Creepy - Rock Quarry Anamolies: Bad Weather

Episode Date: September 1, 2025

Rock Quarry Anamolies: Bad Weather***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Dark Corridor***Written by: Timothy Moen***At the Edge of the Manor***Written by: Victor Julian-Henry Roberts and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***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. For our first story this evening, a routine shift at a rock quarry turns deadly

when a sudden flash flood traps workers in the pit, but rising water isn't the only danger. Creepy presents. Rock quarry anomalies, bad weather, written by known of consequence, and narrated by Michelle Kane. I've had a lot of crappy jobs, and I mean a lot. Too much work for not enough pay, abysmal hours that are either too many or not enough. For the longest time, I didn't even know overtime was a real thing. I'm referring to the time and a half pay part. I used to work more than 40 hours a week sometimes, but the extra pay never happened. Getting a job at the rock quarry changed everything. It's a pretty interesting job for the first few months.

But once you learn everything about driving a haul truck, it's tediously boring. On rare occasions, I get to watch the blasting crew demolish a wall, so we have more raw material to run. It happens three or four times a month, depending on how fast we process the material. It's the most interesting thing that happens here, but most of the time, I'm not within visual range. Sitting in a haul truck for 12 hours a day by yourself is boring, but there are things you can do to pass the time.

Listening to music, audiobooks, and podcasts was what I did for the first several months. But I either got tired of that, ran out of episodes to binge, or couldn't afford to spend any more on books. Since I already have access to several streaming services watching movies and TV shows, was the the next logical step. I say watching, but I'm more listened than anything. The Hall Road is an unpaved road, and rain makes it pretty rough, so I had to get a strong magnetic phone mount to install on the haul truck's dashboard. There are at most three other haul trucks on the road, and there's very little regular vehicles. On top of that, anytime a smaller vehicle or even another piece of heavy equipment comes onto the hall road, they have to radio at first so they don't

get accidentally squished. Water can be such an important part of operations. In the summer, it gets so hot and dry that driving kicks up an insane amount of dust. This dust can lower visibility and potentially cause accidents. Not so much between the haul trucks, but between haul trucks and smaller equipment. With as tall as the burns are along the edge of the road, regular vehicles are already hard to see. In order to eliminate this safety issue, a water truck just as large as the haul trucks

constantly rolls out and sprays water over the road. Now, because the hall road isn't paved, this can create slip hazards. Another water issue we run into during the summer is the man-made pond we have on site. It helps to filter out some of the water. the clay and also feeds into the plant. When it's hot and dry, the pond will dry out before the end of our 12-hour shift, which means we have to shut down. The only way we don't lose out on hours

is if we can move dirt or if there's work to be down around the stockpiles. When I first started here and learned all these things, I thought that had been it. But I forgot one blatantly obvious source of water that could impact operations. Rain can make such an impact. but water falling from the sky isn't enough to shut us down. Lightning strikes within a few miles will force us to stop, but we don't simply leave. Often we park the trucks in the pit to avoid being struck by lightning and wait the storm out. It's happened a handful of times since I started and only twice we were sent home. Checking the weather reports has become second nature to me thanks to this job.

Right now, we're due for some rain, but how much? is up for debate. When a storm rolls in, it has tendency to bypass us. I don't know why that is, but I've actually watched a storm come right for us, only to divert and skim past. From what little the weatherman could report, the entire area is going to get hit by today's storm. I'm mentally preparing myself for leaving work early, but at the same time, I'm hoping not to. It's not that I like my job that much, but I've got bills to pay. The morning starts off like it always does. I park in the lot next to the break room and put on my work boots. Grabbing up my lunchbox and backpack, I head inside and clock in. One thing I picked up on

quickly with this stupid clock is to check my hours. Either the system behind it is glitchy, or management likes to go in after the fact and alter punches to fudge the budget. I've gotten screwed out of several hours in the past, and it always happens around the time. storms. Once I've got my hours from yesterday logged into the spreadsheet on my phone, I heat up my breakfast and head out to my haul truck. The wind is already picking up and trying to push me around as I walk to the line of heavy mobile equipment. A cat, 775G, is the largest piece of equipment I've ever driven. The damn thing is the size of a small house, and the tires are six feet tall. I was so freaking intimidated by it when I first got here.

I mean, you have to climb a two-step ladder and five steps just to get inside. Before I can get into the truck, I whip out my flashlight and visually inspect the truck from the ground. Walking around, I check out the frame for cracks, the tires for damage, and hoses for leaks. If there's anything wrong at all, I have to put it on the worksheet for the truck. Everyone, no matter what they operate, has to fill out one of these sheets. MSHA inspectors can and will inspect every single piece of equipment, no matter how insignificant for anything wrong. Once I get to the back of the truck and inspect the tires, I wipe off the backup camera.

For some reason, these things love to get covered in dust and mud. On most days, the damn thing will get covered before I stop for fuel, making it virtually useless for several hours. The only upside is that MSHA won't give us a lot. a citation for that. Citations are bad news and can lead to thousands and finds. Climbing up the ladder and stairs, I pop open the cab door and toss my stuff inside. Just as I do, tiny drops of water come in on the wind and pop me right in the face. It's not much, but it's enough to collect on my glasses. I was hoping this would miss us completely like it had in the past, but if this is the worst of the

rain, I'll consider myself lucky. Now that I'm not getting my ass kicked by the wind, I start up the truck and get myself situated. Only once my paperwork is filled out with the truck's hours and the checklist is marked, do I get to eat my breakfast? It's nothing special, just a couple of homemade bacon and egg breakfast tacos, but they are heavily stuffed. One of the things I was told nearly right away about this job is that you can easily gain weight, sitting on your ass for 12 hours a day takes its toll on everyone in one way or another. By the time I start on my second taco, the other equipment operators are pulling an end to their gab fest in the break room and heading out to the line. I'm glad I don't stand around and talk with the others every morning. The

mist has turned into a light rain, and all those guys are rushing through it. Reheated bacon and eggs taste so much better when slackers are going through the inconvenience of getting wet. When the loader rolls out, I flip on my lights and follow at a distance. It's just after 5 a.m., but we won't get down to the third level of the pit for another 10 minutes. Loaders go so much slower than haul trucks. I think they top out at 10 miles an hour. I don't like being up anyone's ass, whether I'm in my personal vehicle or heavy equipment. When it comes to the loader, I have even more reason not to ride so close. Rocks and debris litter the road all the time. The hall road is directly next to the high wall,

so anything can roll off the top at any time. When first getting to the haul road, the loader will move anything he finds on the road if he can. Even though he has a radio to communicate with the rest of us, he won't call out if he's stopping to move something off the road. Hall trucks don't stop quickly, even when they aren't loaded, so I like to give him plenty of room. This job is a lot like others I've had in the regard of employees with more experience giving newbies a hard time.

As the new employee on site, I like to take caution in a lot of things compared to the more seasoned employees. For instance, I don't drive as fast as the others, which they claim is a hindrance to production. Before this job, the largest thing I ever drove was an F-250, so excuse the hell out of me for being slightly more cautious than someone that's been here a few years. years. Yes, to a novice driving on a road where there's less than five feet of clearance between you and a 175-foot drop with nothing but a three-foot dirt wall and rock berm keeping you from careening off to your death is unsettling. Getting used to it takes some freaking time. Sue me. Since my training completed and I was free to drive a truck solo, I have consistently been the first truck to be loaded. I don't know why the others take so long to do their walk around in paperwork,

but they do. We have three different pits, with multiple levels on site, and I never know where we're pulling from or what material we're running until the loader gets there. Instead of driving around in the dark, looking for a dozen lights of the loader, I like to follow him from the start. It saves me a lot of hassle. The worst part of the Hull Road isn't the worst because of the condition of the road. In the old pit, toward the bottom, where it curves to level three, the grade of the road is at its steepest. Even on dry days, I have trouble keeping myself from skidding if I'm going more than seven miles an hour, heading into the pit. Going up with the load, the truck won't kick out of first gear until it levels out some. Not all that surprising with

60 tons of raw material in the bed. As we approach level three, I slow my speed to a crawl. I let the loader get all the way down and then some before proceeding. There's enough water on the ground that the road is already getting nasty. I don't want a chance sliding into that loader. The last thing I want to do is grist my job on something stupid like that. As boring as it is, this is the best job I've ever had. Waiting for him to clear the drive path at the bottom, my eyes catch movement in the darkness.

I have no idea what moved, but I know something did. It could be any number of things. An animal could have been running along the bird next to the edge. A bird could have flown by. I once saw a rock completely dislodge itself from the high wall and fall over a hundred feet to the bottom with no explanation as to why. Lights flash in the distance. Lightning far enough away not to affect our operations.

Unfortunately, I know that hadn't been what caught my eye. I've never been a fan of working when it's dark outside. This world is full of crazy people, robbers, and all kinds of unseen dangers. Being active at night is a good way to run into something like that, and it's happened to me before. My cousin was mugged a few months ago, and at my last job, some asshole stole all the money out of my cash register while holding a gun on me. There was even one time, an ex of mine, waited for me in the parking lot at night, with a knife and tried to stab me. The crazy thing was, she dumped me and not because of anything

I did. Anytime I think I see something moving in the darkness, I automatically think the worst. The crazy-ass stories I've heard about this place doesn't help my paranoia. But as soon as it gets light enough out that I can see more than 20 feet to the sides without lights, I feel better. Unfortunately, with the storm overhead, I don't think it's going to get very bright today. I get the first load to the crusher by 529 a.m., and we run like normal for a little while. But by 6.41 a.m., the feed to the crusher gets shut off. It's not because the water plant has dirty water, though I wouldn't be surprised if it does. Now, this is due to an issue from one of the conveyor belts leading away from the crusher.

When it rains, the belt can sometimes slip on the tracking, spilling crushed material all over the place and even getting jammed up. Takes a while for that to get set right again, so we sit and wait. As we're sitting there and trying like hell not to fall asleep, the distant flashes of lightning have gotten considerably closer. One bolt flashes pretty damp brightly. Moments later, the radio starts talking. It's the plant operator telling the haul trucks to relocate back down to level three until further notice. The last place we need to be is parked up by the crusher during a lightning storm. It's the second highest point in the entire quarry, and the likelihood of us getting struck by lightning is pretty damn high up there.

One by one, the haul trucks turn around and head back to the pit where we load it up. We don't dump the load back at the pile, but we sit and wait loaded. I'm the last one down there, and I notice the loader is sitting next to the material, his lights off. Once the trucks turn around and face the ramp, they turn their lights off as well. I don't really want to, but I follow their lead. The last thing I want to do is sit here in the dark while a storm rages overhead. I don't want to be the only damn fool with this lights on either. These guys don't need any more ammunition to pick on me,

and finding out I'm uncomfortable with dark. would bring on a lot of hazing. To distract myself from how uncomfortable I am, I pull up one of the movies I have downloaded on my phone. The screen lights up inside of my cab, and I'm okay with that. I can't see inside the other trucks with the way we're parked, but I know most of them are either doing something similar or they're taking a nap.

A nap does sound pretty good, but the door on this truck doesn't lock from the inside, so my paranoia won't let me relax that much. much. Maybe if it was light out I'd be able to, but not now. The movie is a comedy that I'm all too familiar with, but it never fails to get a laugh or two out of me. Lightning continues to flash overhead, but I ignore it as best I can. It does light up the surrounding area well enough for me to see, but it's similar to strobe lighting. You can see briefly, but it's like looking at a photograph, not a video. My imagination would play havoc on me with that,

I get through about half the movie when the radio scares these shit out of me. The plant operator calls out to the entire pit crew to make our way to the shop. The storm is getting bad enough that everyone in the quarry is gathering there, and once the worst of the storm passes, we'll get to go home. I can already hear the others grumbling about losing hours, and if they'd known it was going to be this bad, they would have stayed the hell home. I don't blame them. In fact, I'd be grumbling right along with them,

Just not as loud. As the haul trucks jump their loads, the loader heads for the ramp. I'm in the last truck to dump my load back on the pile, and when I get to the ramp to head back topside, I find a line waiting. Confused by this, I look at the ramp and see what the holdup is. The damn loader is having trouble getting up the ramp with how sloppy the road is. He's spinning his tires and not making any progress. Before long, he starts backing down the ramp,

Only trying to go back up at an even faster pace, he doesn't succeed. Finally, giving up, the loader moves off the ramp and the first haul truck tries his look at it. He hits the ramp going much faster than the loader did and even gets a few yards higher before his tires start spinning. The damn fool guns it, throwing mud all over the place, and he never makes it any further up. He tries this a bunch of times, but never gets up the ramp. We're freaking stuck down here. I listened to the radio conversation between the loader,

the senior hall truck operator, and our supervisor. With as steep as part of the ramp is, the only way we're going to get back up to the top as if someone throws finished material onto the road for us to gain some traction. Unfortunately, only a loader can do that, and a loader with a bucket full of material will end up sliding down the hall road long before he reaches the steep point.

It's too dangerous. for someone to try it. The loader here can't just go get a bucket of material from the shot and throw it on the road. Rocks are way too big and sharp for us to safely drive over them. It would kill our tires, and those things cost five figures each. The company isn't going to want to charge more than a couple hundred thousand dollars worth of tires because we got impatient and tried it, not to mention the insane amount of clay in the material. It would defeat the purpose. So we sit and we sit and wait. Once the storm passes, all the smaller shipping loaders will bring buckets and buckets of finished material to spread all over the hall road from top down, and then we can get the

hell out of here. Until then, I recline my seat, kick back, and finish my movie. Once the movie finishes, I start looking through the other downloads for something to watch next. Just when I'm about to click on a sci-fi action flick, one of those emergency alerts blarees on my phone and scares the shit out of me. I nearly dropped my phone, but managed to keep it in my hands. What I see flashing on the screen has my eyes going wide. Flash flood alert. A flash flood is a rapid flooding of low-lying areas, and it doesn't get much lower than level three of the old pit. I'd noticed puddles forming down here while we were still running, and the sides of the roads were like tiny rivers. But with as big as this place is, the pit will flood quickly and work.

at the goddamn bottom. I've heard stories of the pit flooding, and it didn't paint a pretty picture. Some of the guys claimed the waters were 30 feet deep when it was all said and done. They had to bring out a couple of heavy-duty pumps and line the hall row with serious rubber pipes to drain it out to the creek. It also took months of non-stop running the pumps to drain it down to the passable level. I quickly flip on the worklights on the side of the truck and look out the window. The ground is a moving mass of swirling water, and it looks really high. But from here, I can't tell how high. I turn on the front lights, and sure enough, the entire area is completely flooded, or what I can see of it is. The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see the closest of the other haul trucks.

Before I can get to the radio to ask what the hell we should do, someone beats me to it. I listen to the back and forth, not liking what I'm. hearing. This storm is only getting worse, and it's supposed to last for several more hours. That means this whole damn area is going to be under serious water. And we currently have several million dollars worth of heavy equipment about to get drowned. They want us to drive as close to the ramp as we can, and they're going to work on getting the loaders to throw finished material on the hull row so we can drive out of there. All I know is they better work fast because the water pouring in here, looks to be getting worse. I put the truck in gear and slowly wade my way to the road. I'm guessing that

the others have already moved because I no longer see any of the other trucks as I go. It takes a few minutes for me to get to them, and it causes me to slam on my brakes. The three of them are side by side, completely blocking my access, which isn't all that surprising. The space is barely wide enough for two trucks to pass each other while operating. There's still a good distance between us, so I drive on. I find it odd that none of their running lights are on, nor do I see a light illuminating the space between them and the ramp. Just when I'm about to come to a complete stop, the ground dips and water splashes up on my windshield. Shit, forgot about that damn dip. Without warning, the dashboard and all my lights flicker off. Power to the truck is dead,

and the engine shuts down. That's just great. Even if, the loaders managed to get down here with material, I can't drive my haul truck out of this pit. That's just freaking great. Sitting in the pitch black with only flickers of lightning showing me the hellish world around me, it dawns on me. I'm not the only one that's lost power to their truck. They'll need to get a damn boat down here to fish us out of this mess before too long. You know what? Forget the boat. I've seen these guys work and the only thing they do fast is leave. even when they wait until the time clock hits 5 p.m. exactly. I grab up my car keys, take my sandwich out of the plastic zipper bag it's in, and stuff my phone inside.

I dump out the chips from the larger bag and stuff my flashlight inside with it on. I open the door, not bothering to put on my hard hat and step out into hell. The wind is kicking and the rain is pouring from the sky. I take that first step down and immediately my foot sinks into water. This shit is rising faster than I thought, and this crazy-ass decision would have come eventually. Using the handrail, I slowly make my way into the water, like lowering into the world's largest swimming pool. I shove my phone in my pocket, grip the flashlight in my left hand, and launch myself off the truck's tiny platform. I'd been up to my waist at that point anyway.

Swimming with steel-toe boots on is really hard, but it's even harder with the flashlight in my hand. My progress is slow, considering I'm fighting a current. It takes far longer than it should for me to reach the line of haul trucks, and I run into a problem. The water is jostling me all over the place, and the trucks are parked too close together for me to safely get between them. If I get caught on anything, I can easily drown. As I make my way around them, something splashes in the water to my left. I stop and tread water for a moment, pointing my light. in that direction. The loader isn't over there, so there shouldn't be anyone in that direction,

and I don't see a damn thing, but more water. Even the boulders that have been piling up on the side aren't visible anymore. By the time I finally make it around the hall trucks, I can barely make out four people pulling themselves out of the water. I shout to them that I'm coming, but it doesn't look like they can hear me. They're struggling through the mud on the ground and trying to get themselves higher. I go to sweep my flashlight over them. but something rams into me from the left. Barely managing to keep my hold of the light, I kick off whatever is pressed against me.

I feel it move as I propel myself through the water. And though it was pretty hard, it wasn't something solid like a rock. Whatever the hell it was, it moved as if alive. Is there something in here with me? It would have to be some kind of animal since the only other people down here are already on the ramp, Kicking furiously with my feet and arms, I desperately try to get to the ramp before whatever the hell it is can get to me again.

I imagine sharp teeth sinking in and dragging me to a watery grave. Panic and irrational fear take hold of me like the beast I imagine. I make a lot of movement, but I am not progressing very much. Continuing to shout for the others, I slowly make my way to the ramp. As I get closer, I hit something. underneath me and scream as loud as I can. Some of the water flooding my mouth. I hit at whatever it is, but what I hit is solid and hurts my hands even though it's squishy on the surface. Takes me a moment to realize I'm an idiot. I just found the damn ramp. Getting up the slope is really difficult,

harder than swimming over here had been. The mud covering the surface gives way under my weight, making forward progress a snail's place. I am completely covered by the time I clear the water, and just when I think I can get my feet under me, something grabs my leg. Slamming down to the ground, I feel a strong grip start pulling me back to the water. I kick out with my free leg and scream for help,

praying someone will hear me over the thundering storm. I try to grab something to keep me from sliding backward, but there's nothing here but mud. My foot connects with the hand or claw on my leg. But no matter how hard I hit it, whatever it is, won't let go. I'm losing my shit at this point and completely freak out when hands from above grab me. The others came back to help me, but they're finding it much harder to get me up than they had anticipated. It turns into a tug of war between the four of them and the thing trying to drag me back.

One of the guys lets go of me pulls a pocket knife from his pocket and moves to my feet. This is the guy that trained me, and I know that knife he has. It's not a typical blade under four inches, but a quarter inch blade that is easily six inches. He says it's sharp enough to cut through conveyor belts with little effort. I hear him grunt behind me and my leg gets jostled around. After a moment, my leg gets free, and the guys get me to my feet. Once I can stand again, I shine my light toward the water, searching for a trace of that thing that had me. All I see is water and mud on the road. I'm about to turn around and make my

way up the hall road, but something on the ramp near the water catches my attention. Impressions in the mud that look like hands, but are much too large and only have four digits. There's only one guy on site that's missing a finger, and he operates one of the shipping loaders topside. That and two of his hands could fit inside that impression. I want to ask what the hell that thing was, but the others are already making their way to higher ground. I wonder if this is going to turn into one of those stories I hear about that aren't supposed to be told. They do say that weird shit happens at the rock quarry all the time.

For our second story this evening, a man's post-work stairwell walk turns into a surreal descent, where silence becomes a living force, and it wants him. Creepy presents Dark Corridor, written by Timothy Mowen. This is anonymous, right? Look, I just want to tell someone what happened and go back to my life. Life's crazy enough without a story like this becoming all the world knows of me Especially with the way things spread on social media I just want to tell someone

I'm not looking to become the next person sitting in their car Ranting into their phone trying to become an internet celebrity Okay Okay Here we go It was about a month ago It was 8 p.m. and I was leaving work to go to my car parking ramp, doing my normal postwork checklist, keys, phone, pen, knife, and pepper spray.

It started as a normal walk. Loud people, rude people, the ever-present people playing music on their phones without headphones, others yelling into their phones on speaker mode in the middle of public. Men cat-calling, women yelling, a child screeching for no apparent reason. Cars blaring their horns, people shouting back, if they would understand better, if only they could muster more volume. When I rounded the corner near the parking garage, the racket of the street began to fade from an oppressive roar to the mild background buzz of humanity. My job pays... All right, I suppose, but not affording quick or convenient parking. So, it's four flights of stairs up to parking garage to my designated spot.

Entering the stairwell, I found myself luxuriating in the quiet, all but swimming in the beautiful silence. No noise, no blaring music, no catcalling, no shouting into phones or homeless begging for change, just relaxing, predictable, predictable, predictable, predictable, soft strikes in my shoes in the stairwell. As I leisurely climbed the stairs, I felt the tension in my shoulders relax. the walk through the crowded streets slowly draining from my neck, my hand clenching, flexing and extending my fingers, relaxing them, I took a breath. Small goosebumps rising on my arms as I breathed in the cool damp air at the stairwell. A small smile growing on my face. Keeping my eyes closed, I began to climb the familiar stairs.

My fingers slightly dragging on the rough pain to the hand railing, feeling the irregular. texture of layers of paint, applied over year after year, hiding rough surface where rust developed, depending on my familiarity of the stairs and railing, rather than my eyes ruining this small moment of serenity and quiet sensation. The moment seemed to stretch on forever. The footsteps providing a soft metronome, a mantra for my impromptu meditation. The rough texture of the handrail remaining unchanged. A singular focus of physical sensation for my peaceful mind.

My feet, still firmly striking the stairs and a steady cadence, continued to carry me forward. A series of steps, an abrupt 90-degree angle in the handrail. A brief flat platform. Another 90-degree angle in the handrail. Up the stairs again. I climbed four flights. By now my mind whispered.

No. I climbed four flights by now. My mind whispered. but my car is parked on the top floor and the stairs and handrail continued. I must have been mistaken. The steady echo of my feet striking the stairs once so soothing in my ears seemed to fade. My feet still continue to strike the stairs, the mild impact punctuating my feet, but the sound of the impact fading with each rotational transition to a new section of stairwell.

Soon I couldn't detect my feet making any noise at all. The near silence being counteracted within my mind with explosively loud phantom footfalls in conjunction with the striking of my feet. The peace and quiet of the stairwell, once so relaxing and safe, now oppressive, a heavy silence, a weight in the base of my stomach, like the feeling before giving a presentation entirely I'm prepared for, or the silence before an impending breakup, that you both know is coming. Tense, heavy with dreaded anticipation to be done with, but also a desire to avoid as long as as possible.

I slowly opened my eyes, squinting in the dim light. I was at the base of a transition to a new section of stairs, looking upwards. The stairs disappeared in a near darkness at the top of the new flight of steps, as if something it burned away the light ahead, the light from behind me fearing to climb the stairs with me and trespass on the stairwell above. My feet, once effortlessly carrying me forward with my eyes closed, now felt ridded in place. Heavy and ponderous to move as my gaze fixed on the darkened stairwell on the corner beyond. Slowly picking up my feet, feeling awkward and deliberate my movements, unlike the effortless unthinking steps have hardly met it earlier.

The handrail, previously so relaxingly bumpy and rough, became harsher, with flakes of rust and old paint scraping like tiny hooks, nearly painful against the flesh of my hand as I continued to climb. The corner ahead, rather than being revealed and made clear as I climb closer, it seemed to become more dark and inscrutable as my shadow stretched forward increasingly, blocking what little light passed forward. Squinting my eyes and shaking my head a bit foolishly, I reached from my cell phone, shaking it to engage the flashlight.

Temporarily blinded by the light, I closed my eyes. Then opening on his small slits, the beam of light from the phone was overwhelmingly bright, but insignificant in the darkness of the cramped stairwell. Opening my eyes further, I projected the light of the light. upwards to allow my eyes to adapt, noticing the steps beneath my feet had changed. No longer the pebbled cement with steel supports of the parking garage. Old stone blocks, the edges and corners of the steps rounded off and smooth from time. Slowly raising my eyes, the handrail I followed was no longer pinned around steel tubes,

but crude iron, irregularly shaped, pitted and flaking with rust. The light projected forward, revealing stairs leading up, covered with green lichen and moss, lush with the damp cold air, growing on the edges of the old stone steps. Raising the phone higher, the light simply disappeared into the darkness at the top of the stairs as if there was a black sheet draped from the ceiling halfway up. The light illuminating the stairs below that point, bright specks of dust, occasionally sparkled in the small beam of light. Everything above remained as dark as before.

The darkness my light couldn't penetrate lay halfway up to stairs where had previously been the apex of this flight. The moss and lichen once verdant with life from the moist steps now curled inward upon themselves, looking desiccated, colored gray and brown. The iron railing within the darkness began to sag and shrivel and collapse under its white. The corner of the stone steps appeared to dissolve. Edges and corners seeming to slowly become dust which eddied lazily in the air among the dying moss and lichen. Blinking with astonishment, the darkness advanced another step closer to me. I took a surprise step backwards

and the darkness seemed to match me, descending yet another stair. More of the handrail and stairs were slowly devoured as the darkness descended. Terror, confusion, astonishment, or maybe even curiosity. Something kept my feet ridded in place. The silence made my heartbeat a booming cadence in my ears. A juxtaposition to the raspy breathing of my lungs. The darkness imperceptibly advanced as I gaped at it, my mind battling itself. either turn and flee or walk forward and simply step into the silent darkness.

To reach out and embrace the quiet, simple, silent, soothing darkness and leave the loud, overwhelming chaotic realities of life behind. In that moment I knew, on a fundamental level, on a primal level, down to my tiniest cell, that darkness is where I will ultimately end where everything will end where everyone and everything will end myself my pet the loud people on the street the bank that holds my student loans

they'll all end in that darkness why not just enter it now spare myself the irritation the noise disappointments frustrations and pain I'm going to end up in the darkness anyway, why endure this suffering just to end the same? I took a step forward, dragging the soul of one shoe across the rough hewn stone block. My foot stirring up eddies of dust.

The dead plant life crackling and popping under my feet. Slowly, step by step, my feet pulled me forward, quiet crackling, sounding explosive within my ears. The darkness, once nearly static, began. descending the stairs toward me, like an oil suspended as a curtain, leaving a film of desiccation and darkness on all that it touched. After several steps, my feet found themselves frozen in place, between steps, one foot on the upper stair and the other plant had to stare lower, paralyzed, as if all strength had been leached from my legs or simply from my mind's will to advance, my chest and arms were shaking.

A shivered so aggressive my muscles cramped. My lungs breathing panicked staccato as I simply stood there, watching as the darkness continued its slow inevitable advance. My eyes contained to scream that my lungs couldn't find the resolved to release. The darkness advanced, barely more than an arm's reach. I noticed a light, a pale, golden glow rising from beneath my feet, rising in wisps of misty light, circling around my legs and rising before my chest, swirling in my shallow breaths. The glowing mist rose, filling the

space between me and the descending darkness. Where the two met, the light turned from a pale golden glow to a sickly yellow brown and dissipated into dust, sharing the fate of, everything else. The descending darkness slowed its advance continuing, slower and ponderous, as if it were advancing through water, wavering irregularly its jerks and jitters where it previously advanced as an inexorable wave. As I stood there frozen, I began to see movement and shapes within the illuminated mist. A woman with tired eyes changed from an ill-fitting work uniform. to another equally ill-fitting but different work uniform. She took a brief moment to look into a bedroom where a child was asleep,

tucked in with old blankets, peacefully unaware of the woman's gaze. Breathing a kiss at the sleeping child, she grabbed another cup of coffee and stepped out a door under a dark evening sky, adjusting her work uniform to fit marginally better. Tired, caffeinated eyes looking for the uniform's name tag. A dirty, old, tired man sat beside a mangy dog, huddled together under the shelter of a small tent, badly repaired many times with duct tape of many collars.

The old man traded bites of a sandwich, pulled from an empty cloth bag with a dog. The old man smiled warmly as the small dog's tail whipped back and forth. The two of them occasionally flinched from raindrops penetrating the damaged roof of the tent. The old man's quiet laughter echoing in the rain when the dog flinched at drops of water dripping on his nose. I stood rooted in place, staring at the images of the woman and the old man as they sank into the encroaching darkness and were devoured. The light fading to empty lifeless dust again. The darkness delayed, but not stopped. As quickly as they were devoured, more images appeared.

Smoke. Fire, ash, a small ball of dirt, singed fur and burnt flesh quivering. Beneath it a smaller, slightly clearer ball of fur. Not yet burned or singed, just dirty and quivering with fear. The larger ball of fur cooes comfortingly to the smaller and crouches further over the top of the smaller as burning embers land among its fur, singeing it further. A classroom. Doors locked.

Children gathered against the far wall with desks piled up against the door. The teacher flinches as a sharp crack echoes throughout the building. Placing herself between the children and the door she turns to face her students. Look at me, children. Just look at me. Let's practice our ABCs. I'm so proud of all of you. The darkness encroaches, a little slower than last,

but unstopped, as ethereal images are consumed again. A young child sat at a dinner table, quietly eating a bowl of oatmeal. A rail thin man in overalls looked on, a quiet smile on his face as the child ate, swallowing the hunger in his own belly, a hand pressed against his stomach to mask the rumble of hunger unsatisfied. Again, the image was consumed. A wounded soldier stood before a horde of enemy combatants. His deathen's, blood leaking from innumerable wounds appearing and disappearing on his body,

his uniform flashing between different cultures and eras, a World War II British uniform, a samurai, a modern soldier with high-tech equipment, a Greek hoplight, a nearly naked man with a crude spear. Behind each man a crowd of people fleeing, sometimes fellow soldiers, sometimes civilians, sometimes simply scared and desperate people. people. Each time the wounded soldier stood between the danger and the fleeing people, willingly earning himself more horrific wounds. He made the decision to stand time and time again, then gone, like all the others. A small mouse-like creature bore its teeth hissing and rearing up, a pitiful display of ferocity as a large lizard circled slowly around it. Behind the small and smaller creatures squeaked their fear and panic to an uncaring universe.

As her mother continued to place herself between them and the circling lizard, hissing her bitter, desperate defiance at the larger creature, perhaps the dry air irritated my eyes. My body's automatic response overriding whatever held me paralyzed. Maybe it was the dust. I don't know, but I blinked. At that moment, I turned and ran. tripping and stumbling down the stairs in my haste, I rolled my ankle, or didn't slow me down. I took the bus home for the first time in years since buying a car.

I'm sure I was a sight to be seen on the bus, scared, sweating, rambling to myself, trying to process what the hell just happened. But no one bothered me. I suppose people rambling to themselves in bad shape really isn't that uncommon on public transportation. I wonder how many of them aren't crazy. Just experiencing something like me. I hope not. I hope my experience is extremely rare.

I don't want to be in a world where it isn't. I've been taking the bus for a month now. My car is still up there. I don't know what I'm going to do about it. I'm not going to be climbing any stairs till my ankle heals anyway. After that, I don't know. our final story this evening. After moving into a Gothic estate, a man's sleepwalking turns nightmarish when he wakes holding a bloodstained agar by a hidden stairwell. Creepy presents

at the edge of the manor, written by Victor Julian Henry Roberts, and narrated by J.V. Hampton Vance Ant. It's hard for me to find peace and sleep sometimes. In particular, In particular, what made it difficult is the sleepwalking. Usually, these sleepwalking episodes only occur every few months, but every time, they are accompanied by horrific nightmares. The last one I had was a vision of me violently dragging my son down into a dark chamber, placing him in handcuffs and locking him in a jail cell, as he screamed and cried for me to let him out. I woke up in the middle of the night standing outside in the field before the trees,

ragged and weary as if I hadn't slept a wink, my clothes scuffed and covered in dust. My somnambulic nightmares started around nine months ago when I turned 63 and bought this old manor next to the forest. The mansion on the manor had been built in 1890 and had all the art of the archery and had all the architectural features typical of the Victorian-era building, particularly in the Gothic revival style. It was three stories tall with lancet and clover-shaped windows, great pillars on the porch, standing before two ornate wooden doors, decorative brackets under the roof's edge, with towering battlements and turrets crowned with roof finials that pointed upward towards the sky,

making the whole building almost appear like a great castle. The manor was complete with a large field next to the forest. Although the mansion was gorgeous beyond belief, there would be times I would feel unsettled while living on that property, as though there was an ever-looming presence there with me. It could be that my age has been taking its toll on my mind. But I didn't always feel in control of my own actions. There would be many times I would step out the door and stare out into the woods,

feeling as though something was beckoning me. I had only one son who lived with me, 18 years old, but he disappeared and stopped talking to me months ago. Today is only one day short of nine months since I had. last heard from him, as well as since the night I received that terrible sleepwalking vision. I still do not know his whereabouts, and it pains me to think of how he left me without even a goodbye. Even still, I try to make do by enjoying every day in the few simple ways I can. When I got into bed tonight, I said,

simply did what I usually do to try and get to sleep, sitting in the dim light of my bedside lamp, silently reading a book, and basking in the calm of the quiet, snowy November evening, until my mind began feeling foggy. It wasn't before long that I felt the clutches of sleep begin to take me. I put the book down, turned off the lamp, and nestled into my blanket. Within minutes, I fell into a deep slumber. However, my rest wasn't peaceful at all. I was plagued with another nightmare, even worse than the last. I vividly remember dragging a starved, disheveled-looking version of my son out of a jail cell

and down a long, dark flight of stairs, while he was in a pair of rusty handcuffs. He struggled in his restraints, crying in a rasping, strained voice, that he had been locked up in that cell for so long, that he was sorry for whatever it was he did, and that he still loved me. I pulled him into a massive cathedral-like chamber before a trapezoidal stone altar, illuminated only by candlelight.

Looming over the altar was a massive religious idol of a half-man, half-beast entity, its head comprised of both draconic and caprine features, and its feet and hands like that of birds of praise cruel talons, with great bat-like wings unfurling from its back in a threatening posture. As if some horrible force of evil was compelling me, I threw my own son upon the altar before the great idol. I grabbed the sacrificial dagger next to me. I remember how the obsidian blade shone in the candlelight of the chamber.

Without even a sliver of mercy, I slashed his throat in one clean slice. I remember the gurgling sound his throat made as it filled with blood. He tried to gasp in pain, his eyes bloodshot, wide, and teary as he stared up at me. Then, within half a minute, he went limp, a permanent expression of anguish etched on his face. When I finally awoke from my nightmare, I found myself standing in a field again, at the edge of the woods. I felt worse than usual. My muscles burning and a dull headache piercing my skull as the cold winter air embraced my skin.

The sky was black as pitch, and the light of the full moon reflected off the snow, which covered the ground and trees in a thick white blanket. I simply continued to stare into the woods, unblinking, as if possessed by something outside of my own consciousness. That's when I noticed a stairwell at the edge of the forest leading underground. Leading back to me from the stairs were a few scant droplets of red staining the white snow. I looked down.

In my left hand, I was holding the sacrificial dagger. It's Obsidian Blade still dripping with fresh blood. 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 Commons Share-A-Like licensing. or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the story's author.