Creepy - Rock Quarry Anomalies - Trash Pit & See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

Episode Date: June 5, 2025

Rock Quarry Anomalies - Trash Pit***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil***Written by: S.S. Justice and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Check out all our merch at creepypod.printify.me or creepypod.com/store***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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

Trash Pit. Written by known of consequence and narrated by Michelle Kane. Every rock quarry is different, even the ones within the same company. They aren't like major box store chains that can be carbon copies of each other. The quarry I've worked at for more than a decade consists of six major areas. First is the pit, which is just a big hole in the ground where raw materials are loaded onto trucks. Next is the primary plant where the raw material is processed and broken down into smaller rock, refined and turned into sellable material.

The stockpiles follow, where the finished products are not only stored but loaded onto cargo trucks that come onto the property. The water plant, though set off apart from the plant itself, intricate to the process. Feeding and cleaning water used throughout the processing plant. Then there's the shop where the mechanics work on all the mobile equipment. Lastly, is the office, where trucks loaded with finished product get weighed and paid for the material. In my time here, I've driven a haul truck, worked at the water plant, been the tower operator for the processing plant, and even ran a shipping loader for a little while. These days, I spend most of my time in the second largest loader we have on property. The largest one is used to load the hull trucks with raw material inside the pit.

You need to have a good amount of experience loading trucks to be that guy. Not only do you need to adequately load the right amount of material in the haul trucks without knocking them about too much, but you need to do it in a timely manner. That first bucket into the truck is kind of critical. If you simply dump the bucket in, it can rattle the truck around something fierce. When I was new to the job and the loader did that to me, I equated it to getting into a minor car accident. At my current skill level, I can either be fast or delicate. In order to give me practice with the machine, I get to push dirt.

Whether you're expanding an existing pit or developing a new one, the first stage is to strip the top layer of dirt. The quality of the dirt here isn't that great, so selling it's not an option. To get at the rock below, we sometimes forego processing rock for stripping off this top layer. Since we need to put it somewhere, the trucks dump it at what we call the trash pit. It's not what it sounds like. We're not actually dumping trash into a landfill or, anything like that. If we did, the EPA would be so far up our ass, we wouldn't be able to

sit down for a month. No, the trash pit is called that because it's where we take the material that we can't use. When you process rock, there's a certain level of breakage that's inevitable. Sometimes the belts break or tear, a sifter develops a hole, or even a belt gets overloaded with material, and it stops moving. Whatever the case, a certain level of material. A certain level of The material inevitably gets wasted. This material either ends up spilling or getting dumped onto the ground. The guys that work on the grounds of the plant will use smaller equipment to move it into piles that are out of the way but still around the plant. After a while, these piles will start to get too big and something needs to be done.

When that happens, production will shut down for a day and the pit crew will spend the day removing the material. If shutting down production isn't an option, they'll pull one truck, and I get to load this trash material. It's the only time I get experience loading a truck. On the days when we're either stripping black dirt or the pit crew is moving trash material, I get to sit atop the trash pit and wait. This quarry has been around for more than 40 years, and it has more than one pit. The trash pit is the original, but it was finished off 20-plus years ago. By my estimation, you could probably fit 20 football fields in it and still have room for sidelines between each field. I'm not the greatest judge of distance, especially when the

ground is 200 feet down, but it's pretty damn big. The ramp going into the pit has long since been closed off and no one can go in. When it rains, the old pit floods pretty heavily, and from what I've been told, there were lots of clay deposits on the floor before they finish. Maintaining a floor like that is a lot of work, and not worth it when all you're doing is dumping unusable material inside. The haul trucks dump the material against a berm that's set up against the edge of the pit. This berm is typically 6 to 10 feet from the edge, which greatly reduces the risk of the ground-giving way and causing the truck to fall in. With the amount of space at the edge of the pit, 30 or more loads can be dumped before they have to start a new layer. This is where I come in.

After about 10 loads of whatever material they're dumping, I'll start pushing the material over the edge. This may not sound important, but it actually is. If it wasn't for me, the loads would just keep piling on top of each other, filling the entire driving space. The only way to move it when it gets more than three layers thick is by you, using a bulldozer. And it takes fucking forever. There's only one guy on the quarry that can operate the machine, and he's not good at it. Moving trash material or black dirt is a necessary task, but one that can usually be scheduled. So we typically know in advance when we're going to do it. Sometimes when there's an issue with the plant and production can't continue, management will

have the pit crew switch to black dirt. This way, everyone still gets in their hours. I don't mind because it gets me more experience in the loader. The only thing about moving black dirt is that we're not supposed to do it when it's still dark outside. When you're backing up a haul truck to a berm that's made out of dirt, you pretty much can't see it because the damn dirt blends in with the darkness. Even though these berms are supposed to be tall and thick enough to not allow a piece of equipment to go through it, it can still happen. Between rain eroding them and some in kind of,

competent jackass in a loader that can't lay one out properly, berms aren't 100% reliable. I make sure that mine are, but that's neither here nor there. As usual, the shift starts at 5 a.m. And after checking all my fluid levels and topping off the fuel tank, I drive the loader to the trash pit. Daybreak isn't even a hint on the clear horizon yet, but I like to get there and inspect the area long before the first truck shows up. I need to check the ground for any major cracks, weak or missing berms, and any debris that may get in the way.

Thankfully, I took care of all this before leaving yesterday, so my check is quick. Normally, I'll leave the loader running so the engine and oils can come to temperature, but not today. I've easily an hour before we'll start, and this is a rare opportunity for me. cutting the engine, I emerge from the loader to a peacefully quiet morning. There isn't a cloud in the sky and the nearly full moon is casting more than enough light for me to see my surroundings. I take out my first cigarette of the day and try not to look at the flame as I light it. Killing my night vision kind of defeats the purpose of me coming out this early. When I first started here, the trash pit had long been closed out. I've never been inside it,

but I've seen it plenty of times from this ledge. Some of the old-timers that taught me about this place used to love telling stories. Not all of them, mind you, but a few, and the ones that would talk were hard to stop. Once they got to tell in a story, they finished it to the end, whether someone was listening or not.

Unfortunately, I couldn't not listen. These guys were 30 or more years older than me, and my upbringing wouldn't allow me to again. them. Respect for your elders and all that. Things worked a lot differently back when they were pulling material from this pit. Safety regulations weren't anything like they are today. We have a safety meeting two to four times a month now. Back then, they barely had more than a handful a year. They were more concerned with production and selling material, to the point that safety was barely a concern. Training wasn't all that extensive either for the new guys.

There were a lot of accidents in those days, but unless someone got seriously injured, they weren't reported. It's because of those kinds of shoddy practices that safety regulations are so harsh now. The first story I was told about the trash pit was during my initial week on the property. I was hired as a haul truck operator and had to sit in the world's most uncomfortable seat for a week while I learned everything there was to know. The old-timer who taught me, Joe, loved to talk. It got to the point where I thought I was bleeding out of my ears. The only upside was that he smoked as much as I did,

and that was a lot back then. It was 35, 40 years ago when this young punk came to work at the quarry. He was a hot head with greasy hair and a, I know more than you, attitude about everything. Even things he didn't have a clue about. His name was Cliff, and the only thing he loved more than blaring Leonard Skinnered and Black Sabbath was smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. He would do all of those things while he was on site. The only saving grace for this guy was that he was a master mechanic.

That and Cliff never drove his mechanic truck, so he always had an assistant with him, mostly to drive. occasionally the guy would help with repairs but nothing major. Cliff loved engines and could figure out problems that stumped season masters. Management knew about his alcohol abuse while on the clock, but because he could fix anything on mobile equipment, they looked the other way. It rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, and anytime safety inspectors came out, Cliff was whisked away for something off-site. The loudmouthed punk had been working for the wrong way.

the company a little over a year when there was a minor accident inside the pit. The plant manager's pickup blew a tire and jacked up something underneath. On this particular day, the assistant called in sick, so Cliff had to drive himself out to the pit. There were four haul trucks pulling material while Cliff was down there, but thankfully they managed to drag the truck away from the drive path. In order to get whatever damage was under the truck, Cliff had to jack it up nearly twice as high than he would just for the tire. While he was under there with his tools trying to fix whatever the plant manager had screwed up, Cliff failed to notice the haul trucks had stopped running. Normally, this would mean that there was an issue with the plant and the haul trucks were parked at the

crusher. This wasn't the case that day. The available material the trucks were running was almost out and a blasting crew was rigging up explosives to shoot one of the far walls. Cliff was far enough to far enough away, he wasn't in the danger zone, but that only meant he wouldn't get hit when the charges were blasted. These days, they'll completely clear out the pit before blasting, and part of that might be because of what happened. When the explosives blew and the 300-foot rock wall came crashing down, it shook the ground. You can feel a blast in the ground for a mile or two in every direction. It doesn't feel like an earthquake unless you're very close. close to it, which Cliff was. While he was under the truck, the ground shook hard enough to rock

the truck. The jack he'd used to raise the truck wasn't stable enough to withstand that abrupt movement. It teetered over, bringing the pickup right down on top of Cliff. Between the haul trucks running material and his music blaring out of the mechanic truck, no one heard Cliff's struggling cries as he was crushed under the pickup. If his assistant had been there, maybe something could have been done for the irresponsible young man. At the very least, he wouldn't have died alone. It was hours before the plant manager and supervisor came out to see if he'd fixed the problem. Cliff wasn't the only one to die out here, but it's been years since the last fatality. These kinds of mining operations are closely watched nowadays to prevent

things like this from happening. I'm fully aware of that as I stand on top of the loader, exhaling smoke into the wind as I overlook the trash pit. Joe told me this story because there have been several claims over the decades from multiple people. I'm not one of them, but I'm trying to be. If you're out here by yourself and don't have any equipment running, there's a chance you could encounter a spectral anomaly. The experiences vary, but it range of from seeing something walking around the bottom of the pit to hearing music playing. One guy was illegally dumping trash into the pit at night and swore something came out of the hole and chased after him. Now granted, the guy wasn't even an employee, so he was trespassing

and might have been under the influence of something. He had been driving like a bat out of hell along the hall road and hit a berm so bad he flipped his truck. It was blind luck that idiot was discovered. There was an issue with one of the water pumps, and the water plant operator had to drive out there to see what was wrong. Any other day, there wouldn't have been a need for someone to drive out that way. The idiot was found and rescued less than 30 minutes after the accident. Had the pump been working fine like it normally does? The trespasser would have died, similarly to the way Cliff did. All my life, I've heard people tell ghost stories and swear up and down that they're real. There's even been some guys on the night shift that swear they've seen ghosts back in the area of

the new pit. I've always wanted to see something spooky like that, to know once and for all if ghosts are real. So far, I haven't seen anything, but today is going to be different. If I don't see any evidence this morning, I'm going to afford. officially write the whole thing off as nonsense. Sadly, Joe isn't around anymore. He didn't get to make it to retirement due to his poor health. It'll happen when you smoke two packs a day for 45 years and don't take care of yourself. That's one of the biggest reasons I've cut back as much as I have.

Thankfully, I remember the details he gave me about Cliff, to include the kind of tobacco he used in his hand-rolled cigarettes. The very tobacco that's in the cigarette, I'm smoking. right now. In addition to the cigarette, I pull out a Bluetooth speaker, turn the volume way up, and blast some Leonard Skinnered. I'm not going to go so far as to drink whiskey from the bottle, but I did bring one of those tiny bottles you find in mini bars. As the song ends and the air is silent before going into the next song, I pop the top on the tiny bottle and toss it to the ground. Only I don't hear it clank against the hard-packed ground. Curious, I look down and see something

unusual as Freebird starts playing, but either my eyes aren't making it out too well, or my brain is having difficulty interpreting what my eyes are seeing. I'd say it's a bit of a fog, but fog doesn't take a shape like that, nor does it come in people's shape. There's a strange glow to it. There's a strange glow to it, a kind of luminescence that can't be coming from the moonlight because it's too bright for that. I came out here to try and provoke a ghost into appearing and takes me several moments to realize I've actually succeeded, that I'm actually successful. It's not until I realize the ghost is holding the tiny bottle of whiskey upended, pouring the meager contents down its non-existent throat that I understand. The bottle quickly empties and the ghost turns to look at me.

I never so much as saw a picture of Cliff, but I don't need to be familiar with his face to know he's looking at me with anger. I don't know if he's pissed about being disturbed like this, if the whiskey isn't to his liking, or if it's the fact that there wasn't very much of it. Either way, I can tell Cliff is pissed at me. As that in time, tense part in the middle of the song hits, the ghost launches itself at the side of my loader. Before I can react, I am pitched backwards at the sudden force of the blow. Quickly, the loader turns into a boat in the middle of the ocean doing a storm. The rocking gets so bad that my back smacks hard into the railing, and I'm thrown over the edge.

Landing on the ground in a heap, I'm astonished to see how far over the loader leans before or falling back the other way. I don't know where the speaker is, but it's still playing the loud music, and I realize what Cliff is trying to do. He's trying to push the damn loader over on top of me. I try to scramble away, but the impact from falling eight feet onto my back has me too stunned to move much. I don't get very far before the loader starts tipping in my direction again. Hearing that song play gives me an idea, and I quickly get my phone out. I get the music app to its home screen and hit play on one of those annoying preset pop music playlist I've never used.

Within moments, Freebird is replaced by Brittany singing about domestic violence. I know that's not what she's actually saying, but that's how I took it when I originally heard it. I half expect the ghost to scream out in protest at the sudden change in women. music. But there's nothing. The loader stops rocking like a boat in choppy waters, and there's no ominous glowing figure around anymore. After a while, I managed to get to my feet and discover nothing is broken. I just need to decide if I'm going to call my supervisor over and let him know that I fell or not. I may not have any broken bones, but that's not to say there isn't any damage. If I do call him over, there's no way I'm going to mention the ghost.

First off, he wouldn't believe me if I did tell him. Second, on the off chance he did believe it, he wouldn't report it like he would anything else. I know for a fact that weird shit happens out here all the time. But if you want to keep your job, you keep that kind of shit to yourself. We had this new guy about a year ago. Didn't last very long, only a few months. It was long enough to learn how to drive a haul truck, but Jonathan was a serious dumbass, and he sucked at his job.

I think he was let go because he talked too much about the ghosts that are supposedly near the new pit. I'm not looking to find a new job, but I'd like to come up with some reason for my fall that won't point the negligence on my part. If I come up with something good enough, I might be able to score some workman's comp. That'd be nice. Creepy presents. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Written by S.S. Justice.

And narrated by Rissa Montanez. Lynn heard the sound again. Loud echoing footsteps in the rhythm of a march. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound reverberated down the hallway, amplified by the pre-dawn stills. of the old house. It always came from the same place, down the hallway, right in front of her

room's front door. The cadence was precise, unwavering. The march would pause for five agonizing seconds, a beat of utter silence that felt heavier than the thumps themselves, and then they would start from the top, the cycle beginning anew. She strained her ears, breathing quick, shallow She willed her brain to tune it out, to reclassify it as a creaking floorboard, or the wind whistling through a crack in the window frame, as anything but what it sounded like. Meanwhile, sleep, a fragile creature, fluttered just out of reach. She had been hearing these steps for about two weeks,

and in those two weeks, her sanity had begun to fray at the edges. But tonight, something felt different. Tonight, as the marching echoed in the hallway, unsettling memories bubbled to the surface. Hazy fragmented images. Fingers gliding down a wall. The sound of nails. The same marching step, heavy and deliberate,

like the stop of boots with reinforced heels. Or, She shivered, dismissing the next thought as ridiculous. Or like the cloven hooves she'd seen in that one really scary horror movie she saw when she was way too young. Note to self, never watch scary movies ever again. Lynn didn't want to say her house was haunted. She refused to even entertain the thought, acknowledging that there was something there,

that the prickle in the back of her neck that made her sense, snapped to intention wasn't just stress-induced paranoia, meant admitting that something tangible, something malicious, was present in her home. Her fingers turned white from the grip on the fluffy hello kitty blanket. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to conjure images into her mind, just to drown out the sound. Thump. Thump. Thump. But the sounds were too persistent, too real. And then suddenly, she was somewhere else. It was her hallway, familiar, yet horrifically wrong. It looked as if she were facing out her door, staring into the corridor. But the normal comforting clutter, the faded photographs on the

wall, the worn rug, were all absent. The hallway. The hallway, was dimly lit, bathed in a sickly unnatural red hue that seemed to emanate from the very walls. The living room beyond, usually illuminated by the streetlights filtering through the window, was pitch black, a void of absolute darkness. Even the moonlight streaming in from the front door couldn't penetrate the oppressive gloom. She couldn't move. Her body was stiff, unresponsive, trapped in a silent, unseen prison. She felt like a puppet with its string severed.

Panic clawed at her throat, and a silent scream became trapped within. She knew it was watching her. It was there, lurking in the darkness, patient and predatory. She could feel its eyes on her,

cold and calculating. It was a little. waiting. Waiting for. There was a flash of lightning, a blinding white sheet that illuminated the hallway for a fraction of a second. And she seized, her body shooting up in her bed, wide awake, hard hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Okay. She whispered, trying to calm herself. That was definitely not just the house settling. Mom, this time I have it on video. You can hear it. Lynn said persistently, shoving her phone practically up her mother's nose. Her mom, Martha, pursed her lips in a way that only moms could. A perfect blend of annoyance and exasperation.

Stop that nonsense now, Lynn. You're going to scare your brother. Toby, eyes wide with morbid curiosity, shook his head in denial. I want to see? He was 12 and easily spooked, but he also had the attention span of a net. Her mom rolled her eyes. No, you won't.

You'll have nightmares. Lynn clicked play on the video. The sound of the footsteps was barely audible through the phone's tiny speaker. It sounded more like a distant rumble than the earth-shattering march she experienced in her room. See, it's nothing, Lynn.

Just the house settling. Her mom said, her voice dismissive. But mom, it's been going on for weeks. It's always the same, at the same time, right outside my door. Lynn pleaded, frustration tightening her cheeks. Lynn, her mom sighed, taking Lynn's hand. You're stressed. School is stressful.

Caring for Toby is stressful. You need to relax. Get some sleep. Lynn's shoulders slumped. Talking to her mom was always the same. Dismissal masked as concern. She knew her mom didn't believe her. Maybe she didn't want to.

The old house held a lot of memories for her. Mostly good ones. To admit something was wrong with it would be like admitting something was wrong with their family history. She regretted telling them anything. Telling him. Suddenly, the sound was gone, as if it was never there. She should have been happy, but instead, she was afraid.

Toby had been acting off since she showed him the video. His eyes looked sunken from lack of sleep. Her mom claimed it was school, that a group of boys had been bullying him, but that she had spoken with their parents so everything should get better. Key term? Should. Two days later, the body of Tim Burley, one of Toby's bullies, was found in the woods. The woods behind their house.

The official cause was animal attack, but the details were horrifying. His eyes were missing. A week after that, Sam Hale, another bully. was found face down in the river. His body was bloated, waterlogged, and his ears were missing. The parents were panicking. Who else was next?

They all questioned. Their voices filled with terror. They were all oblivious. Lynn, however, knew exactly who was next. Jeremy Copeland, the last of Toby's tormentors. Lynn had noticed the pattern. the sudden quiet of the house and her brother's increasingly erratic behavior.

She didn't want to be right, but she was terrified she was. When Jeremy's body was found buried alive, tongue removed, Lynn was proven terribly correct. She didn't know why he was doing it, but she knew it had to do with that awful sound and why it disappeared a few days before the murders began. Lynn felt the weight of it all crushing her. The disappearances, the fear gripping the town, the growing suspicion in her mother's eyes as she watched Toby. He haven't slept properly in weeks,

his eyes wide and haunted, darting around as if he expected something terrible to leap out of the shadows. The police, desperate for answers, had already questioned Toby once. Toby seemed clueless. eyes widened confusion at the suspicion. She had to know. She had to understand what was happening to her brother,

what connection he had to the escalating terror. That night, she set up a camera in her room, aimed at her bed. She wanted to catch the source of the sound, to prove to her mother that she wasn't imagining things. But mostly, she wanted to know if Toby was the one who hurt those boys. And if so, what caused it? She needed to know, and she needed to protect her family.

You know, this is kind of creepy, right? She muttered to herself as she adjusted the camera angle. Like right out of paranormal activity? Except hopefully, I won't get dragged under the bed by a demon. Sleep alluded her. Every shadow seemed to rive. every distant noise amplified into a monstrous threat. She lay rigid in bed, her hand gripping a small, worn crucifix.

Around 3 a.m., Lynn felt a strange sensation building up in her body. The air in her room grew frigid, a stark contrast to the humid summer night. She felt a pressure on her chest, as if something was trying to suffocate her, trying to steal. her breath. Suddenly, she found herself standing in the hallway. It was the same hallway from her nightmares. Distorted, disorienting, bathed in that sickening red light. The darkness beyond her room was deeper, more consuming than anything she had ever experienced. She noticed three figures. They were small and statue-like, but human in shape. They looked at her in the hallway. One had its hands covering its eyes.

See, no evil. The second statue had its hands covering its ear. Hear no evil. The last statue had its hands covering its mouth. Speak, no evil. A wave of nausea washed over her. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. Her body was a puppet, controlled by an unseen force.

A voice, cold and alien, echoed in her mind. You will be silent. You will be obedient. You will do as I command. She watched herself reach out, her fingers trailing along the wall, leaving streaks of a dark, viscous substance. She entered the kitchen, then exited.

She watched herself open her mother's door and step into her room. Her movements jerky. and unnatural. Meanwhile, back in her room, the camera recorded everything. Lynn woke with a splitting headache that felt like someone was driving nails into her skull. The vague unease of the previous night clung to her like a damp shroud. She felt drained, as if she'd run a marathon in her sleep. She peeled herself out of bed, her muscles aching, and trudged towards the kitchen. Mom? Toby? She called out, surprised to find the house silent.

Her mom was usually up before dawn, brewing coffee and preparing breakfast. Toby, her younger brother, was a late sleeper, but the smell of bacon usually roused him. She rounded the corner into the kitchen, expecting to find her mother humming over the stove, but the room was empty. As she turned to head towards her mother's room, She stopped dead in her tracks, her heart leaping into her throat. Her mother's door was closed, and the doorknob, it was covered in dried blood.

A dark crimson pool spread ominously beneath the door. Lynn's hands trembled uncontrollably. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the doorknob. The blood was sticky and so horrifyingly. real. Mom? She whispered, her voice a fragile threat in the suffocating silence. With a shaking hand, she twisted the knob.

The door clicked open. The scene that greeted her was a tableau of unimaginable horror. Her mother lay motionless on the bed. The white sheet stained crimson. Her eyes were wide, frozen, and a silent scream. dream. Lynn stumbled back, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The room spun, the air thick with a metallic scent of blood. She wanted to scream, to run, but her legs felt like lead. She managed to stumble back to her room, collapsing in her chair in front of her computer. She knew exactly

what she had to do. Thirty minutes later, the house was a chaotic whirlwind of flashing light, and hushed voices. Police officers swarmed the property, their faces grim and professional. Paramedics moved with practice efficiency, but it was clear there was nothing they could do. Lynn sat on the porch swing, wrapped in a shock blanket,

her gaze fixed on the front door. The world seemed to have lost its color. Everything rendered in shades of gray. An officer emerged from the house, his face etched with a mixture of horror and grim determination. He held up a clear plastic bag, its contents visible through the transparent plastic. We found this, he said quietly, his voice low.

Inside, nestled amongst the evidence, was a bloody kitchen knife. A collective gasp rippled through the small crowd of neighbors who had gathered at the edge of the lawn. Moments later, Toby was led out of the house. His hands cuffed behind his back. He struggled against the officer's grip. His face streaked with tears, his eyes wide with terror and confusion.

It wasn't me. I swear. I didn't do anything. He sobbed. His voice cracking with desperation. Lynn, tell them. Tell him I didn't do it. Lynn stared, paralyzed as they led her brother away.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the reality she knew dissolving into a horrifying dream. Her sweet, gentle brother, accused of murdering their mother. Toby was taken into custody and, after a brief interview, placed in a psychiatric ward. The police, pointing to Toby's history of issues with the bullies and the presence of his fingerprints on the knife, were convinced they had their man. Later, after the initial shock began to subside, Lynn remembered the camera. The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through her numb body. If anyone could prove Toby's innocence, it was the recordings. She rushed to her room,

her hand shaking as she booted up the computer. She navigated to the folder containing the recordings, her heart pounding in her chest. And then she clicked play. She watched the recording, her blood turning to ice as she saw herself, possessed, moving with unnatural grace, entering her mother's room, then soon exiting with a gleaming knife covered in blood. The truth was undeniable. She was the instrument of her own mother's death. But the entity, the force that had controlled her, it had framed Toby, because it knew she would suspect him. The video became a morbid fascination, a loop of self-horror that she played over and over. Each frame was a nail driven into the coffin of her sanity.

Her possessed self, a puppet dancing to a tune only it could hear. The camera didn't quite capture the red-tinged hallway or the malevolent voice, only the stark reality of her physical actions. Her hand reaching for the knife, her blank, vacant eyes, the deliberate, methodical way she crept into her mother's room. The truth was undeniable. The entity hadn't just used her to harm Toby's bullies. It had used her to destroy her family.

It had weaponized her body, turned her into a monster. It had chosen her, manipulated her, and used her as kindling for its own terrible desires. A hollow pit of despair opened inside of her, vast and inescapable. Toby was lost, labeled a murderer, locked away in a sterile institution. Her mother was gone, the void of her air. absence, a constant agonizing ache. And she, Lynn, was the instrument of it all. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing her. She couldn't live with it, couldn't bear the thought of facing Toby, of seeing the fear and confusion in his eyes, couldn't endure the accusatory stares of the townspeople,

the whispers, and the judgment. She was a monster, and much. She was a monster, and much, Monsters didn't deserve to live. She locked herself in her room, the room where it had all started. It was no longer a sanctuary. It was a cage. A reminder of her violation. She found her mother's pills, a bottle of antidepressants prescribed years ago, now forgotten. She swallowed them all, one by one, washing them down with water,

until the bottle was empty. She sat down in her chair and placed a camera in front of her. Sobbing and trembling, she opens her mouth. It was me. She choked out. Her voice barely a whisper.

I killed those bullies. Killed Mom. The confession tasted like ash in her mouth. Those those monsters wouldn't leave Toby. alone. They wouldn't stop tormenting him. I had to. I had to make them stop. Her voice gained a chilling strength as she continued, the manic glint in her eyes intensifying. And mom, she never listened, always working, always neglecting us both, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

They deserved it. They deserved everything they got. And... And... And... And I enjoyed it. A horrifying smile stretched across her face. A grotesque mask of triumph that quickly dissolved into a fresh wave of heart-wrenching sobs.

No. No, that's not true. I didn't mean to. I didn't. The words tumbled out, a desperate plea for forgiveness she didn't believe she deserved. I... I just wanted to say before I die. Toby is innocent.

He deserves to be free. He deserves to live. I love you, Toby, and I'm so sorry. The words escaped her lips. like a final desperate prayer as her vision began to blur at the edges. Her grip on reality, already tenuous,

loosened further. She thought she could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic erratic rhythm pounding in her ears. But then she realized it was something else entirely. It was the slow, deliberate cadence of marching. A steady rhythmic sound,

growing louder, closer. It was the sound of inevitability, accompanying her and her final moments, and it chilled her to the bone, for she would never be free of it. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypark.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 Sherrillite 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 stories author.