but hadn't give up on her attempt to usher me into the bedroom. She began to pull and paw on me relentlessly, like a feral cat trying desperately to avoid a bath. Now, if this were an earlier time in my life, I would have welcomed this person. behavior, encouraged it even. It always bothered me how meek and mild my wife was when it came to intimacy and sex. But now, between the look in her eyes, the feeling in my gut and the smell in our house,

it just wasn't happening. Christ, baby girl, what is with you? I just got home and wanted to relax for a bit. At least let me kick my shoes off. and for fuck's sake, honey, I'm not going to be able to keep in the mood with that smell. Like, how can you stand it? I feel a migraine coming on and I haven't even been home for 15 minutes. My breath hitched in my throat as my eyes landed on something.

Not quite right. Just past my wife. Two doors past our bedroom was our storage closet. I'd noticed that there was a little. a foul-colored liquid seeping out from underneath the doorway, pooling onto the tiles of our hallway floor, the middle of the door buckled and bowed against the weight of an unknown object. And I didn't need my gut to tell me it was something bad. Lowered my gaze to my wife's face, recognizing the look of terrified recognition as she

looked behind her to the closet door. She screamed for me to stop. But I gently moved past her. She pleaded for me to not open it from behind me through panic sobs. The door flew open the second I relieved the resistance from the doorknob. A stained suitcase falls flat at my feet, a smell multiplying tenfold and flying into my airways. I doubled over in terror and disgust as my mouth filled with spit. Bile crawled up my throat voraciously

As more of the feted liquid sloshed out upon impact with the floor Splattering onto my shoes in the hem of my khakis What the fuck, Maggie? I asked breathlessly Only a number of things could have been held in that suitcase But I didn't have to guess Some of the fluid had seeped through the fabric and zipper track as well as well as well as, Well, the metal teeth of the zipper were stiff and marred with goo.

A small section of teeth remained silver and untarnished, and between those teeth was a strand of long red hair. Not just one or two strands, an entire tendrils worth, I stammered. Maggie cut me off before hysteria had her true chance to set in. She chuckled maliciously, saying that I would know better than she would. Wouldn't I? Shock robbed the breath from my lungs as I fully absorbed what she was saying. My mind instantly flashed back to that night with Marlon at the bar.

Self-preservation erode all worry of finding a body in the back closet. I held my hands up in defense. Now, honey, I don't know what you've heard, but I've always been a good man to you. You know you're the only honeypot I want to visit. She raised her hand slowly before landing a slap across my face. Her angry voice growled through gritted teeth and tears of hate. Stop it, Pete.

Her torn of rage had subsided a bit, giving her a chance to catch her breath and regroup. Jesus Christ, Margaret! I snapped. You hunted some poor girl down in a fit of jealousy and killed her? How did you even have the time or strength to? I haven't said anything to you because I love you so much. But if you can commit murder, I think the time for mincing words has passed. You've basically been in death's waiting room for the past year.

Now your health has returned to complete normalcy, and you're killing people to boot. What the fuck is this? Give me one reason why I shouldn't call the police right now. You, Maggie, told me. Love. The reason is love. She took me by the hand, gently this time, and led me to the living room sofa. It was almost impossible to refrain from cringing at the feel of her touch.

The same hands that ended someone's life were now trying to use me as a source of comfort. I had a really hard time coming to terms with that. How was I supposed to look at this woman the same way ever again after what she has done? We sat down on the opposite sides of the furniture as she began to speak. Her hands were shaking, so she clasped them together in her lap. to keep composure. She said first off that she knew about the women. She didn't suspect, didn't assume, and wasn't going off the word of someone else.

She? She said it all, matter-of-factly, her voice forceful but otherwise void of emotion. She admitted that when I had asked her to marry me, she always knew there'd be a chance that my willpower would let us down. I loved her the best that I could, and with all that I was capable of. But ultimately I was weak. She snapped that I craved attention like the lungs craved air. When she got sick she wasn't able to give me that attention anymore, then trailed off.

Her eyes filled with tears. I took my chance to speak as she paused to brush them away. As you know, I've never blamed you for getting sick. Please tell me that you know that. I haven't been perfect, but I come home to you. I married you. But fuck, we have a rotting body laying in. She held her hand up to silence me.

And to be honest, at that very moment, I was grateful for it. I didn't have to look hard to see the scar across her knuckles. My heart wrenched at Carla, the poor lost soul that would never go home to her husband. My wife interrupted my thoughts. Saying that we'd get to that in a minute and it wasn't like the body would be going anywhere. She continued, saying that when she first got sick, that I would have given anything for a cure. She laughed about how she caught me with my proverbial pants down. She justified her actions by saying she was not leaving me because of it, and what's more.

She finally found a way to be healthy, as if murder had ever crossed my mind as a cure. Yeah, but how? How am I supposed to sleep at night, knowing I'm cuddling up to a murderer? How do I know you won't try to kill me if I piss you off one day? Her answer to this came easy. The same way she was supposed to go on. on sleeping with my arms around her knowing that they'd been around someone else. The man she'd married, the man who vowed to be beside her in sickness and health,

died the day I stuck it in someone else. She argued that, if anything, I started the killing first. Her voice came out in booms, and the infliction in her words made it difficult to argue. She had me there. Then she said that we're all capable of doing things that we never thought we would, and that the human body in mind is the ultimate mystery. Maggie stood up and walked over to our roll-top desk before opening the top-hand drawer. She turned around with the letter opener pressed firmly to the skin of her forearm, wincing once she'd pressed hard enough to draw blood. Oh my God, Maggie!

I shouted as I ran over to her. I understand that adultery is painful, but for her to kill herself over it, was uncalled for. I won't lie and say avoiding the possibility of having to call the police to report two dead bodies didn't cross my mind either. I knocked the letter opener out of her right hand, ripping my shirt off in order to stanch the bleeding. To my disbelief, there was none. The cut in her arm had sealed closed, without so much as a scratch left behind. It looked like she'd gotten a dab of red watercolors on her pale skin. It wiped away like it was nothing, leaving flawless flesh laying underneath.

She proclaimed that they gave her life. Life? Who? What the hell is going on here? I demanded my mind not able to absorb the events around me. She explained that the women that I put my love into, she finds them and takes it back. Their last breast contained all of the energy that she needed to heal. Little by little she had been getting her health back. She was so proud of the fact that she was able to get the other women alone,

using my phone to lure them to isolated locations. Then, why is that one here? I asked. She walked past me to the hallway before giving the suitcase a kick with the side of her foot. This one, she grimaced, kicking the suitcase again, much harder this time. She said that this one came here looking for me. and not to shit where I eat. And if she was going to sit home and play the fool, least I could have done was be discreet about our address.

She gloated about how surprised Carla was when she answered the door. By the time she saw her wedding photos and bolted for the door, Maggie already had the knife. My mind reeled at so much information at once. None of it made any sense. The feelings and emotions were all so multifaceted. What was I supposed to do? Call the police to turn in the woman I'd love for a crime

I'd ultimately be accused of in the long run. But how can I live with her after this? Adultery and murder are two different things. Maggie, I said softly. Baby, I am so sorry. None of this is okay. We've got to get this out of the house. It's not safe or healthy.

Many of being worried about the rotting life my wife stole away, affecting her air quality seemed so selfish and wrong. Please. I'm so sorry that I hurt you. I'm not dead, sweetheart. I'm right here. And I'll never disrespect you or be unfaithful again. I grabbed her in my arms and clutched the top of her head to my chest.

She shoved me away violently, as if revolted by the sensation of my touch. Her next words froze my blood. Oh, but you will, Peter. You will be unfaithful again. And you will do it soon. It's too late for the straight and narrow now. for both of us. You're going to make me feel good,

whether you want to or not. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. Invitation to the Dark Trails. You don't belong here. You must have realized by now. This world has no place for your kind. No magic or magic.

mystery, no roads that lead into the unknown, just endless social hierarchies, hollow structures, sucking you in, and yet with no real place for you, spending your life chasing made-up goals, hoping that if you work your hardest, you'll find your place and finally fit in a system that deep down, you wish to see burn. you know it, don't you? There's no place for you here. No matter how hard you try, you will always remain a stranger to this world.

Watching this grinding machine, never understanding what it's for and what your part is in it, but there's no point in weeping over it. Just to your best, and deal with the hand you are given. After all, this is the only world you've got. This is where you're wrong.

There are others, many others, worlds full of magic and wonders, with unknown lands shrouded by shadows and mist, where legends and mystery still rule. But they're far, far away, and there are no portals, no magic doors leading there. There are only pathways, ancient, crumbling, unmarked, dark, and full of danger, and long, so very long.

They touch this world, hidden by shadows, in places where eyes rarely look, where the ever-expanding network of cameras has not yet reached. But these places are getting fewer, and so are the places where the trails cross this world. The few that remain are hidden, fading. You will never find them. And even if you do, you will never be able to cross them, not by yourself.

If you wish to find the paths between worlds, you'll need a guide. You'll need an invitation. And to get one, you will need to give us your name, your true name. Here's the first problem. You don't know your true name. You don't even know what that means. Let me explain. It's not what people call you.

Your true name is a shape, a pattern that represents you that's unique to you, like a signature, but more than that. In a way, it is you, kind of like your face. Yet like the face of one who's never seen his reflection, you're blind to it. That's a problem Without your true name We will never find you So this is where you must start The good news

Is that you're drawn to it And can find it little by little Piece by piece Start by getting a pen Or a marker One that can write anywhere And just scribble Search your mind for patterns and shapes and write

Right everywhere on papers, on walls where no one's looking On doors, pools and boxes, in streets and alleys Create patterns and experiment Some will just feel right Collect those, combine them, mutate them, These patterns are the sacred pieces of your true name. Just writing, however, is not enough. One can never see his real shape just by looking inside.

Like your shape, your true name is reflected in the world. It's a fragmented and deformed reflection, as if the world was a twisted mirror, dirty and shattered into a million pieces. Each shard reflects something. A small piece. A view maybe. Maybe not. Search the world for patterns.

Look for shapes in lights and shadows on trees and bugs, humans and slugs, on stains and marks of decay. Look everywhere. Try to identify those patterns that seem important somehow. those you must try to imitate, to distill and use. Think of each pattern as a piece in a puzzle. Combine them and break them. It can take time. But if you keep observing, keep writing,

I promise you will get closer and closer. Writing on walls, satisfying as it might be, is not enough. Despite what you might think, we're not looking for you. No one is. We're just weary travelers passing this world on our way to some far destination.

If you want us to see your name, you must go where we pass to the rare places where the trails still intersect this world. These are not the safe. comfortable places where the crowds choose to go. No. These are dangerous, decaying places shrouded with shadows, protected from cameras and constantly gazing eyes.

Dark alleys, abandoned buildings, ruins, and tunnels. Places where the walls of this reality melt, and one can still pass unnoticed, appear and disappear without a trace. This is where you must write, and these are becoming rare. The lights in this world are growing, networks of cameras and eyes ever expanding, ever watching, leaving nothing unseen, soon nothing will be hidden, and the last trails will disconnect from this world, leaving it isolated, until the darkness rises once more.

But for now, Some places remain. To find them, you must go where a reasonable person will not. You will recognize these places through a sense of decay and desolation. Avoid places with cameras and watch flies. This is where reality solidifies into an unbreakable wall. You will find no passage there, have courage, curiosity, and most of all. all, patience.

The trails are rare, and those who travel them are few. Even if you leave your name near one of the intersections, it might take a long time before it's noticed. Scatter your writing in as many places as possible, and watch for other symbols and names that suggest others might have passed this way. At times you might feel you were being watched. You might notice other figures hidden in the shape. shadows that disappear when you get near.

Don't disturb them. Those who dwell in such places are often dangerous, and those who walk the trails even more. Once in a while you must go back to places where you wrote and observe if someone has left a mark next to yours. This is a sign. It means someone has noticed you and taken an interest. It might even be one of us. When this happens, you should return to the area frequently.

Scatter your marks in the environment and look for replies. But don't get your hopes up. False signs are common, and we are few and scattered across vast expanses. If you should not cease searching, maybe one day in one of these forsaken places, We shall meet. We will not run or hide. Rather we will approach slowly, cautiously, with gestures of peace. Yet keeping a fair distance, never letting our guard down,

as all approaches must be in places like these. Then we will talk, exchanging stories of the places we have been and the marks we have left. and we shall recognize each other by the names we wrote on so many walls. This is not the end. This is where it begins. I wish I could tell you more about the journey and the dangers you'll face, about the trails and the worlds they lead to, about the others who walk the trails,

about us, that this is all I can share. Too many will hear. this. Too many who shouldn't know if you ever find us, we will tell you all you need to know. And if not, it will do you no good anyway. There are two more pieces of advice I can spare. First is to beware. We are not the only ones who travel between worlds. Beware of the others, of the skins they wear and the games they play. Beware the deceivers who prey on despair. Let them, and they will consume you from within

until nothing remains but an empty shell. There are many others on the edges of trails, lost, broken, mad, all dangerous in their own way. Where we walk is never safe. Watch yourself. The second piece of advice is to be persistent. This can take time, a long, time, years, decades, a lifetime. But know that all of this might not be enough, that you might waste your life waiting for an invitation that will never arrive.

Know that the little that this world throws your way might be all you ever get. make the best of it. But if you never stop searching, never cease exploring, if your courage will not fail and your mind will not break, if you survive, and if you are lucky, very lucky, then our ways will cross. One of us will see your mark and recognize it for what it is. And after all is done,

we will invite you to join us in our travels. Then your time in this world will be over and your journey will begin. 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 common 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 stories author.