Creepy - Old Growth

Episode Date: May 29, 2023

Old Growth***Written by: Tim Stevens and Narrated by: Joe Stofko***Bonus Episode: "Such Beautiful Teeth" written by: Jakob Angerer***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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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 Old Gross

Written by Tim Stevens and narrated. by Josephko. It must have been the early spring of 36, maybe 37. All the troubles in Europe were just bubbling up to the headlines of the papers, which was about as far as I read in those days. Not that we got papers up at the camp, just whatever the men brought back from the Albany supply runs.

The troubles I'm going to tell you about were a lot closer to. home. I'd gone up the hills of Vermont in early winter the year before, with no more than my axe and the clothes on my back. The logging camp was a terrible place, a dark shack full of crude men with simple minds. It was sickening to be up there, helping those brutes clear off the hills, leaving nothing behind but stumps and scarred earth, like stubble on a bloody chin. But I had a family I had to provide. The troubles, they started a few months later.

The snows had gone from all but the deepest furrows. The iced tracks, the horse teams crossed, were rutted with mud by afternoon. Still, the horse's war, caught shoes to keep from slipping. It had been a few weeks yet before Bill the Teamster would have changed those out had he ever gotten the chance. Those simple beasts had a lonely job, pacing up and down the mountain, hauling logs. Well, they did their work with barely a hand of guidance. Everyone up there was doing the same, mindlessly ripping the life out of the hills to benefit some other person in some other place.

After spending all winter as a greenhorn, tending to the horses and minding the camp, I'd finally been set loose to go to work in the woods. Promoted to Swamper, I marked the large trees for the more experienced men to come and fell, then cleared out the brush and dropped the smaller trees out of the way, no thicker around than your leg. I was first out of camp in the morning, working ahead. head of the crew as we cut our way up the mountain. I wasn't yet trusted to bring down the big trees, the old growth, wider across than your arms can spread. Those giants were a few back then.

Now they're damn near totally gone. Thank the Lord for that. Those monsters hulking and twisted shapes that had outlived empires fell victim to a simple blade. It was enough to inspire a lingering shame in their presence. I'd keep my eyes low and move on and try to ignore the creeping feeling running up the back of my neck. It all started this one morning, alone, save for my cork boots and my axe, belly still warm from coffee, jaw aching from that goddamn finished bread. By Jesus, you could shingle a roof with that stuff. I'd wandered off from the top of camp as I did every morning and came to a clearing, probably an old lightning strike. It was saplings and briars that dragged scars across the waxed weave of my pants. A slender young pine stood at the edge of the clearing, clean and straight. I went to it, rubbing my hands together, then sinking my axe into the side closest to the center of this.

little bear patch. The first cut of the day was always the easiest. Other than spinning tall tails and protecting yourself from whatever drunken bastard wanted a fight, there wasn't much to do in camp at night, but get to know your wetstone. It didn't take me long to make a notch on the face of the tree, then two clean, deep strikes at the back set its fate. The tree started toward the ground with barely a complaint, branches holding the sky for a moment, highest needles orange with the morning light. As the tree lay down in the clearing, a funny little noise broke across the clearing, a sort of high-pitched grunt. I walked the length of the tree, popping off the first few thicker branches with my axe as I went, ripping others off by hand, reaching down for

the next and the next. nearly leaping out of my boots when one of them moved. It was a leg, a deer's leg, twitching and shivering the way forsaken creatures do when you catch them with a clean shot, and there's nothing to do but wait for death. Only a rifle hadn't caught this one by Jesus. I watched the shutters slow and then stop, wondering how the thing had gotten there, why it hadn't run.

It was nestled down in a little burrow, its rump deep in a bed of pine needles. It had probably kept nice and warm overnight, and it had sure as hell been nicely hidden, invisible from twenty feet away. I looked under the tree, saw where a branch had buckled, then stabbed the dough through the chest. Not a good way to go, but better than most. I rolled the new log aside. the nose, rear legs pawed at the ground once more. Its eye locked with mine, then rolled upwards,

and everything was at peace again. Short prayer whispered, it didn't take long for the stillness of the morning to return, but then something else moved, something different, something not right. The belly of the deer twisted in a funny way, by God I jumped back with quite a shout. It seemed an unearthly sort of thing.

This white shape just sort of unraveled itself from the Doe's underside and started feeling its way around. It was almost like my eyes couldn't make sense of it, couldn't focus on it, but my heart, she knew something was wrong. My chest felt set to explode. I stepped back again, a dry branch cracked under my heel. The thing, whatever it was, angled towards me. It sort of turned red, but not a real red.

It was, well, it's almost like I was looking through the damn thing into somewhere beyond. My eyes felt like they were focusing on some far horizon. Dizziness hit me like a wave. The next thing I know, there's a sense. small, heavy hand on my shoulder. Maddie Hanu was there saying something. I was on my knees in the clearing, and the sun was high overhead. Hey, boy, he barked.

Spent all morning praying for dead deer instead of doing work. I blinked and looked all around me. The white thing, the blurry thing, it was gone. Nothing remained in front of me, but... the bloody body of the dough, the tree I'd felled, and my axe, laying carelessly in the grass. I looked up to Maddie again and mumbled something, he sneered. You look bad. Take that meat back to Cookie. Have him make you coffee strong, then come back and do your fucking job.

Maddie spoke like a machine gun spittle flying with the profanity. then he just moved on and started the job of clearing the brush that I should have long since finished. Maddie Hanil had earned a begrudging sort of respect from the rest of the men. Most were brutes with their tools, but he was an artist. He didn't talk much, didn't need to. Most men would walk up to the trunk and start hacking away. Maddie would stand to one side, lean on his axe which was half as tall as he with a handle straight as a flagpole and squint up into the branches for a long moment he'd read that old tree like a book

then with a nod he'd step forward and set his blade deep in the trunk cut after cut big wedges of wood flying with every second or third swing he was a little man with a blond crop and hips so narrowed his pants always seemed a second or two behind, face growing as red as canned tomatoes. Old Maddie would spend just a minute chopping, maybe two, and pick up the saw. A few sweeps later, the tree would come down exactly where he wanted it. He was the most efficient, son of a bitch you ever saw. I spent a week on the other end of a saw with him to learn his skill.

All I ever picked up was a smattering of his language, finish that rattled off his tongue like firecrackers. I lay my axe next to the stump of the fallen tree, then grabbed the dough by the hind legs. I dreaded the long, heavy carry, but the first few steps went more quickly than I'd expected. The thing was oddly light, barely slowing me down as I wove between the logs and the stumps back to camp.

Cookie put me to work, stringing up and cleaning the dough, the price for a steaming mug of burned coffee that tasted like a slap in the face. The bastard gave me an old stub of a knife to work with, no good for peeling potatoes, never mind skinning a deer. The blade caught and hung up again and again. I threw it to the ground. In frustration, I tore at the dough with my bare hands. I don't know how to explain it, but I got into a sort of a trance.

The next thing I knew, I was presenting the meat to cookie, arms covered with blood up past my elbows. His eyes flashed a trace of fear, but by God he took it. He didn't waste meat in those days. I cleaned up and returned to the woods after that, found my axe, and spent the afternoon finishing what I should have done in the morning. Maddie gave a single nod as I strode ahead of him again, the closest thing to approval I'd ever seen from the man.

The venison stew that night raised the spirits of the men. Bottles and flasks emerged from hidden spots throughout the camp. The men called me hunter, and patted me on the back as I downed bowl after bowl of the earthy mix, chasing each bite with a nip of whatever found its way into my hand. It was one of those nights that just got louder as the sky drew darker, ending only as men fell into drunken sleep wherever they sat or lay. At the end of it all, I was the only one soberer, though I drunk more than most.

Still, I fell asleep as soon as I'd climbed into my bunk, straight into the deepest sleep of my life. I dreamt of luxuries, of comforts, then of women, and the things I yearned to do with them. Everything was so vivid, but then it all twisted. Carnal dreams became dark, horrible things. My hands, caressing some massive shape, began to pull the love. life out of it, draining it dry. I didn't want to wake up. In that dreamland, I relished the visions in a way that chills me today. The sun had cleared the upper limbs outside when someone shook me awake. No man gave me a hard time for sleeping in. It would be a slow start for us all. I took my

space at the long table and cookie gave me a tall stack of pancakes, each is Big around as my hand, piles of yellow butter and brown sugar swirling and sliding across the top. It was rare, he took the trouble to make such a treat, but this plate did nothing for me. I wasn't sick from the night before. I had no hunger at all. As I sat down my fork, the door flew open, slamming against the wall. In stormed Bill, our teamster, whose cheeks. burned red above his charcoal beard, damp from tears. "'Which one of you sorry bastards poisoned old Fred last night?' he shouted.

Even the most hungover of us sat bolt upright, lingering, drunkenness evaporating as all stood and made for the door to see what had happened. We gathered around the horse pen. There lay Fred, the lead horse of the pack, once a mighty eighteen-hand tall, Purcheron, now reduced to something terrible. His mighty haunches were shriveled like a prune. It looked as if he'd lain there dead for weeks, but we'd all seen him standing at the gate the morning before, eager to work as always. The men assured Bill that none of us had done anything to Fred, that we all respected the horses. None knew of any concoction that could do

such a horrible thing to a creature so massive in such a short time. Bill knew it to be true and fell to his knees beside the corpse, sobbing at the loss. As the gathered men removed their hats and lowered their heads, I was hit with a strange feeling of shame, like I were standing there naked. I lowered my head and made my way back to camp. There, leaning against a tree, was Matty. His expression, flat as always, but his pale blue eyes cut through me. What followed was another long day than a quiet dinner.

All the humor from the night before had vanished. The fins all kept to themselves in one corner, talking intensely but quietly. Matty was frustrated. At one point he stood, sling. slammed his hand on the table and shouted a long oath. See, on teller, he yelled. It's here.

He stormed out, leaving everyone else in camp to wither over our wet stones. Another dark night of dreams followed even more foul than the night before. On this night, the carnal scenes repeated. Darker still, huge shapes glowing red, looming over me. brought down and turned by my hands. In the morning the scene played out again. The three remaining horses lay dead in their pen. Instead of anger and accusations from Bill,

it was wailing and lamentations of the sort I'd never seen from a grown man. He threw himself over the stiff bodies, while the rest of us stood round exchanging uneasy glances. None said a thing. Nobody even tried to comfort poor Bill, who was left to deal with his suffering on his own. So it was up the mountains those days. Most of the men hid beneath the upturned collars on their tincloth jackets at breakfast as they nursed the scalding coffee. Then silently moved to the door, lifting their tools from the wall and disappearing into the wood. Many didn't return for dinner.

Bill had been seen walking his way down the hill, horse tackles slung over both shoulders. Other men, too, were said to have bundled up their clothes and wandered off through the course of the day, making the long hike down the mountain to the nearest town. Still, that didn't explain all the empty seats at dinner, especially. from the men who had left their bed rolls in place, and bottles of whiskey tucked in their bunks. Among the missing was Matty. Many sneered at this. The tiny, quiet man that they reluctantly admired was said to have shown his true colors. He was yellow, the men concluded, as were the fins who had left with him. But a few of their kind had stayed. They said Matty had

spent the night before ranting, weaving some tall tale about spirits in the trees that were angry. The spirits could possess man or beast, he'd said, drive them to do horrible things, seeking revenge. Divine threads, he'd called them. Maddie said he knew what to do, how to fight them, then had walked off when some of the men had laughed. None had seen him since. "'Me, I was oddly calm at dinner. "'I hadn't even considered leaving that day. "'I'd spent it trying to go about my usual duties,

"'but I couldn't get a damn thing done. "'I'd set about to clear an area, "'and, despite sleeping like the dead the night before, "'found myself awakening with a start, "'lying on the ground, "'the sun having moved a considerable distance "'in the blink of an eye. "'Three times,

this happened, and when I came to the last time to find the sky red and the day's light nearly gone, I slunk in the camp fearing the angry recriminations of the men. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. The once boisterous crew was reduced to a couple dozen sorry souls. The desperate one stayed, those who'd come to the hills and the camp to flee debts or the law or some other horrible obligation in the real world. Before the dreams could begin that night, a slap to the face woke me, delivered by a small hand, but not lacking in intensity. My teeth rattled and my head sang out, but consciousness rose slowly. A second slap came quickly. Wake you bastard. You bastard! we end this now. As my eyes peeled open and found their focus, I saw it was Matty standing there

with an angry expression on a face drawn with exhaustion. Around him stood a handful of the men, mostly fins, each with a lantern or torch. I was sitting on the ground. I made to stand, and only then noticed the ropes. I was tied to a stump. Arms pinched uncomfortably at my sides. "'What are you doing?' I said, sleep still heavy. "'Fixing your problem,' Maddie said. He moved to pick up a large white cube from the ground, hefting it with effort and throwing it onto a mossy stone.

It was the salt lick from the stables, edges smoothed by rough-tonged percherons. The block split into fragment. He took one, placed it back on the stone, and then smashed it with a smaller rock. Again and again, he struck until he threatened to flatten his fingers, until he had a piece just smaller than the end of his thumb. He turned back to me, face red from effort, shoulders heaving with deep breaths. He held the white hunk of salt before my face.

Don't be difficult. He pulled my jaw open with one hand and forced the salt into my mouth, its edges cutting my gums. The bastard put me in a sort of headlock, holding my jaw closed. The salt was terribly bitter. My whole body convulsed. I scorned violently, but the rope held me fast. I was in a panic, breathing hard as I could through my nose, inhaling the foul scent of Matty's underarms. He leaned forward and sent a fist into my sternum.

My body heaved and I swallowed the salt on reflex. Maddie must have felt it go. He stood and moved away from me. His eyes were intense, looking at my stomach, which began a furious turn. My insides felt more violent than I'd felt even after the worst of cookies' attempts at making do with rotten provisions. "'Good,' Maddie said, and picked up a bucket from the ground. "'Hold the light high and close your eyes,' he told the men. "'Keep them closed. We'll be on the stump next.'

The men did as they were told. My stomach lurched and forced its contents up through my mouth, so forcefully my ribs bruised against the ropes. The sickness landed on the ground between my legs, a bloody red mess that swam and churned in the wavering torchlight. At its center was a white, malignant mess. This horrible thing, the shape my eyes struggled to follow, had been inside me. I screamed and yelled.

I kicked and struggled, but Matty's knots held fast. The tangled shape squirmed and it rolled. It was the same that had fallen. from the deer those days before, but disorganized now, struggling to shift itself away from the hunk of salt. As it struggled, I could see it more clearly, a mass of tendrils searching the air. At once they turned in my direction, tips glowing red. Again, the depths of the earth were revealed by those tiny lights, my ears filled with static. With a yell Mattie leapt forward, and clapped the bucket onto the ground covering the evil mass.

Instantly my head was clear. There lay Matty, small forms spayed upon the earth's lungs heaving. He yelled something in finish, and an acknowledgement came from the shadows. An unseen man led a young cow forward. The red and white heifer followed obediently, lowering its head to give the remains of the salt lick a tentative state. sniff. Here, here, Maddie said in finish, rising to his knees and placing one on top of the bucket. Maddie dismissed the man with a nod, then lifted the bucket with a flourish, moving quickly

away from what lay beneath. The cow, curious in its dim way, passed its big tongue over its nose before giving the strange pile a sniff. Before it could, the tendrils swung to face the heifer's white face, but giant beasts locked into position, wide eyes reflecting glints of red. My heels dug futile troughs in the ground as I tried to get away, but I was stuck, watching as the tangle of worms unfurled into hundreds of individual threads. They swarmed the earth, stretching thinner and thinner. Needle-like, they climbed up the transfixed cow's hooves and disappeared. beneath its coat. Still, the beast didn't move, long line of spittle running to the ground from

its slackened mouth. "'Now!' Maddie shouted, and the men with the lanterns opened their eyes, then looked at each other, waiting for someone else to make a move. "'Now, damn it!' Maddie said. "'The beast is already dead, and we are next!' With another blast of finish, this one profane. He's so. He's a-sadmit. He's a-haired. strode forward and ripped the torch from the hand of one of the men. The wood! Bring in the wood! he shouted, but still the men hesitated. So, he strode forward and cruelly laid the torch beneath the hind quarters of the cow. The flesh singed by Jesus, but the heifer didn't move. The beast feels no pain. The deed has been done. We have to move

quickly. Well, that did it. The men brought in pieces of well-seasoned wood and piled them beneath the cow. Then another stepped in. It was cookie. He doused the pile in oil before stepping well clear. Mattie, something solemn under his breath, then touched torch to wood. The clearing was flooded with light as the pile ignited. The men shielded their eyes, their bodies casting long shadows between those trees that remained. I couldn't turn away, so I watched as the helpless animal was engulfed in flames. As Maddie had promised, it seemed to feel no pain. It didn't react, dropping to its knees only when its charred legs could no longer support its weight. It rolled onto its side, mouth falling open, tongue sizzling in the fire. We all watched it burn for a long time. Oily smoke carried straight,

to the stars. Only Matty moved, making circles around the fire, looking intently into the flames. A slight pop, like a pocket of air in seasoned pine, stopped Matty in his tracks. It was followed quickly by another, then a third, and then a string of sparkling cracks from within the flame. Mattie slapped his leg and nodded with satisfaction, taking his pipe from his pocket. He retrieved a twig from the ground, lit it in the flames, then transferred the fire to the pipe. Only after the tobacco was smoldering to his liking did he finally come and release me. One by one the other men broke away into the darkness and returned to camp. But Matty and I stayed until morning, watching the flames spread, then recede, adding more fuel when needed,

and turning the embers to burn. all traces of flesh away from the bones. As we sat, he told me the tale, told me what the hell was going on. The thing was called Jumalalanka in the old country. Divine threads. They were placed individually in the first trees by God, feeding on the earth through the centuries. It wasn't sugar they ate or air they breathed, Mattie said. It was life itself. When such a The tree fell, the thread within would crawl to find a new host. If enough threads met, they formed a vile, insatiable knot. Maddie had heard the tales from his grandfather, a woodsman in the old country

who'd made his own charcoal and forged his own axes. He'd told Maddie how to kill the creature. Maddie hadn't abandoned the camp. He'd hiked down the mountain and stolen a cow from the closest farm. then walked the poor beast all the way back. Maddie returned to his tobacco pouch many times through the course of the telling. As the sun touched the trees to the east, we rake through the coals of final time, turning the cracked bones of the departed beast.

He tapped the ashes in his pipe onto the smoldering pit, followed that with a healthy glob of spit, plus a few more fierce words. Then we turned to camp. I fell into my bed, bruised and exhausted. He downed a cup of coffee, buttered a slice of heavy bread, picked up his axe, and headed back out the door. Many of the men returned, and eventually we finished the job. The money I'd earned became the down payment on this old farmhouse,

and the land I'll soon be buried within. I'll take to the grave the horrible vision. I saw those nights, shadows of actions beyond my control that haunt me still. I have tried to do right by nature since then to give back as much as I take, but by God sometimes you must kill to survive. Sometimes it takes a little death to make a living. Creepy presents such beautiful teeth. written by Jacob Angerer.

My father never really cared for me when I was a child. That was not so much the bane of his existence, rather a mild annoyance. There was a glaze across his eyes that no amount of my noise or silence could remove. But even as a boy, I always fancy that I'd win him over one day. We lived alone in a grand, albeit partially dilapidated house surrounded by thick, dark woodland. It was in this woodland that I found myself wandering by myself for hours at a time, in all weather, learning how to distinguish bird calls and navigate the landscape using the trees. I knew almost every inch of the place by the time I was a man.

It was on one of my daily wanderings that I stumbled across the skull and the undergrowth. I've never seen anything quite like it. It was too large to have belonged to any creature I'd ever encountered in the woods before. It laid amongst the ferns, half buried, and I fancied that it must have been exposed by the heavy rain that had turned the ditches to ponds and battered against my windows during the night. I wiped the wet dirt from it with my fingers, admiring the way the dim light caught its surface.

There were no discernible cracks, and all the teeth seemed to be accounted for. The teeth were quite long, too. Sharp. Something akin to fangs if I had to describe them more clearly. Whatever creature the skull belonged to must have been rather large. Having been unable to locate the skeleton it belonged to, I decided to take the thing back with me.

It was cold in my hands, left as much as a dirt on my sleeves. I filled the kitchen sink with warm water and cleaned the remaining dirt from the creases with the toothbrush. Tiny bubbles formed tinier patterns and rainbows glimmered in each of them. I was mesmerized by the way the dirt clouded the water like pipe smoke before turning the entire pool dark. I decided to gift the skull to my father in a pale cloth, and the glaze that had sealed his eyes from the world for all the time I had known him vanished almost instantly. He stared at it and gazed deeply into the seemingly empty eye sockets as though it were the face of a beloved pet. He looked at me and smiled.

For the first time in our lives, he smiled at me. I had caused a joyful expression on his face merely by bringing this object to him. However, after a month or so, his demeanor changed again, I sensed he was slowly, reverting back into his old self. I reasoned that I would have to repeat the act of the gift in order to maintain our relationship. The second prize I managed to obtain was a result of an accident. I startled Croydon on the edge of a small crag and seized the opportunity with both hands, though this was also how I learned to be more observant, more patient.

For Croydon's teeth were not all that beautiful. Father appreciated the gift, of course. But his merry mood did not last as long as it had when he set his eyes upon the first one, whom I dubbed London. I decided that I would have to be more discerning in the future. I named all the prizes according to the towns or cities I imagined them to have been born in. There was no real logic to their assigned monikers, just something I fancied they'd look like they would suit.

In fact, I found myself constructing elaborate backstories for them to be. past the time as I watched them. However, if they were unsuccessful of passing the mirror test, I would revoke their name and abandon their backstory altogether. The mirror test was an admittedly childish, nonetheless effective game I had devised to determine whether a prize was worth apprehending or not. I have become quite adept at catching rays of light on a small pocket mirror and reflecting them into the prize's eyes, with varying degrees.

of difficulty, depending on the target's vigilance. On occasion, they would become spooked by the sudden glare and speed up their journey. This proved somewhat useful at times, as they would shout into the trees, inquiring as who was there and such, which afforded me an even better view of their open mouths. Other times, it proved most disruptive to my operation, as I would have to be ever more cautious when initiating contact, with them already anticipating my approach. My ever-dissurning eye allowed me to gain the highest praise from Father, who showed his appreciation for my diligence and perseverance in the form of warm affection,

the likes of which I believed was long overdue. As the years went by, I was able to form a tight bond with my father, and I could confidently claim that he'd grown rather fond of me in the time since I had happened across the first of the prizes. London took pride of place in Father's room atop the mantel piece, resting on a little purple cushion, encased in a small glass cabinet. The others were originally confined to the box room, which also featured a large map that I marked places off of

according to their corresponding prize counterpart. But soon the collection grew too large for just one room, and we were forced to spread it out around various other things. places throughout the house. This provided something rather personal, I felt. The prizes were more like a part of the family if they were scattered around the home, rather than a mere collection of items stored away like bric-a-brac. Father soon grew sick with age, and I resolved to present him with a prize more regularly to keep him in good spirits. This presented difficulties, of course, namely the low number of prizes in the woods in the first place, and the need to find prizes

of continuous good quality. I managed to provide my father with a steady supply of decent prizes until I happened across the very last one my father would see. Richmond The last proved the most difficult to procure by far. I watched and tracked Richmond for hours in the blistering summer heat, all the while feeling myself becoming more and more like my father as I admired the teeth in the still-living skull. They were perfect, straight, clean, without any visible stains.

At one point, Richmond stopped to rest, and I was almost certain that I had been spotted or that my very presence had been sensed. I crouched in the ferns and lay on my belly amongst the leaf litter, listening as tiny souls skittered about in the foliage. I took advantage of the stillness and seized the opportunity to administer the mirror test, just so I could see the teeth in their natural environment. Richmond held up a hand to shield against the light and exposed the teeth. I knew then that they truly were the finest yet.

I found myself wondering if in harvesting this prize I would be depriving the world of a marvel, a wonder. But I reasoned that if anyone deserved a gift meant for all the world, it was my dear father, whose company had given me so much purpose over the last few years. Richmond proved a reluctant contributor to the prizes. The altercation that ensued upon my initiation of physical contact was rather messy. And at one point I feared that I might have damaged one of the front teeth. Had that been the case, I would likely have descended into insanity there and then. Such would the effect a loss of that caliber have had on me.

Fortunately, the only real damage Richmond sustained was a small crack at the back, which would be completely unnoticeable when displayed, given that the teeth were the main feature. I gently caressed the ghostly white in the darkened water, removing all traces of crimson from the bone. I dried it with a cloth and, as usual, left the teeth for last. I polished them with a softer brush than I would use for the rest of the skull, mindful not to loosen any.

My fear was not entirely unfounded, considering the scare I had had when I initially obtained it. I climbed the steps to Father's Chamber, carrying the skull in a black cotton cloth, so that it might enhance the gleaming whiteness of the bone. Father was propped up in bed, eyes half open. I crept across the room and told him in a whisper that I had yet another gift. His eyes opened fully, and he smiled as I unfolded the cloth and introduced him to Richmond. He chuckled, a wheezing, scenting chuckle that I had never heard him produced before. I moved Richmond closer to him, and he smiled.

took the prize in his crooked hands. His watery eyes grew wide and glinted in the candlelight. And for the final time, he looked at me and smiled, before uttering the last words I would ever hear him speak. Such beautiful teeth. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration. Please visit creepypod.com.

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