Creepy - No Biting & The Road to Grandma's House

Episode Date: May 15, 2025

No Biting***Written by: C.J. Dotson and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***The Road to Grandma's House***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***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.

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

Written by C.J. Dotson. And narrated by Alicia Atkins. Her attention entirely captured by the late lunch, she was finally settling down to eat. Helen didn't quite catch when her husband interrupted, except that his voice held a note of complaint. Mouthful, she glanced up at Jim and tilted her head inquiringly. He huffed a little. and pointed at the floor near the two doors leading, respectively, to the Blue Bird Lake Lodge's third floor hallway

and their hotel room's bathroom. Taking another bite of her sandwich, the top of the bread just turning stale after being left on the table for an hour, Helen followed his finger with her gaze and tried to stifle a surge of irritation when Jim asked her if she could see the wet spot on the floor if she was going to do something about it.

Now that she knew what to look for, of course she saw it. The spill or stain, dark on the cheap carpet, was bigger than Helen would have expected. She turned back to Jim, where he sat on one of the two beds in their room. His phone momentarily forgotten in his lap, watching her eat her lunch an hour after everyone else had been served theirs and thought, You could clean it? She didn't say it. She didn't want to bicker with him.

Not at all, but especially not on the first day of their family vacation. The girls had settled down to play pretend, using three of the four individually wrapped paper coffee cups that came with the room to hold a tea party between themselves and an imaginary friend. With April's toddler fussiness and Judy's five-year-old restlessness mitigated for now, Helen probably wouldn't get another chance to eat in peace and quiet until after their bedtime, which being the first day of vacation and the girl's first time in a hotel room, was sure to be prolonged and disastrous. Helen took another bite, albeit smaller, bite of cheap white bread and mayo and two salty lunch meat, the only quick lunch options that have been available at the small general store situated near the entrance of the campground the lodge reigned over. Around the small mouthful, she said, I'll clean it when I'm done eating. At the word eating, April looked up at her mother with a smile. Helen smiled back at her little girl and swallowed.

the chewed sandwich somehow both too dry and too sticky. April glanced back at the game she had been playing with her sister, both girls pretending for a moment to listen to the empty air near the third cup. But when Helen took another bite of her sandwich, the awful radar that alerts a child whenever her parents is carving out a moment of peace must have been activated, because April turned right back to Helen and pushed herself to her feet. April greeted Helen with a smile widening.

Hi, baby. April drew a breath as if to speak, but Jim cut in instead, muttering just a little too loudly for it to count as talking to himself, worrying whether the hotel might add an exorbitant cleaning fee to their bill if they left the stain. Even as he groused, he'd gone back to his phone, looking up the hours of local attractions, planning their itinerary for the following day. Again, Helen almost suggested Jim just handle it, but she made herself pause. She supposed an argument could be made that planning for tomorrow, especially with the kids so young, was more interrupted than one interrupted lunch. April called for her mommy.

Not now, sweetheart, Helen said. She dropped her sandwich onto her paper plate and stood. April snapped her teeth. Helen crossed the small room, sidestepping the wet spot, from this close it clearly smelled of apple juice, and entered the small too brightly lit bathroom. room. A stack of undersized, scratchy white towels adorned a small shelf above the toilet. From the main room came the sound of bedsprings creaking, and a moment later the loud rasp of the biggest suitcases zipper. If Jim had been so nearly finished with his schedule, why hadn't he just cleaned the juice? Shuffling and rummaging noises followed,

growing louder and shortly joined by Jim's voice, muttering a soft litany, the specifics of which Helen couldn't make out and couldn't bring herself to give much of a shit about. Helen grabbed two hand towels from the top of the stack and turned to the sink to wet one. In the corner of her eye, a figure shifted. She jumped, whirling, and then let out a short laugh. You scared, Mommy!

Helen said, grinning. I didn't expect to see you right there. April stood in the very center of the doorway, Judy crowding close behind her. The girls stood so still and quiet that if they hadn't both been smiling, Helen would think that they were having some kind of problem. Each one held her empty paper cup loosely in one hand. Neither of them answered their mother or even giggled over having startled her. From somewhere behind the kids, Jim let out a not entirely soft curse, and the sounds of rummaging

grew louder and became the sounds of dumping out the entire suitcase. The girls didn't even glance over their shoulders at their father. Well, whatever Jim was getting worked up over could wait. The wet spot on the floor needed to be taken care of, after all, and that was what Helen was going to do. The cold water handle lit out a grating squeak when Helen turned it, and she winced. She wetted one of the towels and wrung it out until it was damp, but not dripping. A small hand touched her knee. How had the kids moved so quietly? Helen glanced down to find both girls crowding her, but not so closely that their bodies brushed her legs. Only April's little hand above Helen's knees palm flat and finger spread. A spike of unease started in the pit

of her belly and lanced up her spine. All right, girls, let Mommy clean, Helen said. April gently squeezed the flesh of her mother's leg and smiled wider, and Helen took a sharp step back, struck by an abrupt and visceral fear that suddenly made her remember, really remember, what childhood felt like, particularly at night after the lights were out, and the sound of her parents' voices elsewhere in the house had faded away. The girls closed in on her again. Move, kiddos.

The well-worn phrase stuck in Helen's mouth, in her throat as it tightened around the words, making her voice weak and quivering and hard to hear over the sudden rush of her heartbeat. An unsteady breath failed to calm the coiling in her gut, and it was all completely uncalled for. After all, children never let their mothers have peace in the bathroom. There were memes about it for heaven's sake.

It wasn't something they act up about. Jim's sharp voice from the main room asked if she had seen his deodorant. Helen jumped, eyes snapping to the doorway for a moment. Her husband's abrupt call, not quite a shout, but louder than necessary in the small space of the lodge room broke the rising tension, but with an electric rush of startled adrenaline rather than any sense of relief. And when she glanced back down at the girls, their eyes fixed on hers, their smiles showing their gleaming little white teeth. The anxiety began to bubble right back up again. Helen brushed past the children. She ruffled

Judy's hair, but the affectionate gesture didn't come naturally. She had to force it. The top of Judy's small head turned under Helen's palm as the girls rotated together, tracking Helen's movements. Helen took care not to snatch her hand away as she might from a dog that had suddenly ground. As she stepped out of the bathroom, she said, I don't know where you deodorant is. Have you checked? She couldn't even finish the sentence before Jim insisted that he had checked everywhere. With the light in the bathroom on now, casting its unflattering white glow out through the doorway, the apple juice spill looked all the more stark, as if a spotlight shone on it, except where Helen cast a shadow.

A shadow that shrank as she crouched and scrubbed at the mess with the damp towel. Did you throw it in my bag accidentally? She asked, looking over her shoulder at Jim. He shook his head now. Did you look? He ran his fingers through his hair, an aggravated tell of his, and turned away with a snort, as if he couldn't dignify the question with a actual answer. Helen found her own frustration mounting. She hated when Jim got like this, especially when she hadn't even been nagging or pestering him. Well, two could play at this game.

Helen turned back to cleaning the spill, ignoring her husband's attitude. Two shadows had joined Helens on the floor, her daughter's coming up behind her, flanking her. Not right now, girls, Helen said, the skin on the back of her neck and up her scalp tingling. Whatever game they were playing, she didn't want to overreact to it. Not just so she wouldn't ruin it for them. They were, at least being quiet after all, but also because she didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they were unsettling her. If they figured it out, scary mommy games would become a new favorite.

Nothing else, no other motivation. certainly not because she was afraid if she reacted they... What? Pounce? That's exactly what they did. Without sound, without a warning, both girls lunged at her. I said not an... Ouch! Small teeth closed over Helen's right shoulder,

just next to the strap of her tank top. April's warm little body leaned hard on Helen's arm, chubby toddler arms wrapping around her. April! No biting! Helen shouted. She dropped the towel and lifted her left hand to pry her daughter's mouth off of her, but another sharp pain lands through her thumb. Helen yelled, yanking her hand away from Judy's mouth. Judy's teeth scraped down Helen's thumb as she pulled it out.

Before Helen could be relieved that the bite hadn't broken the skin, April bit down harder. Helen heaved herself to her feet, shaking her toddler off as she stood. April came free from Helen's shoulder with a slurp. She tumbled onto her butt with the force of her mother's withdrawal, but did not let out a whimper or fuss, only looked up at Helen with a red dripping smile, slowly getting her little legs under her without standing yet, keeping as still as she could, but tensing all over.

Blood ran down Helen's arm and her thumb throbbed. Her heart raced, not just fast, but unsteady, and when she sucked in a breath to reprimand her girls, it came in with a shudder. That's it! She snapped, aiming for stern but failing. Her voice sounded high and tight, frightened. Time out! April leaped again, hands outstretched, mouth wide.

Helen sidestepped with a gasp. Her hip swiped Judy. Christ! Helen yelled. Judy had jumped too. Helen's dodge bowled the five-year-old over, an accident Helen would have apologized for under any other circumstance. In a flash, both girls refocused and darted in at Helen again. April wrapped her whole body around Helen's lower leg and sank her teeth into her calf.

Judy jumped up and grabbed Helen's elbow, trying to pull her down. Get off me! Jim's distracted, irritable voice cut through the chaos, insisting the girls stop ignoring their mother so she could help him find his deodorant. Incredulous, Helen spun to find her husband turned away, still unzipping suitcase pockets he'd already checked, probably more than once. With a surge of anger, Helen realized he was completely oblivious to the girl's behavior. Through clenched teeth, she said, Jim, I need!

April took a mouthful of flesh from her mother's leg. Helen started to scream, but bit down on her tongue, hard enough to taste blood herself and kept the sound inside. All the while, Jim just kept bitching about his missing deodorant, but the bullshit implication that this was somehow Helen's fault fell flat, inconsequential in the face of bright pain and cold terror and desperate, heartbreaking betrayal. Her babies! Why would they do this? Helen shook her arm, hard, freeing her. herself of Judy's weight and sending a thin patter of blood dripping in a delicate arc on the carpet. Twisting at the hip, she grabbed her older daughter by the upper arms and lifted her right

off her feet. Judy twisted and kicked. She gnashed and snapped her teeth, neck straining as she tried to reach her mother's hand with her mouth. Helen heaved and threw Judy, but she couldn't help herself. She aimed for one of the two beds. Frustration rough and roughen. Jim's tone as he scolded Helen, something about horsing around with the kids while he needed a hand. Did he think she was just ignoring him? April swallowed her mouthful with a gulp, and Helen bent fast, cupping a hand under April's chin and one around her wrist before the little girl could bite again. She unwound her daughter from her leg and lifted the toddler at arm's length, facing her

outward, quickly as she could while reeling, while carrying a child struggling harder than tantrum, Helen hauled April to the little bathroom. Judy's feet tapped a soft, fast pattern on the cheap carpet as she followed. Helen turned in time to see Judy run from the wet patch on the carpet onto the tile floor of the bathroom, and her gut twisted up with the need to shout a warning. Helen kept the caution behind her lips, and, of course, Judy slipped on the tiles and spilled over backwards. Helen winced as her daughter's head knocked on the floor. but the way Judy didn't cry out, just kept smiling, stunned perhaps, but not a bit shaken.

The strangeness of it made Helen's eyes sting. Still, she set April in the dry tub and dodged around her sprawling daughter's grasping hands, darting out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind her. A door which locked, of course, from the inside. So Helen kept a grip on the handle and pulled, holding the door shut as a furious rouse. racket began within. Pounding, pulling on the door. Screaming. No, not screaming.

Snarling. And the only recognizable word in it, repeated, fast, slurred together. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. She barely made out Jim's voice, asking her if she'd heard him. What? Helen gasped. The fear ebbed and in its place heartbreak grew, swirling and sucking in her chest. How could her daughters do this to her?

What were her babies doing? In the clear tone of someone who didn't want to have to repeat himself, Jim asked her if she was going to the camp store to get him a replacement stick of deodorant. The pounding on the door slowed and abated. The rushing, overlapping, babbling shouts of mommy grew quieter. Are you serious? Helen began, but Jim cut her off. His complaints rapidly becoming a time.

high raid. He'd driven for hours a day. He needed to rest. He's been under so much pressure. He needed this vacation to be relaxing. All she had to do was go down to that store by the campground entrance and get him some deodorant. Jim paused then, eyeing the closed door. His tone fell on the wrong side of the line between understanding and condescending, when he added that he wasn't sure locking the kids in the bathroom was the best way to get alone time. Helen gaped at him, unable to even formulate a response, and he took the opportunity her stunned silence presented to add that getting his deodorant would give her a break from the girls for a few minutes, at least, and when she got back, she could always just make a new sandwich. sandwich? The fear and grief finally crystallized into fury.

But before Helen could rip into her husband, before she could let loose the kind of pent-up feelings that would explode out of her control, abrupt and utter silence fell on the other side of the door she still held closed. From inside the bathroom, a small voice said, as if sounding out the word, as if probing around the edges of it to see how it felt.

Daddy? The handle gave one last jerk in Helen's sweat and blood-slicked fingers, then fell still. Cautiously, she loosened her grip. Fine, she told her husband. Slowly she reached for her purse, hung on a coat-hook next to the door. When her trembling fingers touched the purse strap, halting caution failed her. Helen snatched her purse and let herself out of the room in a rush. She abandoned decorum and raced down the hall of the stately lodge, hands over her ears.

Whatever came next, she wouldn't let it draw her back. Through the gleaming lobby and out the wide front doors, and there a cool breeze and Bluebird Lake met her, and she did not feel a second of guilt, as she unzipped the smallest pocket in her purse and withdrew the pack of cigarettes that Jim didn't know about. Her purse gaped open. the sunlight finding its way in to make her keys glitter, and Helen reached for them.

She gripped them too tightly, the metal biting into her fingers. Clear as day, she could see herself taking those keys, going to the car, and never looking back. Never. Then her heart lurched. The breath squeezed out of her.

What sort of mother would abandon her children just because something was wrong with them? they needed help. They still needed their money. She'd go back. She'd have to go back. Judy and April still needed her. But for now, well, Jim needed deodorant.

He'd been very clear about that, after all. Hadn't he? Even so far from the rooms, halls and doors between her and her family, Helen thought she heard the screams again. Well, she wouldn't drive down to the little shop. She'd walk, and she'd have a smoke or two, and she'd take her time returning. Creepy presents, The Road to Grandma's House, written by known of consequence and narrated by Nate Befort. You know how most families have that one guy they call on for little projects and odd jobs around the house?

In my family, I'm that guy. Generally, there's only two things I won't mess with. I'm not comfortable working on anything to do with electricity or plumbing. If I screw something up and a professional needs to be called out, then it's not covered because I'm not licensed for either of those kinds of work. If they call a professional from the get-go and they screw something up, it's on them to fix. I'm there to fix something, not make the problem.

them worse. I dabbled a little in carpentry and have made a number of cabinets, nightstands, and a few other odd things for around my house. When word got out that I could make things from wood and come up with my own designs, I started getting requests from everyone in the family. Well, them and some close friends. Recently, my grandma reached out to me with one of the largest projects I've been asked to do. Okay, that's not entirely accurate. My wife has asked for some pretty big things, like the world's largest kitchen appliance cabinet.

Grandma asked for something different than any of the others. She asked for a fireplace for one of those electric fireplace inserts. I'd never done anything like that, but it's my grandma. I wasn't going to tell her I couldn't do it outright. I needed to see if I could come up with a design to a comic. such a thing. It helped that she sent a PDF of the handbook that comes with the fireplace she already purchased. It included the exact dimensions of the fireplace so I could build a frame for it. I was stressing about this project in the early stages because grandma requested something I never

used before. Reclaimed wood has a more antique look to it, but finding it in my area is a nightmare. While we were searching for local stores and various sites on the internet, I started drafting the blueprint. I've never had any formal training with this sort of thing, so most of it comes from playing with Legos as a kid and certain classes from when I was in either elementary or middle school. The fact that I remembered how to do this after so many years is amazing to me because I'll forget things from five minutes ago. The internet is full of useful tools and videos, but I like to draft with rulers, pencils, and paper.

What I do use the internet for is videos from people that have done similar things. I found one that was only about five minutes that showed someone creating a frame for a fireplace insert, and damn, did they make it look easy. Granted, the video's speed was at like times ten or something, but it looked really simple. I took their idea and created a design to work from, inserted the specific measurements for the fireplace grandma had purchased, and bam, I had a plan drawn up. Next came the hard part, actually putting this thing together. We eventually settled on a website that shipped the reclaimed barnwood panels to me, and once they arrived, I got to work. It would have been more helpful if she'd sent the fireplace insert to me, too, but she already has.

that out at her place. Oh, did I mention that she doesn't live in the same city as me? If she did, I'd have just gone over, picked it up, and brought it over to my place to work on. As it is, she lives two and a half hours away. The PDF has every piece of information I need to make the frame for the insert, so I just cross my fingers and begin construction. The frame itself is made out of two-by-fours, and once I get that all cut up, and screwed together, I place 5mm plywood over the frame. Making sure to leave the giant hole in the middle for the insert uncovered, I cut up the plywood and screw it into the frame. From there, I cut up the reclaimed wood boards and use a finishing nail gun to tack it into place.

I place wood glue on the undersides of the reclaimed wood and the finishing nails just keep the panels in place until it dries. It takes three days for me to cut up the wood and put everything together. I gotta say, looks pretty damn good for an amateur. So much that if I show this to others in the family, I might be getting more requests. Well, that is until they see the cost of the entire thing. The wood and plywood for the frame was only about $100, but the reclaimed wood was twice that. I'm pretty sure the fireplace insert grandma bought was even more expensive than the reclaimed wood, but that's grandma. After Grandpa passed away, she hasn't had to worry about money.

I wish I could say that, but I haven't even reached 40 yet, so I got some time before retirement, unless I win the lottery, but that's another story. Loading up a few tools, batteries for those tools, and the completed frame itself, I hit the road. It's 8 in the morning, and traffic isn't that bad at the moment, so I make it out of the city relatively quickly. Grandma's place sits on about a hundred acres in the middle of nowhere, so I got a few toys to play with in my truck as well. Her and Grandpa were big into hunting, so every chance I get, I go out for wild pigs. Pork is one of my favorite meats and wild hogs aren't limited to a hunting season, but year-round. Since they're considered varmint, I can hunt them with my AR-15.

You can't do that with deer, and, yeah, that's a little bit. If you try, and a game warden catches you, be prepared to pay some fines. I got my AR in the back seat, along with my 357 Magnum Revolver and more than enough bullets to bag me a dozen hogs. I have no intention of getting more than one, but it's always best to bring more than you need. That's why I got my battery-operated chainsaw, a smaller battery hand saw, and pole saw. Grandma always needs trees cut and often ask me to cut her up some firewood. Yes, the fireplace insert is electric, but she's got a fire pit behind her house that gets a lot of use too. The two of them always love to sit around the fire at nights, and if I was there, they'd tell me all sorts of scary stories.

Creep me the hell out, but that was a lot of fun, too. I'd say, out of all my family, I go out to Grandma's the most. I've always been more into the outdoors, and since I've gotten older, my chores out there have increased. Grandpa taught me how to use the tractor so I could cut clear driving paths around the property and refill the feeders when they run low. I still occasionally go out to cut the paths, but since he passed, filling the feeders hasn't been one of my chores. I mostly just helped Grandma with whatever she needs. Like I said, she's my grandma, and I won't tell her no.

The only times I have to are when there's a scheduling issue with my wife or work. Yeah, I clear all my trips out there with the wife first. Grandpa taught me well. Listening to some heavy metal, I cruise down the relatively empty road. There's plenty of cloud coverage, but I put on my sunglasses anyway. Weather reports say the temperatures are supposed to be rather mild, and no rain is forecasted, which is peachy. I was a little worried with the fireplace exposed in the bed of my truck, but it should be smooth sailing.

Besides, it's completely covered by the reclaimed wood, and that stuff was out in the elements for decades before the barn or whatever it came from was torn down. The only thing missing, aside from the insert, is a mantle, but Grandma said she has something perfect for that. As I turn off the freeway to get onto the highway that takes me through all the small towns on the way to Grandma's house, what little traffic there is dies off. At this time a day on a Friday, there isn't a lot of traffic to begin with, but the further you get out from the city, the less of it there is. I see one, maybe two vehicles on the road with me as I get up to that first traffic light. I notice the light's getting dimmer and I have to take off my sunglasses as I pass the light.

The weather app I have didn't say anything about fog, but there it is, blocking more and more of the cloud-covered sky. By the time I get to the next light, the fog is thick enough that I have to drop my speed by 10 miles under the limit. It's hard to make out the color of the light, but I see that it's red before it's too late and come to a complete stop. Looking to my right, I see an all-too-familiar gas station and move into the right lane. Checking to see that my way is clear, I pull into it and park. The fog has gotten so thick. in such a short amount of time, but I've still got two hours ahead of me, so waiting it out isn't an option.

Heading inside, I use the bathroom and grab a couple of drinks for the rest of my drive. On top of that, I get a hot cup of cupcake cappuccino from the coffee area. It's a little on the sweet side, but the flavor always makes me smile, tasting exactly as it sounds with the added caffeine. I made sure to fill my gas tank yesterday at the market club I was able to be able to do. belong to because the gas is always cheaper there. On one tank I can make it out to grandmas and back without having to refuel and we'll have just shy of a quarter tank left when I get home. Getting back in my truck, I notice a pair of guys put an ice into a cooler in the

back of a much older, beaten-up-looking white truck. As I start up my smooth engine, the headlights automatically turn on and shine right on them. They both look over to me with unfriendly expressions, continue on with what they're doing. Something about the look they give me unsettles me. I reach down to turn off the lights, but instead of backing up and getting back on the road, I reach into the back seat. As discreetly as I can,

I pull the revolver out of the case and place it on my lap. Pop and open the cylinder. I checked that it has six bullets in it before closing the cylinder and place it in the cubby hole in the front of the center console. Most of the people I've interacted with in these small towns are friendly enough, but there are some that don't take too kindly to strangers. The large, shiny revolver has always been enough to discourage the creepier ones I've run across, even if I don't take it out of the holster. Carefully, I back up through the fog and get back out on the road. The sun decides to peek out from behind the clouds, but barely penetrates the fog.

It's one of those rare occasions where you can look directly at the sun without it hurt in your eyes. Thankfully, it's high enough in the sky that it's not completely obscuring my vision, and I proceed on my journey to Grandma's house. I'm hoping this won't last too long because having to go 55 is going to make this trip last a lot longer. Even though I've made this trip a hundred times and know the way by heart, I still have my GPS on. With the fog, I hadn't realized I'd gone far enough to reach that gas station until I was right on top of it. Seriously, it called me by surprise, and I stopped there every time I come this way.

This has nothing to do with my forgetful brain and everything to do with a disorientation a thick fog can bring on. I passed through the last of the lights on this stretch and leave the tiny town behind me. The open road is lined with privately owned properties, mostly for farming or cattle raising, I can't see any of that at the moment. I can barely see the road in front of me, and I drop my speed by another five miles. The sun decides to hide behind the clouds again, and it makes the fog feel even thicker.

This is the worst I've ever seen in the daylight, and it's starting to irritate me. As I continue driving, I have to hit the brakes and veer off to the left lane because a car suddenly comes into view. It's just sitting there in the middle of the damn lane, no hazard lights or anything. Driving past it, I curse at the idiot for being so reckless.

The least they could have done is put on their damn hazards so someone coming up could see them. It'd be a better idea to pull off the damn highway too, but I've noticed a serious lack of common sense in the population these days. Some people don't have the self-preservation that God gave a dog, let alone a human, and that dumb ass has demonstrated that perfectly. If someone a little less careful comes along, there's going to be an accident for sure. Keeping my speed to a respectable 45, I keep going through this impossibly thick fog.

My truck has a lower set of headlights specifically for fog, so I turn them on, but it doesn't help me much. I can see the 20 feet in front of my bumper better, but little else. As I strained to see anything in my way, headlights behind me start peeking through the fog. They get brighter and brighter, coming at me a lot higher speed than I'm going and, therefore, a lot less safe. I quickly move back over into the right lane and enough time with that dumb son of a bitch misses me, but not by much. I watch as that same old beat-up white pickup from the gas station zooms past me, the idiot's inside

not bothering to slow down even a little. Judging by how quickly they disappear through the fog, I'd say, They'd say they're going at least the speed limit, which is 65. Fine, be that way, you fucking morons. I'll see you at the scene of the accident. This fog? Showing no signs of getting any better, and as I veer into the left lane to avoid hitting a box or something, my stress levels are peaking.

I quit smoking more than six months ago, and for the first time, I wish I'd bought a pack back when I stopped for drinks. This shit is really hazardous. I could park off the side of the road until it passes, but that doesn't mean I'd be out of danger. Some dumbass could try to zoom past like that white pickup, lose control, and easily plow right into me. Hell, with as thick as this fog's getting, seeing the road itself is getting harder, and someone could accidentally run off the road. The odds of any of that happened is pretty slim, but I feel safer driving on.

I do drop my speed a little more, not only going 40. quickly I have to slam on the brakes again and fear off to the right. An ice chest that's seen better days than the middle of the road. The contents are spilled out across the road. Since I've come to a complete stop at this point, I can see ice and various cuts of meat had once been inside. Looks like someone bagged themselves a hog or deer, had the meat processed, and were taken at home when they unexpectedly lost their cooler.

Sucks to be them. Having a kill processed? isn't cheap, but there are plenty of places around here to get it done. Now, only driving at 35, I continue on down the road but have to come to a stop again, not three minutes later. It's not that there's something in the middle of the road this time, but I see something in the median between the directions of traffic. It's that same white pickup the creepy guys were in, only it's on its side.

I see a large indent on the side face in the sky. as if a car hit it from the right. I looked to the right for another vehicle, but don't see any. Pulling completely off the road, I get out and have my phone in hand. Calling 911, I slowly approach the truck and try to explain to the person on the other end of the phone where I am. I tell him about the fog, and that's when he asks me a very disturbing question. What fog? A scream surprises me, and I almost see.

drop my phone. This isn't a scream for help, but from intense pain. And it's not coming from the truck. Instead, it's coming from farther away from the truck, like someone being dragged across the opposite side of the highway. For a moment, I forget about my phone and slowly approach the front end of the truck. The windshield's been completely smashed in and bloodstains the dirty white hood. There isn't anyone inside as far as I can tell and getting close. closer doesn't yield any difference. I'm nearly within touching distance of the hood when something I hadn't seen on the ground trips me and I go sprawling. By some miracle I don't drop my phone, and I use the light on it to see what it had been that I tripped on. I've always heard about

people projectile vomiting, but I'd never experienced it before now. The violent expulsion of my stomach's contents paint the ground, but don't quite reach the severed arm that tripped me up. I managed to only have the one expulsion and even managed to get a little closer to the limb without a repeat performance. The end opposite the fingers is not a clean cut, but looks like it might have been severed with sharp teeth. I don't know any animal indigenous to the area that could do something like that, but I don't wait around to find out. I scrambled back to my truck. Once I'm safely behind the wheel, I turn the engine over and grab the revolver. My Bluetooth connects to my phone and the 911 operator is frantically trying to get my attention.

He says a unit is on its way, but I inform him that I'm not sticking around. He tries to convince me to stay there, but I'm not having any of it. Are you fucking kidding me? Something tore those fucking guys apart. I don't know that for sure, but I can't convince myself otherwise. When I was a kid, one of the stories Grandpa told me around the fire was about a beast that roams the wood. woods that's big and monstrous with rows and rows of sharp teeth that can tear a man to pieces and seconds. It'll take on a lone person with no qualms, but tends to avoid two or more at a time. More than anything, it likes to hunt when the fog is at its thickest. Better for it to hide in,

Grandpa would say. If the creature is ever cornered or confronted, it will do anything and everything and its power to kill whatever is threatening it. As far as I know, the creature was never given a name, but I'd say it running across the road and plowing into a truck would be cause for it to attack. As I got older, I convinced myself it was grandpa's way of getting me not to wander off on my own like I had a tendency to do, but at this very moment, I'm not so sure.

I don't know for sure that the beast is, what got those men, but it doesn't matter. I'm going at a steady 40 and getting somewhere with people. If the cops want, they can meet me at the nearest gas station. But I want the comfort of other people

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