Creepy - Satori Processor

Episode Date: February 19, 2024

Being a teacher is hard work...***Written by: No One of Consequence***Bonus Episode: "Designated Waiting Area" Written by: Sean Dermot Lehane 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.

Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Evan Rize, Lacey Miller, Derek Geiger, John Carroll Thomas, Heather Hopper, Al, Uncle Elon under the bed, Lorna D. Keech, Pamela Raymond, Jeff, and Taye Benz. All patrons enjoy early commercial free access to all episodes. From there, tiers also include additional bonus episodes and logo merch. To see how you can support the show and get rewarded for it, please check out the donation to at patreon.com slash creepypod. And I usually forget about this, and honestly I'm not sure if I ever remembered it in advance,

but Monday, February 19th marks the seventh anniversary of the start of creepy with our episode Gateway of the Mind. Some of you probably already know that the show started simply because I couldn't find a podcast that had my favorite creepy pastas on it, like Ted the Caver and No End House. And I didn't have any plans on going past the first 31 days of horror. 870 episodes later and we haven't missed a single Sunday release since the first 31 days of horror. We've added episodes on Wednesdays and now the whole series on Fridays. At another 1,300 or so Patreon episodes and who knows how many bonus episodes for hundreds and hundreds of hours of the show.

We've had dozens of voice actors and countless authors, many of them first-time writers. A lot's changed in that time. Highs and lows you can hear in the audio. from the bad days to quarantine and more. This went from a flight of fancy to a full-time job, from no paid being able to pay everyone involved with the show. And it's thanks to you all. Patrons are not.

You listen. Do you make it worthwhile? Sincerely, thank you all. Each day I get to do this is like the best curse a guy could have. I don't know how long the show will run for. but I'm going to keep it going for as long as I can. One thing I do know is that the show isn't going to end. No.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to do. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Satori processor.

Written by known of consequence. Being a teacher is quite a challenging feat. Dealing with other people spawn day in and day out has its ups and downs. I originally started out in elementary school, but found it difficult to deal with the undeveloped minds. I eventually moved on to high school, but teenage hormones make it seem like I come back to dealing with elementary school kids sometimes. I'm now looking forward to becoming a college professor, but that's going to be a long road. I'll still work on it, but I'm stuck at the high school level for the foreseeable future. Had I known just how difficult it is to deal with 20 to 30 teenagers each period,

I probably would to aim for college from the get-go. Being a dyslexic teacher is hard enough, but teenagers will point out your mistakes in front of everyone to laugh while doing it. No use in trying to make it seem like an intentional mistake to see who's paying attention, especially in English class. I was really glad they switched over from using white people. boards to digital projectors. This way I can have my lesson plan already written out and just have to pull them up on the

computer. My typing skills aren't great, but being able to use spelling and grammar check has helped. However, they don't catch everything. It's disturbing to see how many mistakes I make as an English teacher. But it has more to do with my brain's ability to translate my thoughts through my fingers. I know exactly what I want to type, but my fingers make so many mistakes it frustrates the hell out of me. A while back I heard about a program that does speech to text and thought in an answer to my prayers. What I didn't realize was just how many programs there were.

I tried lots of free trials, but everything I used was inherently flawed. even the best paid for program at issues. After paying a few hundred dollars for the program, I continued to use it, mostly for the sake of the expense. I had to go back over every document I created and used the spelling and grammar check. But even then, I still miss things that my more asshole students pointed out. It's so frustrating when I know in my head how the syntax is supposed to go, but I keep messing it up.

It's simple things too. And at this point, I think I'm losing what little respect my students have for me. Going over my lesson plans, PowerPoints, and typed documents several times has gotten seriously old. The first semester of the year is barely halfway over. I don't know how much more I can take. I tried using my documents and whatnot from last year, but there's a lot of changes to the curriculum. I can barely use anything from last year. The things I can are covered in mistakes.

Hanging out in the teacher's lounge, I have my laptop open with the latest homework assignment my students just turned in. I hate to admit that I'm forced to use grammar software to check over their work before reading the documents. It feels like a cheat. I wouldn't be at all surprised if they were using the same software while writing the damn thing, especially Kyle Henderson. the paining the ass junior quarterback for the football team.

Kyle is everything a stereotypical rich kid jock is meant to be from TV. Half the time one of my mistakes are pointed out, it's from him. The most impressive thing about it is him actually paying attention in class and being smart enough to know a mistake when he sees one. Though I wouldn't be surprised if one of the students sitting around him clues him in instead of him figuring it out. Honestly, if there's ever an active shooter on campus, it'll probably be someone that Kyle's pushed over the edge.

That's how bad you can get sometimes. God, I feel bad even saying it, but it's true. I've seen this kid strutting around campus like his shit doesn't stink. I've always detested people like that. But from him, it is truly baffling. It'd be different if his grades were better, but his average is only high enough that he won't get kicked off the team. Furthermore, he's not even on the varsity team, nor has his team won a game. I think they're dead last in the district.

You have to have some serious arrogance to act like that when you're the worst of the worst. I've personally caught him and his bandit teammates bullying other kids while passing in the halls. I know for a fact that he doesn't do his homework, but gets intimidated classmates to do it for him. Not that I have any proof of this, but his in-class assignments speak for themselves. His homework isn't identical to anyone else's, so this punk-ass little shit's making some smarter student do the work twice.

Oh, I'd love to brain the jackass with one of the heavy paperweights on my desk, Reluctantly, I read over his homework while sipping at a lukewarm cup of coffee, courtesy of the overused coffee pot in the lounge. What I'd give to be drinking something a lot stronger, but it's only second period. Oh, and I'm still on campus. My spirit hasn't been beaten down so bad than I'm willing to start drinking before the last bell of the day. Another teacher comes into the lounge, giving me a heavy sigh that we ought to be able to be.

all completely understand. Mondays are the absolute worst, and Friday seems a long way off. Caitlin grabs her mug, filled with coffee, and sits at the table with me. Had for a few minutes were the only ones left in the lounge. Second period's almost over, and the others are going to their classrooms to get ready for third. Me? I don't mind being a little light. Let the ungrateful pains in my ass wait a few minutes. Caitlin glances over at my laptop as I reluctantly give Kyle's paper a B-minus. Their writing sounds more like Erica Plimpton, one of my favorite honor students. With a heavy sigh, pinched the bridge of my nose to hopefully fight off a headache I know

is coming. She scoffs at the grade, claiming I should give him something lower and better suited for Kyle's intellect. She has Kyle for algebra and claims a kid can't count his way out of a square room that only has three walls. Math isn't my greatest subject, but even to me that sounds funny and extremely accurate. All of us teachers have one thing in common, and that's a general dislike and annoyance for 90% of the student body. That number may seem high, but it's Monday. Caitlin and I often grab a drink after work with a few other teachers. On most Fridays, the three closest bars of the school are overrun by teachers from Poe High School.

I don't like to advertise my problems, especially with my computer issues. But she is one of the few people who know about it. Now that we're alone in the lounge, she decides to bring it up. You still having problems with that voice-to-text program? I grumble a response in the affirmative. feeling ashamed to my inadequacies. I may have something you might be interested in. She pulls a business card out of her pocket.

Not at all what I expect. The card has a name, job title, and phone number on it. Nothing more. Jason Kruger, computer science and programming specialist. I give Caitlin inquisitive look. He's been developing a new program that's supposed to revolutionize computer interaction software. I told him about some of the issues you have with typing and grammar, and he thinks you're perfect for beta testing. Are you interested? I have everything to gain,

and nothing to lose. So yeah. During lunch, I called a number and make an appointment for Saturday. The guy I speak to sounds kind of mousy, similar to a lot of teens you find in the computer labs during free periods. From what Caitlin tells me, that's exactly who, who Jason is. The work week is long and grueling, but I managed to get through it with drinking during the week only once. Friday doesn't come, because as soon as the final bell rings, the weekend begins. I had that same mentality when I was a student. Then being back in high school has brought that back to me. Granted, it's a lot different from a teacher's point of view. And at least now when I drink, I'm not doing it illegally. On Saturday morning, I'm

Jason Kruger at the strangest place. The air is filled with a rumble of heavy balls being thrown down lanes and crashing into pins. I have no idea why a computer genius would want to meet at a bowling alley. They tend to shy away from sports most kinds, right? But I keep my query to myself, though Jason decides to start with explaining his choice. His work is independent, completely funny. by himself, and this is the last place text by is the thing to look for him. After a series of questions about my typing issues, constant grammatical errors, and attempts

to correct myself, Jason gets a real feel for my frustration. He agrees with Caitlin's assessment about me being perfect for his project. Before telling me anything about his work, Jason leads me away from the concession stand tables to a door in the back corner of the arcade. We send us out of stairs to a hallway with a handful of doors. I follow him to the furthest door, and once we're through, I'm face-to-face with floor-to-ceiling racks of computer equipment. Over the hum of processors and various other operating parts,

I can still hear the crash of bowling balls hitting pins. The space is larger than I originally thought. But the majority of it's filled with more racks, a work table, and two desks. In the center of the largest empty space is a chair that looks like it might have come from a dentist's office 40 years ago. Surrounding it in a circular pattern is a series of monitors and other electronic equipment I can't even begin to understand. I take a seat as instructed while Jason grabs what looks like a rubber cap with wires and sensors on it. I think they use something like that when doing an EEG test. While strapped in the cap to my head, Jason tells me that in order to create a little bit of the car.

my personal profile for the software, the AI first needs a brain scan. Once hooked up, he asked me a series of questions. After about 20 minutes or so, his questions become far more personal. All the while, he moves between the various monitors around us. The overall process takes about an hour before he finally removes the cap. Jason spends another 30 minutes typing away to keyboard while I sit and wait. I nearly goes off by the time he starts talking again, claiming the profile base is complete. He then takes me to one of the desks, has me sit in front of the computer there and pulls out a hard case.

Opening it, I see two small plastic pieces, a see-through case with a bunch of small round things inside, and a light gray device. There's a USB wire coming from the device, the cable being at least three feet long. He gently removes it and plugs it into the computer. Immediately a window pops up on the monitor, some kind of messenger app. Jason takes the two small plastic pieces and places two of the adhesive circles on them from the seethrie-through case. Generally, he attaches the pieces to my temples. Text begins scrolling across the messenger window. A greeting.

It calls me by name and introduces itself as the Satori process. my new computer interface program. I'm about to ask Jason what I'm supposed to do, but a new line of text appears below the greeting. As I read the words, I realize it's a question I was about to ask out loud. What the hell? Satory is actually pulling the thoughts out of my head

and putting them on the computer? Jason explains that with Satori, I won't need to use a mouse or keyboard. Anything I can think of to do on a computer, it will do for me. I have a little trouble believing this. The text window displays my skepticism. To prove it to me, Jason has me to do a series of tasks. I write a quick paper with a word processor,

create a PowerPoint presentation with six slides featuring three forms of media. There isn't a single mistake in any of the text. I find it all fascinating. until he asks me to do a few things I normally don't have a need to. He has me pull up a voice recording program. Not only does Satorre make an audio recording in my voice without me speaking, but it does it without a hint of breathing noises. I even try to use different voices, and that works too.

It's all so eerily fascinating, but the next task starts freaking me out. Jason has me pull up a photo-altering program, and instead of pulling up an existing image, he has me bring one up from my mind. Of course, my mind goes blank, so I bring up an image of what I'm currently seeing. Then I decided to try a few things, and add in images of celebrities, a 1967 SS Camero, and even a certain black hard-shell alien. Everything looks so realistic that you'd never know those people and things aren't really here. Jason claims it can do that with video recording too, but this has already been a lot to process.

Jason gives me a notebook to go with a hard case and enough adhesive circles to last me a month. He asks that I take copious notes as I use Satori. Questions, comments, concerns, be it positive or negative. He wants me to write everything down. He'll allow me to use it at school, but at no point his hardware to be out of my site. In addition to that, I'm not allowed to tell anyone about Satori or let anyone else try it out. The profile is for me and me alone. An unauthorized user would only screw up the profile and cause the AI malfunction.

I agree to everything he asks of me, graciously accepting his life's work for a trial period. I'm to come back every Saturday so he can run diagnostics and make any changes unnecessary. As we part, he asked me to call him immediately if I have any problems of Satori, no matter the time of day. As soon as I get home, I hook the gray box up to my computer. It takes a couple minutes for Sotori to become acquainted with my desktop. I at least sip coffee as we go over the latest homework assignments. I'm loving this if for now. no other reason than I can make it look like I'm going over the word documents with a red pen.

I've missed doing that since moving to high school. Thanks to Satari automatically picking up on all grammatical and spelling errors, we blow through the files in a matter of hours. I still read over everything, but if I miss or overlook a mistake, Satori points it out to me. Saving the worst for last, I carefully go over Kyle Henderson's document. It's obvious to little shit. shit didn't write this.

There are words in here I know that moron doesn't know, and absolutely no grammatical errors. As much as I don't want to, I give a little bastard another B-minus and make no other remarks. After that, I start working on my lesson plan for the next week. Satori makes my life so much easier that the next three weeks go by really fast. Kyle can no longer make his snide remarks about my mistakes. Because there aren't any.

It's obviously irritating him. Thankfully, my hair does a good job hiding the connection devices on my head, otherwise he might point him out. Now he's doing other things to disrupt my class, and his bullying in the hall seems to be escalating. I even found him standing over a boy lying on the ground, his nose a bloody mess. The bleeding student wouldn't admit that Kyle hit him,

so I had to let it go. Just once I'd like to say, fucking asshole to get what's coming to him sooner rather than later. On my fourth Friday with the Miracle Tech, my pre-recorded presentation is playing for the class. Kyle and his buddies in the corner aren't paying attention, and few times their antics get loud enough that even I have trouble hearing their presentation. I get so irritated that the recording pauses and my voice yells at him.

Kyle, I swear to God, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'll flunk you so fast your letter Jackal will be a constant reminder of what was. The room goes completely silent, and I'm shocked down to my core. I hadn't said that out loud. Nor did I pause the presentation. Quicker than I thought I could, I could get hold of myself and point in the angry expression of Kyle's dumbfounded face, owning what just happened instead of cowering from it. I dare the entitled douchebag to say something.

He doesn't. Instead, his face turns very red, and he faces. is forward in his seat. His eyes are dager's in my direction, but I keep my gaze firm until he blinks. During lunch, I call up Jason and tell him what happened, though I have a hard time not sounding amused and happy about it. He thinks my desire to be right Kyle was mistaken for a command by the AI. But when he runs diagnostics on it Saturday, nothing's out of the ordinary. Jason just tells me these caution all the troublemakers in my class. If it happens again, I'll just turn Satoria off while his class is in session.

As weeks progress, my love and appreciation for Sotori's growing as fast as Kyle's grades are going down. It's not just in my class either. And two weeks before the holiday break, he's kicked off the football team. Students have started coming forward about the former quarterback abusing them and intimidating for one reason or another. To celebrate the little shit finally. getting what's coming to him. Me and some of the other teachers who've dealt with them go to the bar for drinks. It's a good time.

Until we head to the parking lot. A tall, menacingly bulky guy comes out at the alley behind the bar as I get in my car. He's got on one of those mechanic coveralls and a wickedly creepy-looking clown mask. Before I can do anything, he reaches me and slugs me right in the face. He kicks me a few times. while I'm down knocking the wind out of me. While I try to catch my breath, he leans down and grabs me by the hair, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

There is serious hate there. And I know this son of a bitch wants to do me more harm. Thankfully, one of my fellow teachers has taken notice of what's going on and runs into the bar for help. This asshole steals the 20 from my wallet and leaves. I'm not the only one to notice that he has the same build as Kyle. The week before the holiday break I get called into the principal's office. I walk in to find Kyle with his parents and they look pissed.

They have a stack of papers, what turns out to be Kyle's homework assignments. His parents accuse me of sabotaging Kyle's grades and blaming me for getting them kicked off the football team. I take the papers they're insistently waving around and look him over. Not one of them have the grades I originally gave him. but much lower ones. There's also comments like obviously plagiarized, not your work, and stop bullying others into doing your work. To prove I didn't write any of those comments,

I used the principal's computer to access my files. Sure enough, none of those comments appear. And I claim Kyle did this himself to try and get his butt out of the fire. This, of course, causes a giant fight with a lot of back and forth, ending with Kyle threatening me with physical harm. His parents look at him like the idiot he is, and the principal suspends him for the rest of the semester. One more outburst from him, and it'll be expulsion.

As the three of them leave the office, I mutter that Kyle can keep the 20 he took for my wallet. Even with the black eye, my face is bright and happy on Monday. Classes go off without a hitch, the days fly by as the holiday break gets closer. Nothing can get me out of my good mood. And some strange things have been happening lately. I keep coming home to find odd packages on my porch. The name and address are nowhere near close to mine,

and when I call the companies that sent the items, they claim they have no record of the transactions. I end up opening them to see what's inside, and I haven't a clue why someone would have a word. What are these specific things? There's a bunch of hand tools, a box that has nothing but rolls of masking tape, one large stainless steel piece of equipment, and enough hog casings to make 200 pounds of sausage links.

My credit cards and bank accounts have no unusual activity, so I don't know what to make of it. Seriously, what the hell am I going to do with an industrial-grade meat grinder? the last Friday before the holiday break is spent at the bar again. And this time, everyone walks out to my car with me. Word around is that Kyle isn't taking the suspension well and plans on coming after me. The little shit has some fucking nerve. But I'm not afraid of this punk ass. Let him come at me again.

We'll see who comes out on top. Okay, I might have had one too many drinks. I decided to take an Uber home. The first thing I do when I get home is hook Satory up to the desktop. I have no intention to doing any work tonight, but I always leave a plugged in at night. Hell, there was even a time or three I fell asleep at my desk with the sensors still on. As I go to get up, I notice a blinking icon at the bottom of the computer screen.

It's the message board Satori uses to communicate with me. Using the mouse, since I don't want to put the sensors on, I click it, and I'm surprised at what I see. There are extremely long strings and messages between me and the AI. But I don't remember having these conversations. Going through them, I noticed the dates and times these happened, but that's not right. I was asleep during those times. In fact, those are the times I fell asleep at my desk, if I remember correctly. Wait, has Satori been communicating with my subconscious while I was asleep?

Reading over the conversations, I find out why Kyle's been adamant that I'm responsible for getting them kicked off the team. Satori went into my files, left those comments on his assignments, and altered the grades. Not just from my class. But all of them. And that was only phase one. Phase two had to do with using my work computer as Bluetooth to hack into Kyle's phone. Using his accounts and credit cards, Satori ordered all the items that appeared on my doorstep over the last week,

making it obvious it traces back to him. That's only half of this phase. The other has to do with a catfish dating profile. Sotori and my subconscious created a woman. to entice Kyle, setting him up for a big fall. It was even used to convince the little shit to jump me outside the bar with that clown mask. When I get to phase three, I'm astounded by the lengths my subconscious and the AI have gone. They created an online vlog of Kyle blaming me for everything that's gone wrong with his life as of late.

He admits to the bullying, getting his classmates to do his work. for him, but it goes beyond that. They make him take credit for a bunch of other things, like dealing drugs at school, sexually assaulting some of the cheerleaders, and accidentally killing the school's mascot during a prank that went wrong. I don't know if any of that's true, but there's more videos to back up the claims. Every single one of these came from my damn mind. using Satori to make it all

and it looks really convincing this online footprint is designed to act as evidence against Kyle upon the completion of phase four I can't bring myself to read about phase four I'm a little sick realizing what I've unknowingly been a part of yeah sure Kyle's a self-entitled little shit But this is life-destroying stuff here. Obviously, there's a part of me that believes he deserves this.

But that's the same part of me that threatened to kill people who cut me off in traffic. I yell it because no one can hear me and I'd never actually do it. I shuffled a bed, deciding to do something about all this in the morning. Maybe I'll talk to Jason about it first. He could get in a lot of trouble for this since he's... He's the one that created Satory. At the very least, he needs to tweak it so the thing doesn't talk to a person's subconscious. Those thoughts stay buried for a reason, damn it.

I'm just a load of that thought as something collides with the side of my head and the world goes black. I don't know how much time is passed when I finally come to. I'm taped to one of my kitchen table chairs. But realize it's not the kind of tape typically used to tie someone up. It looks like the 3-inch masking tape that I got in one of those packages. I start trying to free my hand from my armrest, manage to rip part of it. One good push, my hand will be free. That's when my attacker comes into the room.

A few tools from my garage in his hands. It's clown face again. Kyle stops in front of me, slowly placing each tool on the table, making sure I see each one. He doesn't say a word, trying to be quietly menacing in order to unnerve me. Pliers, vice grip, handsaw, rubber tubing, and a hammer. All items I received in those damn packages. The Tori and my freaking subconscious planned this out really well. But now all I need is to know how they planned on me getting out of this.

turning away from the tools to look down at me, Kyle reaches out to me with his bare hands. I can see what he's about to do, and I can't help but struggle. He slowly wraps his hands around my throat and starts squeezing. He leans in and whispers to me that he's not going to kill me just yet. This is just an appetizer. He leans back to look at me. All I can see if Kyle is those rage-filled eyes, a singular focus to end the person who ruined his life.

As he really begins to apply pressure, I jerk my hand loose and reach for the table. As my vision begins to blur, my hand closes on a handle and I immediately swing up at Kyle's head. My strength isn't at its best while he strangles me, but hey hits enough to make the bastards he stars. His grip loosens on my throat and may shove him off of me. He lands on the floor with the heavy. he thud, but he doesn't stay down for long. I ripped through the tape on my other wrist easily with my free hand and run for the garage door.

If I can just put some miles between us, I can call the police. Too late, I remember my car is in here, and Kyle tackles me as I open the garage door. We tumble inside and we roll over each other. I accidentally slam his head into the base of the industrial meat grinder, bringing us to a halt. We lay there for what seems like a while. while. That stupid dmented clown face staring at me with that eyes. Blood starts pouring out of the mollathon. I know Kyle won't be getting up again. Maybe I should have read Phase 4.

At least now I know what all these packages were for. In the vlogs, Kyle threatened to grind me up and turn me into sausage. But I thought it just an expression. If this is what Satory and my subconscious came up with to deal with a douche-big student, I wonder what they'd come up with if I set my sights on someone I really hate. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, designated waiting area, written by Sean Dermette Lahani, and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. I'm standing on the subway platform alone. Thank God for that.

It's late, at least for me. 9.35 p.m. My day has been so long and stressful, and I feel like I'm just barely keeping it all together. If I can just get home, I can relax and call it a day. I look up at the monitor as it has just started flashing a yellow service light. Some stupid delay on the eastbound train.

Fuck, that's my train. Service personnel are on the scene, it reads. Oh, that's just perfect. Despite it being the middle of winter, I'm starting to sweat. I pull off my toke and wipe my head with it. I walk further down the platform, away from the stairs that go up to the surface. The next train was scheduled for three minutes the last time I had looked, but now it's scheduled for N-A. More people are starting to file down the stairs. Groups of people come in waves. I don't want to look because I don't want to see them. Nattering and chattering sounds over top of each other. I'm not going to be able to be able to be able to be a little. I'm not going to be

to hide away here for much longer. I start to hear them. I start to hear their whistle, their terrible song. I check my phone for the time. Still 9.35 p.m. Damn it. A westbound train pulls into the station, breaking hard to a final halt.

The gust of wind, though by no means cool, is a relief to my face. Another wave of people has descended to the platform. I steal a glance, though I know that I shouldn't. There are now two groups of teens, boys and girls. Four mothers with strollers, an elderly pair just getting comfortable in the tiny, seats bolted to the wall. I see a nicely dressed couple in their forties, maybe.

They look like they're coming back from dinner, or a show, perhaps. They're standing much too close to the yellow line. Stand back, I want to yell, but instead I just sigh angrily and pull the lapels of my coat up and try to scrunch my neck down. trying desperately to turtle into my coat as best I can.

That is the least of their problems now. I know what I am. I know why this is happening to me again. I shouldn't have come out this evening. I shouldn't have thought I could just handle it. Just because the obsession hasn't reared its head in a few weeks, It doesn't mean I'm cured. Far from it.

They won't leave me alone. Won't let me be. The platform continues to fill with more and more replaceable youth. People in their 20s and 30s, not dressed in any particular way, all with backpacks. Could be students, could be low-end workers. Does it matter? it doesn't matter. They talk too loudly, they laugh too loudly,

they draw attention to themselves too loudly. Oh, they love to draw attention. That's why they come for people like these. Oh, and their music, their damn music? I hate it, so much. I hate all of them so very much. I hear the whistling. As I glance around the platform at the swelling mass of people,

my eyes fixate on the shadows. The platform is so bright. Why are there so many shadows? And why are they so dark? Oh, God. I whisper, they're all around me. I creep along the platform, head down as much as possible, toward the stairs, trying not to step on the shadows of the people as the whistling sound rises in my ears.

When they come, they come announced by this whistling sound. My head starts aching when it happens, like a real. really bad migraine. The shadows grow darker, like Vantablack, blacker than black. Then they congeal. Then they break free, free from their people. These living shadows emerge. With each new person comes a new one of these creatures from their shadow with malice in its heart.

One sits next to a middle-aged woman on a bench intently reading her magazine. It mimics her position and movements. I can't tell if it's looking at her or at me, but I can't turn away now as I'm lost staring into its face. Silently and distinctly from the woman, The shadow monster stands up. It walks around the woman and faces the tiled wall next to her. It brings its arms up to the side of its head.

And then it begins smashing its face into the dirty gray tile of the subway platform again and again and again. All the while the woman doesn't notice. I turn away. More shadows are breaking free from their people and independently roaming the platform, circling, getting ready to pounce. I close my eyes. I hear a frustrated whimper next to me. I turn back to see the woman on the bench rifling through her purse as blood drips from her nose

as her shadow continues its mutilation against the tiled wall. They're starting to impact the real people now, I realize. It's never gotten to this level. How long since I last had a drink? I need a drink. I continue to move against the flow of oncoming people descending onto the subway platform, careful not to interact with anyone or anything. I need to get past the fancy couple in their 40s.

She looks out across the platform completely distracted and lost in thought, as her man, in his slick suit, eyes her up, his hands in his pocket, while what I imagine is her shadow, runs its demonic hand up her back. She's standing too close to the platform's edge. Why isn't her man pulling her back from the edge, I wonder? Disgusted, I can't breathe. Between the people and the shadows, the platform is suffocating.

I move more quickly toward the stairs at the end of the platform, first shuffling, then quickening into a half-run, and then a full tilt. I pant as I run through the carnage, reach the steps, taking them two and three at a time, desperately in search of freedom. The chaos of the surface street greets me, shouts and cries, horns blasting as cars rear-end each other, back up and then strike others, like playing a terrible game of demented bumper cars. All along the sidewalks people push, shout, punch, kick, fight each other, all the while their shadows dance about, leading them in this macabre puppet show. I notice plumes of fire and smoke from windows all along the busy street.

It's never been this bad before. It's the end of the world this time. I'm sure of it. I see my destination. A pub, about a block away. Though I've not been in there for some time, since the last time I was kicked out and banned for life, but hopefully given the situation,

they won't remember any of that. How could they, tonight of all night, I run with more vigor and determination than ever before. The bar is busy. Some musical act performs, far too loudly given the smallness of the bar room. But everyone inside stares at the performers, sipping drinks, bobbing their heads to the music. Their backs turn to the carnage on the street. I catch the bartender's displeased look.

He lowers and shakes his head with disdain. I need a drink. A double. I'll pay cash. I whisper shout at him. He hesitates, weighing his options. Finally, he raises his index finger straight up while glaring at me, signifying that this is going to be my only order. Then may as well get a quick pint, too. I add, loudly, placing a crisp $20 bill on the bar. I take my drinks in both hands and step back into the crowd.

I glance around nervously, but deep down, I know that there are no shadow monsters here. This crowd is safe. A sudden crash causes me to shriek and bring my arms up to block my face. I turned to see what I assume was a Molotov cocktail thrown at the large front window. It caused no damage to the thick window pain. I take a big gulp of my rye, following it down with a gulp of cheap beer. It's all tasteless, but it's cold and the burn feels sick. satisfying in my mouth, throat, and stomach.

I can't clear my mind of those things I witnessed. That woman reading the magazine, I hear this smacking sound the shadow made as it collided with the subway wall. Or was that a real sound? I close my eyes and thank whatever God is still listening, that there's no whistling in this bar. I take another round of gulps. The rye is gone now, so I focus entirely on chugging the beer until it's gone, too.

I take a deep breath. And like that, I am relaxed. Leaving the bar, I re-emerge back into the nightmare cityscape. That seems so much calmer now. The driver who had been alternating between backing into a car and rear-ending the one in front of him stands outside his vehicle now, surveying the damage, talking calmly with the other drivers, all of them scratching their heads, their shadows nowhere to be seen. The fires have stopped spewing flames from the building's windows,

plumes of smoke dissipate. I stroll back to the subway station, dodging pedestrians, struggling to their feet. Everyone all around helping his neighbor. I take the steps down to the subway two and three at a time. Excited, joyful even. I feel like a new man, a powerful man, a confident man. The eastbound platform is even more full, but now, thankfully, it's only full of people. Clearly, no train has come during my brief absence.

The monitor above my head states that the next train is now only two minutes away. A pair of dazed teens on all fours by my feet struggle to help each other up. I offer both my hands in support. I walked down the platform to where I had been originally cowering before the night's event descended. The woman whose shadow had mutilated itself sits in frustration. Her head tilted back, her fingers pinching her nose. I stop and hand her a napkin from the bar. She smiles and nods her appreciation.

Shriek sound from the middle of the platform. I rush over, pushing through the crowd, all stepping back from the edge, to see the blonde woman hysterically sobbing from half under her man who was lying face down atop her, motionless. His head streams blood where it struck the rail. She shakes him, but he lies there, clearly dead. The oncoming train alarm sounds. The television monitor now reads less than a minute.

Can you stand? I hollered down to the woman. She shakes her head in every direction. I can see the gnarled mess of her ankle. She must have twisted it or broken it when she fell or was pushed by her slick date. The train siren rings out again, louder and closer. I'm going to come and get you, I shout without thinking, sitting on the yellow line and lowering myself down. The eye of the train is bright and coming at us fast.

As I reach the woman, she kneels and I take her arms, wrapping her around my shoulder. Turning back to the platform, I see that others have come to the edge and formed a chain to reach down to us. Men, women, teens, children, all of whom had been fighting and tearing at each other's faces mere minutes ago, working together now in perfect unison to save the life of this woman. They pull her up. Before I know it, four hands have grabbed. onto my arms and are lifting me from the track level in one motion. We all roll and scoot backward from the yellow safety line.

As the oncoming trains breaks screech and its sirens wail, as it enters the station and tries desperately to prevent making the situation worse, it slows to a fraction of its speed by the time it reaches us. The full platform of survivors cheer and applaud. I turn to the woman. She's sobbing and panting through her tears. The cheering crowd gasps and suddenly goes deathly quiet, as we all hear the squishy sound of the train rolling ever so slowly

over the dead man glued to the rails beneath our feet. gently separating him into three distinct portions. As we sit there, I take a long, deep breath as I savor the silence. And finally, I smile and relax. 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.