Creepy - Okehampton Fog & Basement

Episode Date: August 8, 2024

Okehampton Fog***Written by: Viktor Athelstan and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Basement***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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

Written by Victor Athelstan. And narrated by Owen McCune. When I waited at Exeter Central, the weather was pleasurable. The sky was sunny, blue, and blindingly bright. Clouds floated in the air, drifting peacefully along the Devon breeze.

The day seemed like it was. would be beautiful. But the Devon sky tends to lie worse than any toddler caught sneaking sweets when they've been told not to. Its mixed moods lures the unsuspecting traveler into comfortable compliance, tricking them like a willow wisp until it's too late, and they're stranded, soaking wet, and shivering in the biting wind, if they're lucky. That being said, despite the trickster weather god, like all folks who live in such volatile climates, when the sun graces us with her presence, I desire to take joy in it. Naturally, I had the uncontrollable urge to flee the city for the Moors.

Unfortunately, I lacked a car. So a train to Ocampden Castle was as close as I could get without irritating my need too badly. Exeter Central is no Paddington in terms of beauty, but it does its duty fine enough when the strikes to not prevent the trains from running. It is easy to reach from my flat on 4th Street and does not involve running down too many hills. Yes, I had to walk up 4th Street, but I found that relatively easy for my bad knee. As I waited on platform 2, the sun continued to shine and the birds chirped wherever they were. It was an early morning, and I found an uncomfortable seat on a green bench.

As I waited patiently for my train, I entertained myself by counting pieces of trash laying in the green weeds, growing bravely between the tracks, and wondering if the station's brick and concrete had ever been power washed. I guessed not. Finally, my train arrived. It was on time, oddly enough. I suppose this should have been my first sign that things were amiss, but that morning I was simply pleased my trip would begin on schedule. I had aged out of rail cards and spent too much money on my ticket. Additionally, I had no desire to spend an hour filling out paperwork to get my partial, or more likely, full, refund. On this day, I simply made my way onto the green train.

To my delight, the train was empty. The most appealing place was a seat with a table by the window. I sat forward-facing and nearest to the window. The window was clean. a surprising change from what I was used to, whether riding on a train or a bus. A window on public transportation that was not smeared with miles of railway dust, mud, and bird shit was a rare sight indeed. Happily I leaned back in my seat and waited for the journey to officially begin with the roar of the engine.

It would be an hour ride as long as everything worked. Needless to say, I expected to be disappointed. Instead, I blinked and found myself on a moving train with no memory of the train actually starting. For a moment, I figured that perhaps I had somehow fallen asleep, despite not feeling tired previously, it was highly unusual. Ocampon Station was the end stop on this short journey, so I was not particularly concerned that I had taken an impromptu trip into Cornwall. To assess my location, I finally turned my head towards the window.

To my surprise, the passing landscape, normally verdant green and rolling with hills, sheep, and quaint cottages, have been completely replaced with a blanket of not clouds but a thick soup of fog. Rubbing my eyes, I groaned internally. The Devon weather really never failed to surprise me in its ability to go from lovely to wet and miserable. I prayed that a good eye rubbing would clear my seat. sight, and I would be greeted with, if not sunny skies, at least the sheepish realization the window had somehow acquired a disgusting spread of dirt. I was heavily disappointed. The fog, if anything, seemed thicker.

Frowning, I pressed my face to the window like an impatient child. The viridescent hills were heavily muted, like a Polaroid struggling through the first few moments of development. There were bushes and tractors and farmhouses and streams and all manner of items one expects to see in the English countryside. The only unnatural phenomenon, it seemed, was the fog, and that could barely be considered unnatural or ungodly. For a few moments I found childlike amusement with my foolishness and uneasiness. I began to slip back into comfortable ease.

The fog was perfectly normal. The train was normal. The countryside itself was normal and natural. Within the white wool of the air, a dead spider-limbed tree loomed. Well, that would be perfectly normal, had the branches not suddenly moved in a twisted unnatural way. Blinking, I sat back into my seat. Perhaps the speeding movement of the train had made it look like it had moved like a living creature with a nervous system and a brain. Perhaps I was imagining things.

Perhaps it was the wind, and I had mistaken natural movement for something unnatural. The train had sped forward, too far past the unnatural tree for me to double check. Swallowing, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time and my ticket before the conductor arrived. The white font of time flashed for a moment before the screen went black. At the time, I was more annoyed with the prospect. of having to purchase a new phone. I had been sure to charge it before. In fact, when I left my flat, the battery was at 100%.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out my charger. Frustratingly, the outlet near my calves did not work. I tried a few more outlets on the train in a vain attempt to restart my phone. None of them worked either. Perhaps a statistical impossibility on another country's train line, but certainly not the case here. Now, I was even more annoyed about the prospect of being fined the price of my ticket, an additional hundred pounds,

and needing to buy a new ticket to leave the station. If I was lucky, the conductor would be reasonable and kind about my dead phone, and perhaps have a portable charger so I could prove my innocence. If I was unlucky, I would get a wannabe cop who would make it as difficult as possible and refuse to listen. Sying, I sat back in my original seat. Out the window, the fog still refused to lift. If anything, it was growing even thicker than previously.

Gray shapes of movement moved the swirling mist. Normally I would have chalked them up to Devon's sheep, but they seemed almost too big. Like a disembodied hand, a feeling of dread stroked the edges of my hips, and slowly began to drag itself along my stomach with a light, spidery touch. I looked anywhere but the window. However, the temptation was too difficult to resist. The siren's song of the window tempted my eyes back to stare into the unknown.

For a few minutes there was nothing outside but whiteness and the occasional shape of trees, low stone walls, and cottages. The dread slowly began to recede off my stomach back toward my hip. It had almost crawled off me entirely and back to wherever it had come from when a humanoid figure loomed in the muted colorless distance. They resembled a paper human target one would seen an American television cop show when characters visited a shooting range. For the briefest of moments while the train passed them, I felt relief at finally seeing another human being.

Then the dread dug into my hip, up my stomach, and rested its chilled palm flatly onto my heart, as I realized the figure was too large and too high off the ground to be a mere human standing on the hill. Despite my instinct to press my back into my seat, another invisible disembodied hand, this one of compulsion, pressed my back, and I remained glued to the window. The humanoid figure had long vanished as the train moved. At the time I tried to tell myself it was a mere trick of foggy light. But deep in my heart, I knew what I saw.

And its existence became undeniable to me as the train ventured on, passing more hills. More figures stood silently and still in the midst. The hand allowed me to turn my head slowly and dripping with the sweat of fear, to look forward into the distance. I had hoped that in looking forward, I would gather a few more precious seconds to find a rational explanation for what vague figures I had been seeing.

Instead, I only saw twisting trees and more still humanoid shapes. The hand of dread dug its blunted nails into my skin and scratched my flesh, as I realized the figures had two circular eyes, a white against their warm gray blue. bodies. More and more figures appeared out of the fog. They did nothing but stand there. Whatever their intentions, the damage was already done. I was left paralyzed and terrified.

And then I blinked. They had all vanished, and the train had arrived at Oak Hampton Station, despite it being in the countryside only a second before. Looking outside the window, the same fog as before surrounded the train and the station. This time it was not as thick as it was in the countryside. There were no figures. Despite the appearance of safety, I was almost too terrified to leave the train. My heart pounded in a way not unlike Nango's star playing the drums.

However, the prospect of a fine motivated my shaking legs to move. The fine would be at least $105. In a cost of living crisis, this was a cost of living crisis, was an expense I needed to avoid. In that moment, with no humanoid figures staring at my soul, not having enough money for rent, being homeless and attempting to find a new flat in the southwest, was more terrifying than whatever sinister thing any being, natural or unnatural, could do to me. As fast as I could with my bad knee, I slipped off the train and onto the platform. It was entirely abandoned.

Despite knowing my phone was dead, in a vain hope, I attempted to turn it on. The screen remained black. Sying, I left the platform, suddenly now eager to leave the train behind me. Outside the station, the fog was almost impossible to see through. But somehow I made my way down the station hill, avoiding any sort of cars passing me by. It was easy to do so, as there were none. With my phone dead, I would need to rely upon signage to direct me to the castle. Unfortunately, I lost my way briefly when I walked through the tunnel under the train tracks.

The trees on the side of the small country road loomed ominously, their branches reaching out towards me like grabbing paws determined to snag their prey. The hand of dread and the hand of compulsion turned me around, and I hurried in the direction of the town. surely there would be someone there who could assist me in finding the castle. I have since learned that the visitor's center, a hostel, and a bike hire reside up that small country road, but in the moment I was ignorant of their existence. Down the hill I went, seeing no one and nothing in the fog.

Close behind me, something whirled by. It was too close for comfort. Whatever it was, swirled the fog around me. A brief moment of hot breath tickled the back of my neck Before freezing the hairs there I did not stop moving and kept pressing forward The sweat of fear dripped down my back I did not allow myself to turn my head

To gaze behind me too terrified of what I might see I must keep walking to the castle I remember thinking to myself The fog continued to swirl around my person This time, however, I only felt the dull chill of cloudy mist. Out of the corner of my eye, figures loomed. Humanoid figures, round sheep-like shapes that did not look like natural sheep at all, and other figures the fog mystified just too much for me to properly make out.

My knee was starting to ache. I walked faster. Eventually I found a street sign, the only one prominent in the fog, reading Castle Road. I guessed that would be the street I needed to go up and was correct. The walk to the castle should have been a longish one. Later, when I returned home, I checked my laptop, and it should have been about 20 minutes or so in total. But at the time, I felt something misty wrap around my ankle. I blinked, and suddenly I found myself on a bridge over a stream. For a split second, the hands of compulsion and dread vanished, replaced by the comforting warmth of the sun. Then I blinked again.

They and the fog returned. Figures lurked in the white clouded air over the stream. I could only catch glimpses of them, but I knew they were there. And they were watching me every moment. I hurried onward. The walk up the lane was panic-inducing and full of fear. It simultaneously took aeons longer and aeons shorter than it should have.

The whitewashed houses on either side of the lane were a protection and a cage from whatever was following, guiding, hunting me. I did not stop. I did not turn my head. I did not look back. Then, after an eternity, in the distance, despite the rolling fog, I saw the shape of Oakhampton Castle. The castle was in ruins,

the result of reformation, monarchy, conspiracy, or, so it has been said, centuries of disuse and poor Dartmoor Devonian weather. Despite all this, what remained was a joy to my frightened eyes. The stone remains of the keep stood defiantly on the hill,

overlooking the valley from whence I had come. I knew in that moment If I could make it to the forked tower I would be safe from whatever limbo I had found myself trapped in. The keep seemed to be miles upon miles away. For a moment, a hand of despair caressed my back, urging me to give up,

to lay down in the road and permit whatever mist-born creatures stalking me, eat their fill of my flesh, and drink my blood and gore. Then a spark of memory from the map on my laptop in my flat filled my mind. The castle was not miles upon miles away. It was close, maybe 200 meters. But I felt as though if I reached out, I could touch the medieval stone.

I reached out. I touched nothing and only felt the fog twirl around my wrist. Quickly I pulled my hand back to my chest. urging my feet, I moved forward before I was swallowed whole by a tsunami of gloom. As I continued my trek, I saw a small wooden building and for a brief moment was filled with hope. A visitor's center. Perhaps even an explanation for everything that was occurring, an explanation for this damp, dreamlike realm I was imprisoned in. The window of the center was open. Instead of a human, I saw a humanoid figure with glowing or.

for eyes, sitting there, staring into my soul. For an eternity, we stared at each other. It did not move, and neither did I. Then I felt a tendril of something wrap around my ankle, and I hurried onwards. Up the gravel path, I went, stumbling into the gate, increasingly aware of the beings slowly following behind, drifting above, and looming in the distant trees. The wood gate, swollen from the damp air, stuck, and the hand of despair beckoned me to lay down and die. I wrenched the gate free and slammed it behind me. The clang of metal on metal and wood on wood echoed throughout the valley, and it was then I fully realized how silent my world had become since I stepped foot on that train.

The gravel beneath my feet did not crunch. Not even the birds sang in the nearby brook. did not burble, nor did the beings make any sort of noise. The epiphany of this uncanny silence nearly froze my chilled blood solid. I moved forward, forcing my feet into almost frantic movement. Up the slick grass and slippery stone stairs I went, into the castle's dilapidated entrance that must have been grand once upon a time. The gatehouse tower stood, once whole, but now a mere half, sliced in two.

like its master had been centuries ago. Figures loomed, perched on top of the ruins, glowing eyes staring, staring desperately and deeply into my soul. The hands compelled me to stop, to sit, but I shuddered, and they crept back on their fingertips. The foyer, now opened to the elements, had decayed slowly over time. Nearest to the gatehouse,

the wall stood tall and strong, if roofed. The farther I hurried through it, the lower and lower the walls shrunk until they were only indicated by low stone walls. It must have been a worthy protection in the castle's prosperous times. But now, as like then, it trapped me in a tightening space as figures slowly but surely made their slow approach from behind. Now I ran. I ran through the remainder of the castle ruins, determined to gain sense.

sanctuary. I was sure it was my only hope for survival. I ran past the chapel remains and to the hill leading up to the keep. The stone stairs to the keep were steep and uneven, but I was grateful for them. I was even more grateful for the modern metal railings on the side of the stairs. I'm not sure how I would have made it up the hill with my aching knee. It was all slippery. I almost tumbled down twice. Huffing and puffing, I reached the grassy plateau. I glanced backwards. The entire valley was nothing but graying fog and white glowing eyes. I stepped into the stone archway and into a low-ceiling, carpeted living room with a clock and a cat poster on the wall. I was back in my flat. Sunbeams streamed in through my window. I rushed to the balcony. There was. There was. I was back in my flat. I was. I was back in my flat.

I rushed to the balcony. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I was safe. Perhaps I had just dreamed it all. I checked my phone. It turned on, proudly proclaiming the time I had left a few hours ago. I sat down on my couch, confused. Had this been a dream? My ankles started to itch. I reached down to scratch it. I stopped. The skin where the misty tendril caressed me was bright red. Creepy presents. Basement. Written by known of consequence.

And narrated by Alicia Atkins. Some people view divorce as a way to reinvent themselves, to make life better than it was. You know what kind of people think of it like that? The ones that wanted the divorce in the first place. How about the ones that didn't want it, that fought against it? We're left to pick up the pieces of our shattered life. I could say that I thought we were happy, that things were good, but I'd be lying. I knew our marriage was difficult, that we had a lot of challenges to get through,

but I was willing to work things out. My ex, not so much. There's still love there, and... at least on my part, but it doesn't stop me from thinking of them as fucking ingrates. Yeah, it wasn't just my ex, but our kids, too. It's been years since any of my three kids looked at me as anything but an ATM. These days, it seems like that's just a part of growing up,

but it doesn't change the fact that it's a shitty way to treat a parent, especially one that's been working their ass off their whole lives to provide a comfortable life. I didn't make work a priority over them. I went to all their games, performances, practices, and every other activity that allowed parents to watch. Well, I did until I was told they'd rather me be at work making money than wasting my time watching them. Doesn't it just break your heart?

I will say this, though. My youngest isn't like that. Little Chavon is my angel, and more than anything, wants attention. I guess I doed on her, but only because she lets me. Johnny and Kim usually have their handout asking for money. Granted, they're several years older and in high school, so it shouldn't be surprising. But I honestly wonder if they hate me.

It seems that way since they decided to live with my ex instead of me. Now I'm stuck paying child support and alimony. Can you believe that I couldn't even get my kids to help me move? My ex got to keep the house that I paid for and was forced to find something else. In this market, that cost me a goddamn arm and a leg. On top of that, the only place that I could find that fit my needs is reputed to have the worst fucking HOA in the city. In my first week here, I went outside to get the morning paper and overheard a heated argument four doors down. Apparently, the douche across the street is an HOA rep

and was in the process of citing the other neighbor for leaving delivered packages on the porch for too long. What the hell kind of rule is that? It's not like every house in a neighborhood has someone home 24-7 and can take in a package as soon as it's delivered. Fucking HOAs. I've been in this house for a month now, and already I've had several run-ins with that fucking douchebag, Douglas.

the HOA rep. From what I've learned from the neighbors, he's an early retiree, forced into it for being an asshole at his old job, and he sustained a serious injury. Something to do with his back, but he seems to move well enough when he catches an HOA violation on this block.

Now I understand why a house like this was on the market for so long. Eight days after I moved in, he cited me for my trash cans, overflowing. Not that things were falling out of the bin, but that there was so much in it that the lid wouldn't close completely. There was all of two inches of exposed cardboard from all the boxes I unpacked in the recycling bin, and the asshole slapped me with a citation. Not even a warning for the new guy, but a goddamn fine. Then there was this one time for having my lawn higher than four inches tall, another for the garden beds with weeds, and three more for the

state of my backyard. How did I get sighted for my backyard? It's because I hadn't gotten a lock for my side gate yet, and the fucking intrusive bastard lit himself in. I was about to throw hands when I found that out. As I'm still getting things settled inside, I find I both have a lot of shit and not enough to fill the house. One thing I'm particularly happy about is to have a food scale that costs about $200. My ex is a fitness and nutrition nutcase, and I stole this while I was packing my shit. I have absolutely no use for it, but the fact that my ex is still looking for it just amuses me to no end. There's a shit ton of boxes down in the basement that I still have to go through, but I keep procrastinating.

Even in the other house, before the divorce, I've ordered going into the basement as much as possible. Something about them creeps me the hell out. I don't know if it's that they're underground, the ceilings are always too low, or the lighting is almost always inadequate, but I've always hated basements. It's one of the reasons I've risen so high at my job. I started off in the basement and worked my ass off to get promoted out of there. I've been going up ever since. Any time I did a walk-through of the house before buying it, I avoided going into the basement.

Even from the top of the stairs, I could tell there was only one light down there. Unfortunately, the movers put most of the boxes in the basement. Something they took upon themselves to do, not at my instruction. I knew I should have been here to oversee things, but there had been an emergency at work. After the divorce and buying this place, I'm looking up at broke with binoculars, and can't afford to lose my job. I know it's silly for a grown-ass adult to be afraid of the basement, but everyone has their irrational fears.

Now that I don't have a spouse to send down there to fetch something, it's up to me to get what's needed. I've been using paper plates and plastic flatware to eat off of, but today I'm going to get my sorry-ass down those steps and locate the box of kitchen stuff. I could just buy new dining stuff, but I can't afford to do that. to throw money away on something I already have.

As I opened the creaking door, my new cat Oliver darts past me and down the steps, scaring the shit out of me. I really need to get a damn bell for that stupid cat. Originally, I thought to get a dog, but with the hours I worked most of the time, I'd end up neglecting the poor thing. A cat seemed more fitting for my new lifestyle.

After flipping the light switch, I slowly descend the steps, grateful I changed the light bulb last time I came down. I replaced the regular one for one of those new LED things with three flaps full of lights. Now the one fixture illuminates the entire basement, chasing back all those looming shadows. It does make me aware of how low the ceiling is, but this way I can easily search for the box-marked kitchen stuff. While looking through the stacks of cardboard, something on the far wall catches my attention. Maybe I should have come down here during the walk-throughs,

because I would have seen the damn crack on the wall if I had. It's pretty damn sizable with a gap big enough to get my arm through. How the hell could the real estate agent sell me a house with a crack that fucking massive? I'm going to have to have words with that fucking bitch the moment I get back upstairs. Walking toward it, I noticed the new light isn't doing much to let me see into the crack. That's not so surprising, considering it's a little. only about 18 inches tall, so I get down on my hands and knees to shine the light of my cell phone into it. How the hell did I miss this the last time I was down here? Once I got the new light

installed, I took a good look around the place and didn't see it. Shining my phone's light into it, I don't see anything inside. It's not like I can see space inside or anything like that. The light shows me nothing. It's like there's a void on the other side of the other side of the the wall, a darkness that this puny light can't penetrate. As I search for anything through the crack, this weird feeling comes over me. I don't understand it, but I have this strange urge to reach my hand inside and feel around for something I can't see. I even get so far as to reach a handout before I come to my senses. There's no telling what could be in there, and the last thing I want to do is stick my hand in. Getting back to my feet,

feet, I see a blur of orange shoot directly into the crack. Oliver, you stupid cat. He must have sensed a rat or a mouse in there. Not five seconds after he disappeared into the wall, I hear something that makes me wanting to vomit. Oliver is struggling with something in there. Something far stronger than his small body. There's a lot of hissing and angry cat noises, followed by a sickenly meaty crunch.

And a wet splash. Scambling back, I see Johnny's bat bag in the far corner. I take out the metal bat and move back to the crack, expecting to see something horrible slithering out. Only, I don't see anything. No grotesque creature coming out of the wall, no mangled Oliver, no fucking crack. The wall is completely smooth,

with no indication that there had been a crack at all. What the hell? I didn't fucking imagine it, so what gives? I dropped the bat and run up the stairs, desperately needing to get out of this death pit. I stumble on the landing and slide across the floor, right into the kitchen island. Thankfully, I stopped just short of smashing my head into it,

not that I would have felt it much. My heart is jackhammering in my chest, and I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. Using the island to get to my feet, I struggled to take deep, even breaths. It's like I just ran a damn marathon at full speed, which I know I can't do. I can barely run the bases on a baseball field. I keep telling myself to get a hold of myself. That couldn't have happened.

It was a hallucination, or my mind playing tricks on me because I hate basements so damn much. Yeah, that's it. Once I finally calmed down enough, I reach into the fridge for a bottle of water. Twisting the cap off, I down half the contents in one go as I lean my butt against the counter. Get a grip, you fucking scaredy cat. Any minute now, Oliver is going to hop onto the island and demand a treat or something. He's done that several times a day since I got him. Normally, that would be annoying, reminding me of my two older kids with their hands out,

but it was different with Oliver. I was actually certainly to get attached to the little fur ball. Looking at the top of the island, I see something that hadn't been there before. Outside of video games and TV shows, I've never seen something like that in real life, but there it is. Several small pebbles of gold that looked like they came directly from a river shifter are sitting in the middle of my kitchen island. Where the hell did they come from? I pick up one of the pebbles, smooth as a touch,

and can't help but notice it feels similar to what my gold wedding band used to feel like. Is it really possible that there's a bunch of gold bitch just sitting on my counter moments after my cat got eaten by a crack in the basement that's not there anymore? If this is real, is there some kind of direct correlation between the two? Pulling out the food scale, I place all the pebbles on it. Changing the scale to ounces, the pebbles weigh in at two points. 73 ounces. A quick search on my phone lets me know that the value for that much gold is at least a few thousand dollars. Seriously, what the hell is happening right now? The next day, I'm at work

and start searching for a place that'll give me a fair price for the gold, assuming it's real. There's several places that choose from, but the location I decided to try first is only a few blocks away from the office. I know it well since it's the same jeweler my ex and I got our rings from, along with several other pieces of jewelry. There are a high-end establishment that does a lot of custom pieces, so they're always in the market for precious metals and jewels. It's not until Thursday that I get to go over there. My workload is light enough that I only work a half a day.

Henry, the owner, is skeptical about what I bring him, but once he test it, he makes me a good offer. I doubt any other place would have given me this much. Getting home with a few thousand in cash in my pocket, I go to the fridge and pull out a beer. There's been no sign of Oliver at all since he went into the crack, and it sucks that he's gone. But I can always get another cat. I'll just make sure not to let the next one go into the basement just in case the crack decides to come back. Popping the top of my bottle. I open the cabinet for a glass, but it's empty.

Damn it, I forgot. After what happened with Oliver, I never brought up the box of kitchen stuff, which included the damn glasses. As much as I don't want to, I opened the door and start down. The light is already on since I never turned it off since slamming the door shut on Sunday. Hell, I could still see the bat on the ground where I dropped it before running up the stairs. Once the room comes into full view, I look around at the walls for any signs of cracks, but there aren't any. The walls are completely smooth, just like they were after Oliver disappeared. I'd seriously believe that I'd mention the whole thing if it weren't for the cash in my pocket.

Finally locating the desired box, I opened it up to make sure that there isn't a bunch of broken glass inside. It wouldn't surprise me if the movers were less than careful when they brought all this stuff down here. But it doesn't appear that anything is broken. At least there's that. closing up the box, I'm about to grab it up when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Quickly turning to see what moved, my eyes are drawn to the small half window along the top of the wall. There are two of them along that wall, but since I haven't had the chance to mow the backyard yet, they'd been covered by grass this whole time.

Someone is up there, moving the damn grass around. Getting close to it, I notice a slip of yellow with black on it. "'Fucking measuring tape? "'Someone is measuring the length of my goddamn grass? "'Fucking Douglas! "'I'm going to go out there and kick his motherfucking ass this time. "'I swear I put the lock on the side gate "'after he got back there the last time.

"'Turning to rush up the stairs, "'I catch sight of something on the wall. "'It's the crack again, "'but this time it's far larger, "'at least six feet tall, and white enough for me to fit through if I turn sideways and shove my way past the jagged edges. It wasn't there a moment ago, not until Douglas started messing with my grass. Getting an idea, I move back over to the window.

As quickly as I can, I pop open the window, reach through and grab the bastard by the ankles. I'm not an overly strong person, but this fucking guy has me in a rage, and I use all my strength to pull him through. the window. He barely manages to scream before I've got him through, and he lands on the concrete floor with a hard thud. Douglas rise on the ground in pain, screaming curses at me. The impact must have irritated his old injury, because he can't seem to get up on his own. In fact, moving at all seems to be causing him great pain. Considering how much of a pain in the ass he's been for the whole damn neighborhood? I don't feel the least bit bad about that, or what I'm about to do.

Grabbing him by the shirt, I haul his sorry ass up and shove him right into the crack. He screams at me to stop, but this rage and anger the likes of which I've never felt before spurs me on. Douglas pathetically tries to fight me off, but I'm too much for him in his injured state. The asshole barely fits into the crack, but once half of him is in, something on the other side starts pulling at him. His screams become more frantic, and he's pleading with me. In moments, Douglas is all the way in, and I hear one final scream as the sickening crunch can be heard. Not just one like with Oliver, but several, each accompanied by a wet splashing sound. None of the blood comes pouring out, and for that I'm grateful.

I wouldn't have been able to deal with cleaning up blood. I'm unable to tear my eyes away from the crack, curiosity making me want to shine my phone's light inside to see if I can see something. As I reached from my phone, I realized the crack is getting smaller. Within moments, the space is closing up and smoothing out, becoming whole once again. Now that it's all said and done, the room's silent. It hits me. I just killed someone, murdered a man.

He'd been a despicable, loathsome son of a bitch that everyone hated. But what if he had a family? I never noticed anyone coming or going from his house. But it's not like I was looking for that. I haven't lived here long enough to know if he was married or had kids. How could I have done this? Slowly walking back up the stairs. Once again for getting the box of kitchen stuff, I softly closed the door behind me.

Before now, the most violent thing I'd ever done was shove a guy on the basketball court. The weight of what I've done is hitting me hard, and I grab up my open beer once again. Downing the whole thing in one go isn't enough, so I grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. As I pull the top off, my eyes are drawn to the kitchen island. Sitting on it are several rocks that kind of remind me of crumpled aluminum foil. Picking one of them up, I notice they have a decent weight to them. They also don't feel like rocks, but more like metal. Pulling out my phone, I do a quick search, focusing on pictures of raw precious metals.

From what I can gather, I've got myself a bunch of unprofile. processed silver on my counter. Pulling out the food scale again, I discovered there's several pounds of it. Silver isn't worth near as much in weight as gold, but there's easily a thousand dollars worth here, if it is indeed silver. Oliver was consumed by the crack,

and I got a few ounces of gold worth thousands. Now my shitty neighbor's been, eaten, for lack of a better word, and it netted me maybe a thousand, and silver. How could a person be worth less than a cat? Is it because I liked Oliver and had just started to bond with him? Does the thing in the basement reward me more for feeding it someone I care more about? If that's the case, I wonder how much I could get for my ex. There's still love there, strictly on my side. I can only imagine how much of my problems that would solve. The question

is, could I do it again? Especially to someone that I love? After everything that cunt put me through? Yeah, I probably could. 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.

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