Creepy - Never Ignore the Gifts Of Crows & A Pocket Full of String

Episode Date: January 11, 2024

Never Ignore the Gifts Of Crows***Written by: Quincy Lee and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Content Warning: Implied harm to a child***A Pocket Full of String***Written by: Joshua Bryant and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Content Warning: Implied rape, gore, sexual language***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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Never ignore the gift of crows.

Written by Quincy Lee and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. Recently, I saw a viral post about crows leaving gifts for people, and it reminded me of something that happened when I was a kid. No one believed me then, but after seeing that viral story, maybe someone will now. When I was young, my friend Madison taught me all about crows. She used to leave peanuts and table scraps on her windowsill for them each morning, and when we met up to walk to the bus stop,

the birds would sometimes follow her, cawing. She had names for all of them. but her favorite was the one she called Agatha, a small hunched bird like a scrap of a shadow with tattered tail feathers. Every morning, Agatha and the others would cawere outside Madison's window until she set out food, and sometimes when she got back from school, she'd found they'd left her things in return.

Soda can tabs, pebbles, bits of foil, acorns. It's treasure to them. She told me. They love shiny things. See how this blue button sparkles? Or the time they left a metal bottle cap. I laughed and said it was garbage

and was going to toss it out, but Madison told me. Never ignore the gifts of crows. She took the bottle cap. and all the other things, and wrapped wire around each object to make a sort of charm bracelet, which she wore everywhere. Other kids teased her, but I always thought it was sweet how she had such a bond with the birds. Then, one day, she disappeared.

People looked everywhere. She'd walked down the lane to the bus stop alone and never arrived at school. I was sick that week with the flu. People canvass the neighborhood. I still remember how the police came by and asked my parents' questions, asked about the neighbors, and my parents briefly called me out so they could talk with me about the route Madison and I took to the bus stop.

That was when I learned she was missing. I don't remember much about their questions. I just sat there, bundled up in a blanket and occasionally coughing, stunned and feeling like it must all be some terrible joke, and any moment now Madison would be at my window, knocking and asking me to play. The police advised my parents to not allow me to walk alone to the bus stop anymore. I heard a caw and glanced at the window.

A crow was perched in a tree outside. Will they find her? I asked my mom, even though I knew she had no answer. No one did. The days passed, and there was no trace of Madison, and on Monday my mom drove me to school. It seemed I would no longer be taking the bus. I convinced my mom to get some almonds, and I snuck over a small fence and up to Madison's window,

and put the almonds on the sill because I figured she'd want me to feed the crows while she was gone. I still kept hoping for her, though, with each day that hope died a little more. I felt so incredibly sad. For the crows, for Madison. About a week after her disappearance, I found a penny and an acorn there on the sill. I tucked them into my pocket. Caw. A ragged blackbird perched on the fence watching me.

Its beak opened, and it cawed again. Sorry she isn't here to feed you. Caugh. I'll try to feed you when I can. The bird's head cocked. One shiny black eye regarding me. And then it suddenly flew away. The next morning, there were no new gifts.

But the crow with ragged tail feathers was there. The bird got incredibly close, seeming to try to look me right in the eye. I heard Madison's voice in my head, all those crow facts she used to spout. They're so much smarter than people realize. They can remember human faces, and they gossip if there's a bad human,

and they'll all warn each other. Suddenly, a shiver ran down my spine, an idea needling its way into my brain, and I asked the crow. Do you know what happened to Madison? The crow's head turned. Madison? I repeated.

Crows could learn words. They were good mimics. I'd never heard any of Madison's crows talk, but they watched her all the time and heard me and others call her name. Madison. I said again. The bird suddenly flew away from me, only to perch in the branches of a tree and caw.

My heart pounded. The crow was leading me someplace. It was a cold, damp November day. The clouds hung low and heavy in the sky. Mom would worry if I was gone too long, but I didn't care. I hurried over the wet leaves and into the woods. Nothing mattered except finding Madison, whether she was alive or... I didn't want to think about it, but it had been a week by that point.

The crow with the raggedy tail feathers flew off every time I neared its perch, drawing me gradually into the dark woods. Tree branches blotted out the sun, and I noticed more birds perched like black leaves on skeletal fingers. I stopped when the crow I was following landed on the roof of a house. It was a beaten-down old house surrounded by junk, tires, and the wasted remnants of what might have once been a vegetable garden. The posts holding up the front porch roof were splintering. The stairs to the front door bowed and the paint on the door was peeling. A pickup truck sat in the gravel driveway that wove through the trees toward the paved street somewhere beyond.

I knew this house. Or should I say I knew of it. It belonged to a man. named Crandall, but Madison and I called him the staring man, because apparently Madison had caught him staring at her once or twice when she had walked past his property. It was because of her remarks about this that my parents and hers made us walk to the bus stop together. But we didn't really know much about him, other than that he was a recluse and looked like he was in his 30s. As far as anyone knew, he was a law-abiding citizen, and he had no criminal record.

I didn't like him, but the police must have already questioned him and found him. nothing, because I saw smoke drifting from his chimney. Caw. The bird eyed me. Its compatriots, perched in the trees around us, also looked down at me. I felt certain they had led me here. But there was nothing I could do on my own, so I rushed back home and burst through the front door and announced my parents that I knew who'd taken Madison.

They contacted the police, but when I told the cops about the crows leading me to Crandall's house, they burst out laughing at me. Kid, they probably just wanted you to feed them, said the cop, who seemed to be in charge. He assured me that Crandall's property had been thoroughly searched. My parents apologized for wasting their time, and after I retreated to my room, I heard them all speaking in hush voices about how kids worked through this stuff in their own ways. There was only one thing left to do. I had to go find Madison myself.

The next day was a Saturday, and my parents usually slept in on weekends, meaning I'd have at least a few. few hours before they'd come searching for me. I got up early and slipped on my shoes and coat and went out. The faint red and pink of dawn spread through the sky as the sun rose behind the trees. As usual, I brought some food for the crows. I even tried to make a necklace of their gifts to me, though I wasn't as artistic as Madison. I saw several crows in her yard waiting for me. I told them good morning and scattered peanuts for them

and said Madison's name several times loudly. Then I crossed the yard and went into the woods, taking the route the crows had shown me before. Crandall's house was a good hike away, and it took some time before I at last arrived in the right area. As soon as I saw the dilapidated beige siding, I slowed, suddenly very aware, how loud my crunching steps were through the fallen leaves.

A few crows watched me. I didn't even know if these were Madison's crows or different ones. The woods were full of them this time of year. I didn't see the ragged tail feathers of the furthest of the furthest of the only one that I could recognize, the one Madison called Agatha. But even if they were different crows, it still made me feel better to have them around, and I touched the necklace for good luck. Carefully keeping one eye on the door to the house, in case the staring man should step out, I began to search.

Caw. I looked up, disheveled tail feathers. As hunched as ever, Agatha watched me from a branch, cawed, and took off. My heart raced. I followed the bird. We ventured deeper into the woods around the house, and finally it perched on an old fallen lion. log. The soil nearby had been disturbed I could see even with the leaves all over. And the crow was pecking at something. A faint spark of light. A soda tab, I realized. A soda tab with a bit of

wire looped through it. The blood pounded in my ears so hard it was like a roar, a rushing waterfall cascading through my veins. I could hear nothing but that sledge hammer of my heartbeat, ringing through my ears like a gong as I reached toward a shaking hand and pulled from the leaves Madison's charm bracelet. Then I squatted and began to dig through the soil with the crow perched just above me on the dead tree watching me. Sudden cawing both. behind me, all around me, a series of short, sharp cause. Cah, cah, cah, cah! The crow on the log, Agatha, opened her beak to cack at me, and fluttered away.

Hey! I slammed into my veins at the sound of the deep voice. I jumped, whirling around, and a rough hand. grabbed me. The staring man. His eyes were hard, glittering, bluer than the sky. They might have been pretty eyes

if they hadn't been so cold in his stabbled red face. He demanded to know what I was doing on his property, hoisting me by the front of my shirt. Help! I screamed. Hell! His gloved hand clapped over my mouth.

I fought and squirmed, but it was no good. He dragged me back the way I'd come, toward the sacking front porch of his house. Ka! Kha! Kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha, kha! He yelled to shut the fuck up. At first, I thought he was yelling at me, and then I realized he was yelling at the crows. We were nearly at his front door

when a very loud caw sounded nearby, and the man swore as a flutter swept overhead. His grip on me loosened, then released as he stumbled back to swat at something that flew right into his face. I scrambled and ran. Behind me, the man lunged, for me. But the crows were darting in and out, dive-bombing him, and he tripped.

I bolted all the way home. I got lost on the way, and for a little while I was wandering the woods. Finally, I made it to my house and burst in screaming at Mom and Dad to call the police. When I told the cops about the bracelet, they asked me to show them where. But the woods all looked the same to me when I led them back to Crandall's house. Without the crows, I couldn't find it. We searched all over. No bracelet. The officers seemed to think I was making the whole thing up.

They did interrogate Crandall. He admitted he found me on. on his property, digging through the leaves, and said he'd grabbed me and tried to bring me home. He also added that I was a nuisance, and that he wanted a restraining order to keep me and other kids off his land. From the trees above, the crows watched, and they watched as my parents took me home. I locked myself in my room and cried into my pillow all night because nobody believed me, which meant Madison's disappearance would forever remain unsolved. To this day, her disappearance is a cold case. I never recovered the bracelet. Either it's still lost in the leaves or Crandall disposed of it.

I know that's not a happy ending. Like I mentioned at the beginning, no one believed me back then about the crows. Madison was right, though, about their gifts. The birds don't bring trash. They are very judicious in the gifts they select. And I know this, because a couple days after the incident with Crandall, I was sitting outside, crying inconsolably, and the crows brought me a gift to make me feel better.

Caw. I wiped the tears from my eyes and saw, through my blurry vision, that they left something on Madison's window sill. As I stumbled nearer, it at first looked like they'd left me a pair of misshapen marble. Each mostly white, with a splotch of blue bright as the sky. Long red tails dangled from the gloopy things, and as I drew closer, I gasped. Eyes. Human eyes. I flushed them down the toilet, so the birds would not be caught or blamed.

Since then, I keep them. every one of their gifts. Each precious charm worn around my neck like a blessing. Creepy presents a pocket full of string written by Joshua Bryant and narrated by Megan McDuffie. I don't remember how or where I first became aware of the commune. It had to have been some sort of advertisement. That makes sense. I I guess. Nothing makes sense anymore. All I can do is guess. So, an advertisement led me there. It led me and three others. Joseph, Carl, Paula, and... And me. We don't want it to get away from the state of the country. The president, you know, some crisis or another. A cold war, though I can't

remember against whom or why. I can't even recall just why we were dissatisfied. We thought thought it was a big deal, big enough to seek out a commune, a form of living that operated differently, one that catered to the will of everybody equally, one where everything was shared. Shared. Yes, that is the word. Food, labor, decisions, property, all things shared. The clearest memory of that time is the arrival. We came in lemons and rust buckets and second-hand beaters that needed an oil change a thousand miles ago, we stank like pot and crack and cum. We drove down long stretches of highway that extended beyond sight

and into interminable darkness. Pine trees clustered everywhere, tight as crowded teeth. We pulled off the highway and onto a dirt road. It was the kind of road that pummeled the ever-living shit out of you. When we finally arrived at our destination, we saw that there was only one building. we'd thought there would be many. There was only one man waiting for us.

He was not dressed in white robes, and he was not the gentle sage we had postulated he would be. He'd dressed like a Wall Street rat bastard. Black suit, red tie, polished shoes, fluorescent smile, no eyes visible behind a pair of aviators. Mr. Fiddleback. The single building was really more of a long tin cylinder, her, roughly the same size as a double-wide trailer, strange yet futuristic, and therefore tantalizing.

Paula thought it looked like a dick, and this made her uncomfortable. Joseph thought something similar. It wasn't even set up in a clearing. The trees were so close they might have been passengers, packed sardine tight into a subway car. Night animals suffocated us in their heedless clamor. We kept bumping elbows as we struggled to walk through the foliage and get to where Mr. Fiddleback was beckoning us. Once there, he shook all of our hands, asked our names, or professions, or lack thereof, and why. Then he guided us to a campfire that crackled and spat a few yards in front of the shining silver cylinder. He told us to sit. We did. He prepared for us MREs and gave us plastic utensils to eat with.

All that is remembered is that it tastes like cat food or puke. In the uncertain light, we scrutinized one another's appearance. Carl had shown up in a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, spiderweb veins glowed on his throat, birth control glasses and a receding hairline, a lisp. Paula was wearing a huge t-shirt, trying to conceal the protruding stomach she thought would have disappeared after her miscarriage. She had a butterfly knife in her panties. Joseph was tall and well-groomed, military style, though he had dipped the draft, camouflage pants in a red beret, dime bag,

lighter and spoon stuffed into one of his ten thousand pockets. And me, I... I... I can't remember what I looked like. His face bathed in the flickering scarlet-orange glow, still smiling. Mr. Fiddleback asked us a question. Could you depend upon one another indefinitely? We didn't know.

Obviously, we were strangers. You can't depend on a stranger. But that's what a commie. is, yes, Mr. Fiddleback asked. We all wanted to leave at that point. Mr. Fiddleback raised his hands, palms displayed, motioning us to resume our seats. He lapsed into silence, but watched us, invisible eyes crawling on spider legs about our skin. Paula made a pathetic sound, and her bag of food plopped into the dirt, steaming corn and mashed

potatoes puddled out. We watched it. Joseph tried to stand. Carl tried to move his hands. It is unclear if the food was drugged or if there was a smell in the air or even a hypnotic sound. Regardless of the cause,

we were all suddenly paralyzed. Paula's whimpering became sobs. Joseph began foaming at the mouth. I did something. Carl was eating his lips, blood running through stubble along his chin, beating and trembling and falling across his sweatshirt.

spatters. Mr. Fiddleback stood up and walked into the campfire. It hissed out beneath his feet, like a lamp being switched off. All that was left were patches of starlight that had been filtered through the rugged canopy above. Mr. Fiddleback clapped his hands and said, "'Togetherness is what you wanted. Togetherness is what you shall receive. Take each other's hands. We did. Now, I want you to know I am by no means a torturer. I have no desire to see you agonize for no reason. I merely wish to see. Our hands formed a ring around the man, or whatever the hell he was. It looked like a ritual. Maybe that's what it was. Maybe not. A low rumbling made dust rise from the ground. A chemical scent permeated the air.

The trees around us trembled, showering us with needles. The cylinder was rising from the ground, though no form of propulsion was visible, it rose quickly and moved until it was directly above us. There it lingered, and it could have been a vulva rather than a dick, or just a pool of light that illuminated nothing. We all looked up at it. The light was dispersing all around us, as if it had passed through a prism that was not there, and it burned. Our hands, linked finger by finger, were being welded together. There was the sound and stink of singing flesh. We screamed for the first time.

There was a push and a pull, simultaneous and opposing. We were torn together. All became physical pain. Unimaginable. The kind that renders one unconscious. But we were not one. Not any longer. So respite did not save us.

It was during this time of initial transformation that Mr. Fiddleback must have. have buried us, or perhaps the cylinder did. None of us was aware, but it was the only logically conceivable that it could have happened, when nothing was logically conceivable beyond suffering. Skin and muscle came first, leaping into one another. White blood cells from Paula immediately reacted, attacking red blood cells from Carl. I tasted fluids that were not my own. Somebody's plasma surged into Joseph's eyes, and he became blind. There was a consensus. between the four of us. Repulsion. Then organs began, entwining, not in the correct order,

for what order can there be when four things that were not meant to be converged were in the process of converging? Hearts beat out of rhythm with one another, pushing blood up veins that were not of the same blood type, intestines tried to digest kidneys, tongues tasted still living livers, and even when things ceased mixing, when all was settled where it would permanently be fixed, there was no calm. Four separate immune systems rejected the foreign organs. It was an all-out war on a microscopic scale. This became the first era. We were not aware of time, but it was agony that stretched and stretched.

Years must have passed, but there was never a moment when things eased up. we screamed and begged to varying degrees of coherency. It felt like an eternity. But like all things physical, humans can adapt to it. We can become numb, desensitized. We can forget what physical normalcy is when it is supplanted with torment. Eventually, we grew used to the perpetual pain. We finally had time to think.

We tried to remember things all at once, or perhaps the memories just. flooded out into each of us. I'm not sure at all. I can't, even now, can't put it into a proper order, can't even comprehend order. A first kiss, uncoordinated child lips meeting above hearts thrum thrum-thrum-thrumming, but it hurts. It is happening at the same time that we are being attacked from behind, pants down, raw pain, it hurts. The couch with a mother, laying on it under heaps of quilts, beads of blood, flecking parched lips. She is dead.

She's speaking in a man's voice, telling jokes about a grandfather dropping his wallet into an outhouse hole. He's not going down there just for a quarter. We're at a rally, signs above our heads, tear gas streaking the night air like falling comets. But everyone around has the baby-fat face of a childhood bully. He's chanting something that none of us can understand. It was all confusion Cats throttled in dog jaws Birthday candles being blown out again and again and again

Horrid drug trips and sweaty animal grunting Confusion It realized itself as a universe of skin Not one skin but a thousand skins grafted together cell by cell Galaxies of multicolored flesh We all went mad another era. Finally there came stillness.

It was vacuous rather than serene. Somewhere, Paula was still sobbing. Joseph was still foaming at the mouth. Carl still eating his lips. But his lips were my lips, and it fucking hurt like a son of a bitch. It was during this lack of motion that I came to a realization. It wasn't as simple as I make it seem now.

It was like finding puzzle pieces in the rubble left after and atomic bomb was detonated. Puzzle pieces I had to put together after losing them again and... Wait. I get lost sometimes. There was a word I clung to, a concept that helped me. Murder one man and it is a tragedy. Murder them all and it is...

It is... Subjugation. That's it. Jigsaw puzzle put together. Subjugation. Someone needs to... to call the shots, otherwise there's only discord. A house can't stand on leaning beams. A foundation needs to be laid. Laid by force. A natural chorus of action and ecology. A smothering of desires,

leading to an outcome wherein all may function in unison. So, in this universe of skin, I floated. I followed first the sobs of Paula. It wasn't difficult. She'd never learned to keep her fucking mouth shut, even after her mother had screamed it at her so often. She was hiding under a hospital bed, still in the big t-shirt. A huge, bloody fetus was on its hands and knees peering in at her. She was holding the butterfly knife to her own throat, but the blade wasn't sharp. She had spent a whole night dulling it. She had been scared she would accidentally cut herself. Save me. She was muttering, save me, save me, save me. What a lie.

She didn't want to be saved. I knew because I knew everything she wanted. She didn't want to be saved any more than she wanted to be victimized. She had gotten pregnant because she wanted to pummel her stomach until she miscarried, but she didn't want to be fat. Eventually, I moved down upon the scene like a dust moat. I landed on the back of the fetus, and I told it to subjugate its mother. Easy peasy.

It reached out and twisted Paula's head. head off. Paula hadn't wanted that either. A collapse ensued. Fetus, hospital bed, butterfly knife, and Paula all flattened and we were sucked inward, a consumption that left us emptier. I drifted away from this newborn void, following a path of white bubbles, bubbles that looked like perfect little globes, sheaning in light without a source, or a multitude of them. It was in one of these bubbles, one of gigantic proportions that I found Joseph. He was sitting cross-legged and naked, sun-tanned skin, frosted with the foam that burbled from his mouth. He was like a like a crab spitting bubbles out in an effort to defend itself. He had always been obsessed with

defending himself, and by proxy had always been seeking things to defend himself from. Started with other children in school. He bloodied a few noses, blackened a few eyes, learned how easy violence is to achieve. Then he fell upon his family, followed eventually by the government. His life, a never-ending chase for things that would chase him. A constant escape, even from reality. A fragile existence. As fragile as a bubble. I reached out with a finger and... No more Joseph. Another collapse, another consumption. Two subjugated. One to go. I had a harder time finding Carl. He had never been very conspicuous, and he had stopped chewing our lips at that point, or perhaps I had merely grown accustomed to it. Over light years of skin I traveled, mole clusters like constellations, pores like craters, I drifted thoughtlessly, a speck in transit.

Sometimes there were inclinations or impressions or of half-remembered things, places or people. fabrications, perhaps. I felt nothing for them. There was only the knowledge that I should feel something, but I couldn't tell you why. I stumbled upon Carl by accident. It was in a tremendous mountain range of upraised flesh that he had sequestered himself. I floated amongst the suity peaks when I saw something quite out of place. It was a couch. Of course, it too was composed of skin, but unlike the rest of that wretched mind-scape, it had a pair of eyes, a set of teeth. It blinked with extreme lethargy, spider-web veins wriggled along its hairy cushions. This was Carl. They drew close to him. He did not notice me. He was waiting for something tangible to come along so he could beg for it to sit on him.

Then he would scream, his tongue licking whatever it would be by way of payment, he would savor the taste forever. I looked for a long while at him, contemplating how exactly I would rub him out. There was no huge fetus to do my dirty work, and he seemed sturdier than a bubble. Yet, he was at the upper-most peak of a very tall mountain. I moved behind him, and all it took was one good shove. Over the side, Carl went. I watched his descent. He turned end over end a couple of times before hitting a crag of skin. There was no frame or white stuffing inside him, though. So when he burst, it was red and hot and sticky. He screamed and bounced once more off the mountainside into thin air. Guts and bile whirled freely from his lacerated cushions. An eyeball had shot from its socket and

tumbled a different direction. A long time later, he hit the bottom. From as high up as I was, Carl looked like the tiniest reddest splatter of bird shit. The third collapse, the third subjugation, and another era ended. Quiet, not even the sound of breath. No pulse, infinite miles of utter quiet. I sought myself. From one end of the universe to the other, I looked in every pit under every wrinkle,

I called for me. I did not answer. I tried to remember, but only got as far as the night in the forest so long ago. Where were my traumas? My petty and warped obsessions? My fetus, my bubbles, my couch. Where, God? Where? Where? Where was I? Nowhere. Not in sight, not in walking distance. So far away, I'd never reach it. I was gone. There wasn't even the vaguest notion that there ever was a me. No distant memory, no dream sequence just out of reach. It was as if I had never existed at all. Then there was a crest of light. So bright, it hurt. It hurt all the worst because it assaulted four different pairs of eyes. The light went from silver to a half-circle to a full moon.

It was porcelain white. I saw it from so many different angles. It took me hours to understand what it was exactly. It was the smiling face of Mr. Fiddleback staring down at me. I saw his mouth move, heard a gibbering warble. Again, from eight different pairs of ears, words are difficult to make sense of, but eventually I comprehended him. Together.

Together, at last, he said. I tried to answer, but all I managed was a plaintive moan. He laughed and hoisted our tremendous body out of the hole. he asked a question. The ordeal is over. What do you want now? It took me so long to get the words out. It was like learning to speak again.

He listened, nodded, each time I got out a word that was not just useless gibbering. When I had finally finished, he stood up, smiled, and shook his head. Mr. Fidelbeck left us there, left us here. movement was impossible arms can't move when vertebrae stud them like crucifixion nails legs can't stand with skulls and teeth and fingers crippling them from the inside out all i can do day after day year after year we speak at the forest and hope someone out there is listening and to that someone i repeat what it was i said to mr fiddleback please help me Find me in here. Untangle me from them. I don't want to be us anymore. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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