Creepy - Season of Sorrow

Episode Date: May 30, 2022

For every season...***Written by: Derek Deutch***Content warning: suicide***Bonus episode: "The Half-Head Family" Written by No-Acanthisitta423 and Narrated by Nate Dufort***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Creepy Presents Season of Sorrow Written by Derek Deutsch. There are things out there in the world that feed on human sadness and regret. When those things feast upon someone's grief, they take ownership of that person's soul. They wander the earth. and gather the souls of the dam for their own wicked ends.

Certain times of the year, those collectors of souls wield more power and gorge more than ever themselves on human misery. It's right around Christmas they seem to be the strongest. You see, for many people, the holiday season can be a very difficult time. Feelings of loneliness weigh heavy on the hearts of some, while others are haunted by the thoughts of their perceived failures as they try to look back on all they've accomplished throughout the year. Tom was one of those warriors who continually battled the seasonal anguish. One year it almost claimed him.

Tom's was a soul drinking from a cocktail of loneliness and regret, with a splash of failure, and of course, some bourbon. Tom was working the midnight shift at the Pump and Go gas station at the edge of town that Christmas Eve. He stared despondently out the window towards the long stretch of empty highway that ran along the front of the gas station, and a light snow began to fall. The overhead lights flickered at random. Tom's eyes were bloodshot, and gin blossoms bright in the tip of his nose. His shirt was stained and wrinkled. Tom sat with his feet up on the counter reclining in his chair listening to voicemails on his cell phone.

Thomas, this is an urgent business matter. Snap the voice of a bill collector before Tom angrily skipped past. Tom, it's Stephen. Look, man, you're 30 days late with a rennigan. If you don't have it in the morning, you've got to go. I hope you understand. It's just business. Said Tom's roommate Stephen reluctantly. Once again, Tom furiously mashed the next button on the screen and skipped the subsequent message.

Tom's agent, or former agent, I guess, was the next to pile on his usual condescending slickster tone with. Yo, dummy buddy, Chip here. Hey, I got the demo over to some of my friends of mine at the label. They dig it. But said that after that melt-on you had it to Albuquerque's show, you're just too much of a liability. Sorry, buddy. I don't know. Maybe get your shit together, huh?

If not, it might be time to hang. it up. Anyway, call me back, buddy. Tom's mood dance between furious and utterly heartbroken. He pulled up an MP3 file of this latest demo and begrudgingly pressed play. A somber rock melody began to play but was interrupted by his phone's vibration and the mocking chirp of a new notification. Tom was absolutely devastated by the continued barrage of horrible news and blurted out. What? What the fuck else could possibly go wrong. In a moment of pure frustration.

When he did finally open his phone to check it, he was greeted by the photo of a pretty young woman dressed in elegant evening wear in the arms of a handsome man and a suit tagged at a bar in town. Bailey? Be kidding me, you cheating slut! Tom whimpered, completely devastated by the sight of his girlfriend in the photo with another man at some party on Christmas Eve. Shear hopelessness and despair overtook him, and he threw his phone to the counter, only to watch it bounce and clatter to the floor, shattering its screen. Outside of the store, a group of dirty raccoons wandered across the gas station parking lot.

They seemed to like to torment him regularly. The largest of them knocked over a trash can. Plastic bottles and other trash scattered. Some papers caught on a breeze spread the mess thoroughly across the lot. The raccoons rummaged in the garbage for a bit, making a complete mess. The largest of them, presumably their leader, nod on part of a leftover hot dog. The overhead lights flickered off and on a few more times. Snow began to fall in sticky, thick, wet clumps that stuck to the beast's fur.

Tom noticed the raccoons in the trash through the front window and sprang into action. He leapt over the counter and burst through the front door that gait. gas station and attempt to scare the gang of raccoons off. They appeared to be unfazed by his dramatic production. Tom tried again. He stomped his foot towards them and clapped his hands. Still nothing. When Tom took a few more loud steps towards them,

the large one only glanced in Tom's direction for a moment before returning to his snack. Tom decided then that he'd had enough of that nonsense. He pulled out a small bottle of whiskey from his pocket. The leader of the raccoon gang took notice and eyed Tom cautiously before giving a snarl and short hiss. Tom down the last swallow of the bitter brown liquid in the bottle before heaving it in their direction. The hard plastic bottle clanked and rattled as it bounced towards the raccoons on the pavement. It bounced once more and glanced off the smallest in the gang and they scattered into the darkness. "'Fucking trash pandas!' Tom exclaimed,

"'triumphant smirk stretching across his face at the idea that perhaps things might still be all right after all. He lit up a smoke and stared out at the night. A single car drove by without slowing down and the glow of its taillight slowly faded into the night. Tom was alone with his thoughts again. He turned to walk back into the store but tripped over his crappy old. to rustle-out bicycle that had been leaning against the wall by the front doors. In a fit of profanity, he grabbed the bike and flung it across the lock. It came to rest in the bushes near the edge of the gas station's property.

Not a bad distance, Tom thought to himself, I could be an Olympian yet? Tom declared with a chuckle before returning inside. Once inside, he shuddered and quickly rubbed his arms in attempt to war. warm himself after his trip into the biting cold of the night. Tom walked over and grabbed a soda from the cooler and a bake of chips from a display just left to the cooler. He tossed the chips on the counter and took his place back on the pump and go through him behind the register.

Tom grabbed a small duct taped remote from under the counter and flipped down the crummy little black and white TV that sat next to the register. It suddenly began to flip through the channels all on its own. Getting faster and faster. Burst of images and static flipped until sparks flew from the back. The screen went dark and tendrils of smoke rose from the set. Tom recoiled in shock. The clock on the wall read 2.30 a.m.

Last call! Tom announced to himself through his crooked grin. He snagged another of the small bottles from behind the counter, mixed it into his soda and gulped it down in one long, deep swallow. Tom thought for a bit about the sadness of his convenience store cocktail as he looked at his broken phone inside. Thoughts of all that had been going on and his life played on an endless loop in his mind, eventually landing on repeats of his failures and how everything had gone so wrong.

In a moment of weakness, Tom began to question what the point was anymore. He picked up a box cutter from the counter next to the TV and slowly slid out the blade. It glinted in the blinking fluorescent lighting. Tom held the blade in his trembling hand for a moment before bringing it to his wrist and pressing it into his soft flesh. A diminutive trickle of blood ran down his arm. He watched as the flow of blood increased and made a trail down his forearm to his elbow. A few droplets fell to the floor. Tom whooped his arm and let a few more drops splattered to the ground, making a crude smiley face.

The door chime rang, and Tom dropped the blade. Awquily, Tom turned to greet the customer in a mix of embarrassment and frustration at being interrupted at the most painful, private moment in his life. A stranger in a fine, tailored black suit, wearing sunglasses, and dark black hair slicked back, stood in the doorway. Tom thought it odd that the man was wearing sunglasses and a snowstorm at night, but offered a week greeting. Good evening, dude. Merry Christmas. How can I help you? He said weekly. The stranger stood motionless just inside the doorway. The door chime rang again. This time it was different, though. It rang slowly, and the pitch was stretched out in a long, eerie moaned. The stranger cocked his head from side to side.

His neck cracked as he did so and continued to size Tom up. You break down or something? I don't see a car out there. Tom questioned trying to hold back the fear in his voice. You want me to call for a toe? He continued with a quiver. Somehow, maybe while Tom blinked, the stranger had met his way to the counter just in front of Tom.

The stranger again stood motionless, staring coldly at him. Tom snatched his cell phone from the counter and frantically began to try and dial for help before remembering that he had shattered his phone earlier that night. Don't worry, Tom. I am just here to show you. The stranger hissed in a deep and distorted whisper. His lips did not move and were pressed tightly in a neat line. Tom dropped the phone in a panic and tried to back away only to slam into the wall display behind him, sending various merchandise crashing to the floor. The stranger remained unfazed, calm, and still.

Show me what? Tom questioned. How do you know my name? Who are you? He continued in a shaky voice. Is this what you want to do with your life? Tom. This stranger mocked in response, completely ignoring Tom's pleas for answers. The stranger stood silently, awaiting Tom's reply. You need to leave, like right fucking now, man. I have a gun. Tom barked, feigning authority, but still lacking any sort of confidence to back it up. The stranger gleamed an evil smile, exposing a mouth full of decaying pointed teeth that shook Tom to his core.

No. No, you do not, Tom. If you did, you would have already used it. The stranger countered knowingly. Tom's back was firmly pressed against the wall as if you were trying to push right through it to escape. The stranger dipped his head and removed his sunglasses, trivial eyes as black as night. There was no glimmer in the stranger's eyes. They seemed to almost absorb all. light rather than allow for any glint of reflection. Tom's eyes went wide with terror as the stranger continued. Tell me, Tom, is this what you wanted to do with your life? The stranger hissed.

Tom and the stranger locked eyes. The music that was playing on the shitty clock radio behind the counter began to whizz by and fast forward. Songs and commercials sped by in one tamed. angled string of melody, static, and haunting twisted voices. Still images of Tom's failures began to play in his mind, flipping by like the faded frames of an old home movie. Pictures of Tom on stage in front of a massive cheering crowd

were followed by the spectacle of Tom and a drunken stupor beating a fan on stage. Tom seemed to laugh maniacally as he beat the man before pouring liquor on him as he lay beaten and bleating. on the stage. That scene faded and gave way to one of a hotel room that had been destroyed, eventually settling in on Tom passed out in a pool of his own vomit on the hotel room floor. Next, the stranger showed him the scene of a horrific accident. Tom was slumped, passed out, drunk with barely a scratch behind the wheel of his car.

The banged-up body of his drummer Chris was visible to him to him. the broken windshield as he lay with a vacant look in his eyes unmoving on the pavement in front of the wrecked car. Is this who you wanted to be? The stranger asked tauntingly before continuing. What happened, Tom? I can free you. No more pain, Tom.

No more failure. The whistling of a familiar slow, sad melody could be heard softly as the stranger spoke. Finish what you started with that blade, Tom. This stranger challenged. Tom's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed in a heap on the floor behind the counter. Moments later, Tom awoke shaken and confused. He figured he must have nodded off and fell out of his chair, but he was glad to have been pulled from that horrible nightmare. Tom cracked another bottle of cheap whiskey. He shook his head and tried to gather himself for a moment before downing another of the tiny bottles. Tom tried to get his mind off the whole ordeal and pulled a dirty magazine

from the rack behind the counter. He carefully removed it from its plastic with the tender touch and grace of someone examining a priceless artifact. The lights of the gas station flashed and sparked, both inside and out before it going out completely. He remained. He remained. He remained dark for a second, and the lights reluctantly flickered back on. I swear this fucking dump is going to burn to the ground one of these days, now I'm just going to laugh. Cheap-ass bastards! He muttered under his breath.

Tom plopped back down in his chair and kicked his feet up once again. Then he slowly thumbed through the pages of the adult magazine, stopping on the centerfold for a minute. He rotated the magazine and cocked his head to the side and attempted take in the full beauty of the stunning centerfold model. Hello, Nurse! Tom exclaimed with a wide grin. He gave a short glance towards the restroom at the back of the store and then back at the centerfold. Tom changed his mind after reading the model's turnoffs and turn-ons page, which read,

My biggest turn-ons are a man with a good sense of humor, creativity, intelligence, and most importantly ambition. The turn-offs read like a checklist of all of Tom's failings. Lazy, complacency, anger. Tom slumped back in his chair defeated by the thought that even in his fantasies he was not good enough. As he contemplated all that had gone wrong, his mind began to wander. His depression and sadness wrapped him like a warm, safe blanket. The moment was shattered by the sound of someone whistling the slow, sad melody of Tom's latest demo. He nervously lowered the magazine to see the stranger once again standing there motionless just inside the door.

Tom's eyes widened with fear and recognition while the hands on the wall clock began to spin wildly. In an instant, the stranger was standing. at the counter leaning in close to Tom. What's wrong, Tom? You just can't quit being a loser, can you? The stranger taunted. You're too weak. Too weak to even free yourself.

You can be strong. With us, he sneered. Tom fell back, knocking everything from the display and sending items scattering across the floor. The stranger reveled in Tom's fear and despair. The whistling of the song began to grow louder and louder. Finally, Tom clapped his hands over his ears trying to drown out the deafening tune.

What the hell is going on? Tom shouted as he held his hands tightly over his ears. He glanced out the front window. A look of pure horror washed over his face as he felt. fell to the ground and clumsily tried to crawl away through the merchandise strewn across the floor. A massive army of mutilated ghouls had begun to gather outside the store. They slowly made their way towards Tom and pressed themselves against the windows as if they were trying to walk right through them. Each one of them showed their own telling tale.

A rope hung from the twisted limp neck of a pale woman. A man walking in a woman. and stiff jerking motion bouncing off the window like a moth to a porch light. Blood and foam frost on his lips and oozed down his chin. Another man with his jaw hanging slacks seemed to lock eyes with Tom. He seemed to reveal a gaping gunshot wound to the side of his head. The lights once again flickered and went out. Join us, Tom.

End this suffering. A disembodied voice taunted from the darkness. Tom struggled to regain his vision in the dark. When he could see clearly again, he found himself no longer inside the store behind the counter, but standing alone in the alley behind the gas station. He turned to run back into the store only to find his own lifeless body slumped on the ground in a pool of blood. The box cutter was gripped tightly in his hand, and both of his wrists sliced. deeply. The gang of raccoons he had battled so valiantly earlier had returned and were now

ripping at the flesh around Tom's wounds. The stranger once again whistled the tune and Tom watched as his body rose to stand. A tear rolled down Tom's cheek as he watched himself walk off into the darkness behind the stranger. When the lights flashed back on, the lot was empty. Snow once again fell gingerly from the sky and lighted softly upon the ground. Tom shivered from the cold, and his world went dark. When Tom awoke, he was again in the chair behind the counter, but the sun had begun to rise. A few empty liquor bottles were scattered around the register. His heart pounded heavily when he spotted the stranger's sunglasses among the empty plastic bottles. Tom jumped when the door chime rang. He struggled to.

to call himself and muster the courage to look up to see who had entered. Tom was relieved to see it was only his goody two-shoes co-worker Anna coming in to start her shift. Anna looked down at the bottles distributed across the counter and shook her head. Tom jumped out of his chair and tried to quickly swipe the bottles off the counter. They all clattered to the floor and made an even bigger mess. Anna scoffed and rolled her eyes. Sorry, long night. You startled me as all.

Tom belated, she busily. As Tom stared at Anna, her lip began to move, but the voice that spoke was not her own. The voice of the stranger took its place. What are you going to do with your life, Tom? It boomed. The memories of the images the stranger had shown him played over. and over in his mind.

Tom stood in fear. He finally managed to gather himself and ask with a stutter. What? What did you just say? Hannah gave Tom a look of concern and repeated herself. I said, what are you planning for your day off, silly? Tom, still troubled and confused,

stood and brushed himself off before responding. I got to get a light. man. Maybe quit drinking and make more of an effort with my music. I think if I don't, I might just die. Tom blurted out. Anna looked at him confused, and Tom continued. Now if you'll excuse me, I got a demo to push and some assholes to prove wrong. Tom pushed past Anna on the way out the door. She noticed the sunglasses still laying on the corner and called out after him. Tom, wait! Your sunglasses. Keep him

Tom replied while walking briskly to his bike Still laying in the bush on the edge of the lot Where he had thrown it earlier He clumsily mounted the rusted junk heap And shakily began to pedal off The chain broke And the bike seized up Tom nearly fell as he hopped off the bike

He dropped that damn bike Right where he was and smiled before turning and continuing to walk jolly along the highway towards town. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets to warm them and felt the sting of a paper cut. Tom slowly retrieved the offending item. It was a business card for an A&R rep with a major label. On the back, in scribbled handwriting, it read,

Call me. A wide smile stretched across Tom's face. In the other direction, the stranger walked, along the highway whistling his slow, sad song. His army of damned followed behind him. Tom turned to look back and reflect on the enormity of it all. The highway was empty. The stranger and his army had vanished.

A year later, Tom returned to the pump and go. His shitty russed bike had been replaced by a beautiful custom Harley. A scantily clad woman was perched on the back with her arms rack. wrapped around Tom's waist. As he climbed off the bike and removed his helmet, he appeared changed. He was a happier and more confident man. It was the sort of confidence and swagger that comes with success. The woman on the...

I shit you not. She was none other than the centerfold from the magazine. Hey, babe, could you get me some gum? She called out as Tom walked towards the door. You got it, babe. Tom replied with a smile and headed inside. He grabbed a pack of gum from the display on the counter and slapped it down. Just this and 15 on Pump 2.

He chirped. Tom? Is that you? The woman behind the counter inquired. Tom looked up to see his cheating ex-girlfriend. No longer the vision of beauty she had been just a year ago. She stood wary and disheveled behind the counter with a forced smile plastered on her face. No, I'm sorry.

I think you got the wrong guy. Bailey, um, replied with a twisted smile as he had it back to his new life. The stranger stood at the edge of the lot and stared in at Bailey. A wicked and unnatural grin cracked across his face before he pursed his lips together. and once again whistled his slow, sad tune. A tear rolled down Bailey's cheek as she stared out the window and then glanced down at the box cutter next to the register. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents,

The Half Head Family, written by Noah Kandisiza 423, and narrated by Nate Dufort. I'm a former police sergeant, and I'll admit it. I've seen a few things that have disturbed me, but nothing like this. Out of respect for the dead, I won't provide any names or actual locations, but I need to tell this story sooner rather than later. I've just got to get it off my chest. The family of family of five was last seen attending their kid's soccer game. They seemed to be in good spirits, laughing, talking, and making plans to go out with friends.

Nothing was amiss. Their kid played wonderfully out on the field. Once the game was finished, they got into their SUV and drove straight home. These are all known facts. But what transpired afterwards is very, very hard to say. We may probably never know what exactly happened that night. Perhaps I don't even want to. The next day, the kids did not show up to school following the soccer game.

The entire day went by without a single phone call from the parents, an unexplained absence. This was rare coming from the family. The parents did not show up to work either. Their positions remained unfilled for the day. No phone call to explain sickness or a family emergency was given. No one had heard from or seen the family at all. The coming evening, still with no word from the family, a neighbor and close friend of theirs went to check on them.

The house was some distance from its neighbors, only just within shouting distance. Upon approach, the neighbor noted that their car was parked in the driveway. Still no sign of the family. The washing hadn't been hung up. most if not all the curtains were drawn. It was dead quiet, too. Not a sound to be heard.

Not even any bird song. He said that it felt like eyes were on the back of his neck. But he tried not to let it get to him. The neighbor, upon trying the front door and finding it locked, procured the home key from beneath the nearby rock. He said that, upon entry to the residence, He immediately started to suspect that something was truly wrong. The place felt cold.

He described the household as looking suspiciously dark. The neighbor called out for his friends, too, no response. He was just about to give in and leave when he saw something black splattered on the floor down the hall from him. Now, very worried, the neighbor approached it. He explained that, upon getting closer, an overwhelmingly strong coppery smell filled his lungs. He quickened his pace, fearing the worst, and found himself standing in the dining room doorway. There sat the family. The neighbor was inconsolable for the next several hours.

This is where I come into the story. I remember trying to speak to him, but he was almost completely unresponsive. wouldn't even look me in the eye. While paramedics took care of him, another officer and I entered the house. It was a long walk down the hallway. I recognized that copri smell well enough. You know, they can fill you with all sorts of dread,

knowing you're about to see something, which you'll never forget. I entered the dining room. The scene was an absolute crimson horror show. The family, all five of them, were sitting around their dining room table. Their corpses had been propped up in their seats. Their stiff fingers wrapped rigidly around their cutlery. The food, stone cold, was set out and all ready to eat. They'd been prepped to look that way, like some sick puppet show.

Each family member was turned towards the doorway. facing whoever entered expectantly. I don't know how the killer knew we'd come through that doorway so they could prop the family up to face the right direction. But they did. At least, I think they did. Their heads were what got me, because you see, their heads were gone.

Sort of. Essentially, I could see their tongue and the bottom, row of teeth, but the rest of the head upwards was simply gone, lobbed off, a very clean cut by the looks of things. But somehow, it didn't look like a surgical tool was the weapon used. Strangely, it looked even cleaner than that. The blood was simply everywhere. The corpses were covered in it.

The floor was covered in it. The table was covered in it. Practically every surface in that room was colored a blackish scarlet. There were no signs of a struggle, no signs of fighting. Nothing was broken or out of place. There were no bruises on the family, no physical signs of fighting back against their attacker. We couldn't even find any evidence, apart from the murders, that anyone else had even been there. But of course, something had. Something must have been. The crime scene investigation

was tricky. There was so much blood you see that we had to be very cautious about where we stepped. Several officers simply couldn't stay in the room with the bodies. It was too gruesome for them. Many were outside, gagging, and vomiting. I only overlooked the scene from a doorway. I don't even know how I managed to stomach at all. Maybe I was just in too much shock, but even the crime scene investigators were struggling. I could see the photographer's hand shaking as he took picture after picture of the family's corpses.

Many times, one of us would stand back, needing to take a moment. Then, after some labored breathing, we'd leap back into it again. I watched it over that entire investigation, just turning the facts over in my head. Even after the bodies had been removed, I just stared at all that blood. It wasn't adding up. The precision of those cuts.

The lack of signs of fighting back. The insane amounts of spilled blood. The family facing the right doorway, like their corpses could hear us coming, and were waiting expectantly. And now and then, the hair on the back of my neck would prickle. Every ten to fifteen minutes, I suddenly get this sense,

a primitive sense that something was staring at the back of my neck. But whenever I turned around, there was no one there. Although strangely, I constantly found myself looking at a window. whenever I turned around to confront that sense of being watched. An open window, certainly, but always a window. It was a relief to finally drive away from that house,

halfway back towards the station. However, the true grisliness of the situation struck me. The power of shock was finally wearing off. I pulled over onto the side of the road, walked into the bushes, and after a few seconds let out my lunch. Then I simply got back in my car and kept driving to the station as if nothing had happened.

The family didn't seem to have a lot of enemies. A couple of difficulties they were dealing with, sure, but we all had some. The kids were doing well at school. The parents were happy and quite financially secure. If anything, they were on the way up. Motive-wise, it made no sense. The best we could find was some strange comments made in the final days of the family's lives.

More than once the father had openly complained about the electronics failing to work on the property. His bedside lamp kept switching on and off, almost on a rhythmic beat. One time, while he'd just driven onto the property coming back from work, His radio started going completely haywire. Even when he turned it off, he said, he could swear he heard voices, very vaguely playing over the speakers. Strange, garbled voices,

speaking utter nonsense. The children had complained about constantly feeling watched. They said it was like a prickly feeling, an electric sensation that sort of flicked up the nape. There was never anything. there, but they kept complaining about it to their teachers and friends. The mother who'd sported quite a late 90s hairstyle mentioned it happening to her once or twice, too, and these last couple of things really caught my interest.

They kept finding the front door open. They'd ensure it was locked and bolted, and some 15 minutes later, it would be wide open again. No one knew what to think about it other than someone in the family was playing a practical joke of some kind. The mother made a point of checking the house for intruders, but there was no one else there other than the family. Then finally, objects would start getting misplaced. The kids kept coming to school without some of their books, and more than once the father couldn't find his glasses, which he was blind as a bat without. They'd always find them in the end,

but they expressed a good deal of irritation over the same thing constantly happening. This may or may not sound like anything to you, but the fact that this happened so much deeply intrigued me. Then the official autopsy report came out, and honestly, I just had more questions. Questions that have never been answered to my disappointment.

The bodies, the coroner noted, were completely pale as a sheet. Now at first, that makes sense to you, right? After all, the larger upper section of their heads were missing. But then they did a couple of tests and found that the bodies were completely emptied of blood, not a single drop in any of their veins. And this simply made no sense.

It seemed as if the brain being completely separated from the body didn't stop the heart from ticking, as if the heart had simply kept on pumping, gushing the blood out of the family's missing section of the head until they were utterly bled dry. The coroner in the end couldn't rule the murders as death by decapitation. The official verdict was death by exonquination. It was astounding. We went the extra mile with that investigation, but despite digging up as much dirt as we could within our jurisdiction, we essentially found nothing. I spent many sleepless nights over that. I also drank more coffee over the case than I'd ever care to mention.

And we never found the upper sections of their heads. They were simply gone. Vanished. Since then, no new revelations ever came to light. No one was ever suspected. The neighbor went through some serious therapy, but last I've heard, his life was never the same. He suffers from depression now, the really, really bad kind, the kind you don't come back from. And I haven't felt a lot better.

Every night as I lay there, trying to fall asleep, my dreams were. be plagued by disturbing imagery. It's largely of the family, those missing sections of their heads, the blood, those hands wrapped around the cutlery. I can never get it out of my head. It comes to me, monotonously, constantly. In those dreams the family is alive, trying to eat their food without their mouths. It's disgusting, as their blood pumping.

jumps out and soaks through their food, but I can never look away from it. Then finally, we come up to date. I'm only telling this story for one reason. It started recently. I wasn't sure what to think of it at first. I hardly even paid it any mind, but then it kept happening. And happening. But a little while ago, my TV started acting up.

I'd be watching a channel and little blips of static would crackle all over the screen. I'd unplug the TV, manually reset it and everything, but no dice, still crackling. Then a little while ago, I noticed something was going on with my shed. My shed sits some distance away from the house and has a gap between the top of the double doors and the peak of its roof. Through that gap, you can see whether the light is on or off, and now and then I'd look through the window, and the light would be switching on and off, on and off.

But whenever I would go to check on it, the light was suddenly not doing it anymore. I just reckoned it was rats or something, so I set down some traps. But then I started to get it. get that feeling. The feeling of being watched. It started slowly now and then, but it was a definitive sensation. I'd just be going about my day and suddenly my skin would crawl. I'd feel that sensation, that slight, vague sensation that someone was staring right at me.

It didn't matter where I was. In the store, on the street, fixing a a post, drinking some coffee. I just get that feeling. But whenever I'd turn around, nothing there. But then, and this is where I start to suspect something was wrong, I started to find the front door wide open. Just now and then I'd walk past the entryway and there it would be, open, letting in the cold breeze. I'd close it, but then ten minutes later,

my wife would remark while walking past me. You left the front door open again. At last, there was the misplacing of the objects. The TV remote, a cup of coffee, a book I was reading, my wife's hairbrush, or the shampoo bottle. Suddenly we'd just find them sitting somewhere else. Neither of us would fess up to moving it because, frankly, we were quite sure we did. I didn't. I remember the most distinctive time, though, was when I was texting my friend.

We were making plans to go out to this new restaurant in town, and I was asking you if you wanted to bring a son along. I sat down the phone and finished the last bite of my eggs and bacon, and some five seconds later, my phone pinged. But it didn't ping beside me. the ping emitted from across the room. I looked up, and there was my phone, now sitting on the other side of the room,

at the kitchen counter, no longer beside me. My wife wasn't home, yet somehow. My phone was now sitting across the room, five seconds later. I was extremely wary for the rest of the day. Thankfully, nothing else happened. I told my wife, but she just laughed it off and told me I was being paranoid. But when I noted the similarities between the case of the family I investigated,

when I was still on the force, she didn't have a strong rebuttal. She just told me not to think about it too much, and that I was probably working myself up. Then finally, there was the event that just transpired last night. I needed a glass of water, and so did my wife. So I went down to the kitchen to get us each a drink. I entered the room feeling around blindly in the darkness for the light switch. Successfully locating it, I illuminated the room.

I turned around glass in hand and nearly dropped the fucking thing on my foot. I almost yelled out, my heart rapidly picking up the mannerisms of a jackhammer. My fingers gripped the kitchen counter as I slowly processed what I was seeing. Across from me, on the other side of the room, was a large window that sits over my kitchen sink. And there, steering right at where I stood, as if they knew exactly where I was going to be, were five heads. Or to be clearer, the upper sections of five heads. They led down to the top lip, but the rest of the head, downwards, was gone.

I slowly felt dawning recognition. There was a man's head, a woman's, and three children's, just like. And then I saw the glasses the man was wearing. The glasses he was blind as a bat without. I saw the women's distinctive black hair. done up in a late 90s fashion. I saw the faces of the children, faces I knew all too well.

These lined up in a row on the window-sill outside my house were the upper sections of the family's heads, the missing sections, gone for all those years. Rotted, decomposed, gray and black and grotesquely mummified. Jesus, I wanted to vomit. I started for the back door not even thinking. I stumbled outside walking around the corner of my house, expecting to see the heads all lined up. But in the very short period that it took to walk out of my kitchen, through the laundry room,

out the back door, and around the side of my house, the heads were now all gone. No residue was even left on the window sill. I looked around expecting to see someone walking. watching me from the trees, but I stood alone in the darkness. Alone, bewildered, but most importantly, I was horrified. What did this mean? What was going to happen to me? To my wife.

Something struck me this morning, the timing of it all. I did some digging around and some records and took a trip down memory lane. It took some poking around and, connections through old friends. But I finally found what I was looking for. And what do you know? Today is the fifth fucking anniversary of their deaths. And I think it's also going to be the day of my own.

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