Creepy - Strange Finds

Episode Date: August 16, 2021

One man's garbage...***Written by Georgia Cook***Bonus episode: "Why I Quit Delivering Food" written by Mr. Michael Squid***See how you can support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko 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, strange finds, written by Georgia Cook. I found it on the foreshore down by Blackfair's bridge. A little white hand sticking straight up out of the mud, glinting in the afternoon sun. It was small, maybe the size of a 20-pence piece. And as I crouched down to give it a tug, I already knew I'd found some. special. I don't know if you've ever experienced it, but there's this exhilaration. When it finds sticks, when you pull it something seemingly innocuous, and it shifts beneath the mud. Like there's an extra appendage buried deep below your feet.

Now, usually that extra appendage is a rock or a rusty pipe or a tangle of fishing net. But mudlarks have found honest to God treasures beneath innocent debris. That's what the doll felt like. Just for a second, like it was pushing itself loose from deep below the earth. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, I dug it out of the mud. It's hard work, the mudlarking game. I run a blog, one of those hobbies that kind of spiraled in a semi-proper job. So trust me when I say, I'm in deep.

Mudlarking's like beachcombing, picking through all the odds and ends left over after high tide. Only, rather than the beach, I'm freezing in my wellies and gloves on the banks of the River Thames, trying to cut myself open on ancient rubbish. It's a niche community, especially among the hardcore lot, but I get plenty of casual fans interested in the weird stuff. And trust me, when I say I find some weird stuff. Typically, my finds come in two categories. Plain disgusting and interesting, almost drunk. old coins and cans and false teeth, rust and pipes and ancient tiles. But sometimes I hit gold.

I found a Roman coin down near London Bridge, or a bottle of rubber frogs, or all those plastic mannequin heads last spring. And what I do, I take a picture and post it on the blog. As surreal as it sounds, all parts aren't particularly rare. anything flimsier than pottery gets pulled to pieces by the current. I dredge up plenty of arms and legs and heads every month, both China and plastic. The thing that struck me this time really struck me was the bell's condition. Even drenched in muck, it was beautiful.

One of those Victorian dolls you see in antique shops, squirled away behind glass. I can't imagine how much it must have caused. Even the clothes were intact. A neat little bustling crinoline and faded baby blue. Carved straight into the torso. Every limb molded with such care. Until I dislodged its head. Do you ever see a doll with teeth?

The kind they made before we invented rational taste. Yeah, it was one of those. Its jaw clicked as it moved. And inside its mouth with these perfect little, chip china teeth grimacing at you. Lord knows how they survived, especially considering one of its eyes hadn't. Not only that, but almost Adele's entire face was gone. The carving was still there, nose and lips and cheeks, as neat and perfect as the rest of it, but unless you stared hard, really hard, all you got was its empty black socket and a mouthful of perfect little teeth.

Okay, the thing was creepy. Perfect and lovely and fucking creepy. Seeing that blank face was like watching a cockroach crawl out of its mouth or something. Just a split second of visceral weirdness. But it was almost Halloween. And weird was exactly what I needed. Give it a scrub, prop it again some tastefully gothic set dressing, and I'd have my Halloween post ready before mid-October.

So, I wrapped the doll. in a plastic bag and carried it back to my flat and southward. After I'd let it soak for a few hours, I examined the doll again under my kitchen lights. What I'd taken for cracks and bumps in the head mold was actually hair. Silvery blonde and beautifully quaffed, molded straight across a dell's scalp. Hair is usually the first to go when a doll ends up in the Thames, and I'd almost forgotten these things weren't habitually bald. I uncovered further details as I washed away the mud, little hand-carved,

buttons at the throat and wrist, penny crinkles in the skirt and bodice, the excruciating handiwork of someone trying desperately to convince the world that China was pristine blue silk. It didn't make the face any less surreal, or any less beautiful. It felt unfair somehow. Something so delicate, reduced to river waste. I wondered where it come from, who'd owned it, how, of all things it had ended up in the Thames. It was sitting in the sink when Harrison found it.

Harrison Finchley was handsome. Harrison Finchley was charming. And Harrison Finchley was a flake. He hopped from job to job, girlfriend to girlfriend, and seemed to consider our apartment more a permanent storage space than a home. He wasn't a bad guy. Just dozy. And on the rare occasions, he spent more than a night in the flat.

He was perfectly friendly. So I tolerated his absence. His space gave me carte blanche to work on my fines. And he never complained when they oozed or rotted or stunk up the kitchen sink. His flatmate, we had a good deal worked out. He smiled a lot. Smiled when he greeted me. Smiled when we argued.

Smiled when he stumbled in at 6 a.m. on a Monday morning. Smiled like he didn't have a care in the world. That's what I'll always remember about him. I wish it wasn't. He plucked the doll out of the sink on his way to the fridge, turning it over and over in his hands. We'd seen a lot of weird and wonderful things in my time running the blog, but I remember he seemed particularly fascinated by this one. As fascinated as I'd been.

Then he asked me what the writing was for. I asked him what he meant. I hadn't seen any writing. And he turned the doll over and pointed to its back. leaning closer i saw that something had indeed been written straight down the doll's spine imperfect imperfect imperfect imperfect just like that one word over and over and over again harrison laughed said maybe the doll's maker knew how creepy it was wanted to warn us but the phrase didn't read like a maker's mark the writing was too deliberate A little too handmade.

It gave me a chill. That should have been Red Flag number three. But like I said, I find weird shit. A couple years ago, a mudlark uncovered candles and dead rats and these weird little occult figurines down under London Bridge. It was in the papers. People like weird stuff. And in London, well, people get weird.

So I took the doll back, clean it up, and more or less forgot about the writing. The photos did well, got featured in a few Halloween listical articles. Top 10 spooky London fines, you won't believe number eight, stuff like that. I'm not talking to serious traction, but I don't have to boost my revenue for a few weeks. That's probably why I kept it. It all creeped me out, sure, but I was pleased with it. I always kept the strange or popular finds.

It kind of reminds me why I started blog, you know, why I like showing people this stuff. and something about the doll's delicate crafting made me reluctant to just throw it away, the same twist of pity I'd felt before. I want to say the weird shit started after that. Furniture moving around, phones ringing in the dead of night, the lights turning on and off by themselves, anything that might have forewarned us. But no.

I took my photos, made my Halloween post, returned us slogging through the Tams mud to feed the blog machine. And that was it. For maybe a month. Then the eye went missing. It wasn't much, just a glass eye picked up down by Westminster a few years previously. Greenish blue, maybe 1960s. Nothing beautiful, but even after a trip down the Thames, it was almost intact.

It was the first really interesting thing I had found as an official mudlark. So I'd washed it, kept it, stuck it in the box on my desk. My good luck charm. I don't know when exactly had vanished. I spent a lot of time at my desk, editing and writing and curating the website. And I never saw it go. I just glanced over one day while checking emails and realized its box was empty. I checked the floor, check the drawers, checked behind the desk just in case, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

The eye had rolled off somewhere into the deep recesses of our apartment. Maybe shaken free by an accidental nudge or my own carelessness while cleaning. vanishing into thin air. And that was it. A weird little mundane occurrence. Frustrating, sure. I liked that eye. And I hadn't exactly planned on losing it.

But nothing devastating. So life went on. Until about a week later, when I was clearing out the storage boxes. Now, I like my finds. But no one wants a flat chair covered in river tad, so Harrison and I had agreement. Anything I want to keep, I store in a big plastic box in the hallway cupboard. That's my own space, my own private collection. Harrison and I don't have much in the way of coats, and all our cleaning stuff lives under the sink.

So our cupboard became home to the hoover in my neat little stack of Tam's treasures. Nothing thrown away and nothing cluttering up the living room for houseguess to see. I wrap everything individually in newspaper before stacking them carefully in the box. But sometimes bits just break. A handful of decades floating down the tams will do that, even if a piece looks relatively sturdy. So I have a habit of monitoring things, taking inventory every few months just in case. I was on my knees in the cupboard. Gloves on, a bowl of soapy water by my knees, rummaging through the largest box,

and my hand brushed against something. Crunchy. I pulled it out, expecting more sand to find my fingers covered in tiny pieces of glass. Glass smashed so fine it was almost dust. That box had been home to a fair few glass bottles in its time, and at first I thought one of them exploded under the weight. Cursing myself, I hauled out the top layer of newspaper to survey the damage. Glass littered the bottom of the box, covered it from end to end in gritty little shards

of white. Now, most bottles I find are green or blue, with the occasional piece of yellow. White glass is rare, and I certainly didn't have enough to make this. mess, the more I lifted out, the more I found, sticking to the undersides of newspaper packages and coating my fingers, as I lifted the final few parcels out of the box, my handbrushed against something else, something smooth and porcelain, something free of newspaper. It was the doll. It lay face down at the bottom of the box. Lifting it up, I realized there was something protruding out of its mouth. A rounded curve of glass, remnants of blue and black fractured across its surface. That's when it

dawned on me. I was looking at my glass eye. My glass eye, ground into tiny little bits and stuffed inside the doll's stiff little jaw mechanism. Staring up at me from a box, I'd closed almost a month ago. I told myself I'd accidentally crushed the eye in the Hoover. Maybe the desk had moved and trapped it under one of the legs, helped maybe Harrison had stepped on it and tried to bury the evidence. The glass was old. Surely it wouldn't take much to break, but that didn't explain how it ended up in the hall, or mixed in with the doll, or how the doll had some all wiggled free from its newspaper to find it. You know when something weird happens and your brain can't connect the dots, so it pretends the dots don't exist.

Someone changes unexpectedly. Something vanishes from a lot covered. Or you find it where it shouldn't be. It eats away at you until your brain can't handle the weirdness. Formed a barrier around the event. Pushes it deep down and buries it under the weight of normal stuff. Lists and routine and grocery shopping. I think that's what I did with the glass high.

I swept up to pieces, cleaned the inside of the box, wrapped it all back up again, and just they ignored it. Weird shit over and done with. I remember November is a particularly difficult month, but not for supernatural reasons. The chill off the Thames is ruthless in winter, slogging down in the freezing mud for something, anything to post to the blog.

It all becomes a painful, bitter chore, even with good boots and sturdy gloves and a hungry online following. I found the usual things, pottery and pipe bowls, bits old boots and smooth riverglass, but no more dolls. Thank God no more dolls. November came and went, leaving the long expanse of December spread out ahead of us. The Christmas season brought colder days and longer, merciless nights and me, down in the mud with my torch and wellies miserable. No wonder people kept the backlog for the winter season.

I saw less and less of Harrison. With his vast circle of friends, he was making the most of London Toliday atmosphere. The flat became a mostly solo affair, and that suited me just fine. I found myself enjoying the tan was less and less. Stop going outside. Stop visiting the riverbanks. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was practically starved for blog content. And mudlarking is...

Was my livelihood. So I started recycling posts. Plenty of people do it. Take a few fresh photos of old finds, adjust the lighting, and boom. Fresh new content. It stretches things out. Freeze the algorithm. It means I don't starve to death.

As soon as I picked it up, I knew something had changed. But now I hadn't seen the doll in two months. And it was popular. People were still messaging me about the original photos. I thought a revival post, maybe something Christmas ghost theme appropriately to Kensian, was just what the blog needed, what my revenue needed. To my relief, it was still wrapped in newspaper, so I put my strange feelings down to the dreary weather and my isolation alone in an empty flat, and got to work setting up an appropriate midwinter

photo shoot. It was only later that evening, when I brought up the old photos to check for inconsistencies that I realized what my eyes had noticed before my brain. The doll had new clothes. In October, its dress had been molded straight onto its body, a smooth transition from porcelain skin to porcelain cloth. In the time between then and now, someone had fashioned it a neat little smock,

made a thin white cloth and clumsy haphazard stitches. I stared at it by her pounding, trying to reconcile the impossible. It was almost too funny, too strange, too bizarre to be frightening. But then I pictured my glass eye, crushed with enough force to render it powder, eaten by a doll with a missing eye of its own, and now seemed to have constructed a brand new dress for itself too. That wasn't quite so funny. Suddenly I didn't want to touch the doll.

The sight of it lying there on the table in our bright clean kitchen, surrounded by gloves and pans and cleaning products, felt Anathematic. Deeply wrong. Mocking. I needed to breathe. I needed to go. I grabbed my coat and my keys, left it all where it was, and ran. I found myself down on the riverbank for the first time in weeks.

Past Southwark, under London Bridge, and toward Black Friars. Up steps and down across brackish sand, ignoring everyone, ignoring anything that wasn't directly in front of me. My shoes sank into the mud. Soaking my socks and freezing my feet. I don't know what I was looking for, what I expected to find. But I wanted to find it more than I wanted to think about the flat, about the doll I'd left prop on the kitchen table. The next thing I knew it was evening.

The tams lay to the right of me, an ink-black glimmer, and something thin and white was waving from the water's edge. It was a corner of a bed sheet this time, soiled and ragged, sticking up from the mud. I knelt down and tugged at it, almost entranced, until it trailed up through my hands like a soddened sail. It was almost entirely intact. A miracle considering the water damage, save for a cluster of neat, careful holes, traced too fine to be rips in the fabric, shapes that, without the obscuring effect of water and dirt, could have almost been a dress pattern. I can't say it was ours.

I won't say it was ours. I can't prove anything. At that point, I would have associated anything with a damn doll. But what I do know, and what I desperately wish I didn't, is that at some point, between October and December, one of our sheets went missing from the hallway cupboard. A sheet I'd been unable to find. A white cotton bed sheet.

I left it lying there in the mud, got myself back on dry land, and spent the night at a friends in Wimbledon. as far from the tams as possible. That night I dreamt of tiny chip glass teeth, of bitter unfairness, and of a single word spiraling over and over again across the mud under Blackfries Bridge. Harrison was waiting for me when I got back to the next morning. His hair was a mess, his face red, raw, and seething.

At first I thought he was drunk. Then maybe one of his girlfriends and kicked them out early and he'd be forced to crawl back to the flat. until I saw what he was holding. It was the doll. He held it upside down by the leg. Its neat little smock hanging awkwardly over its face. I caught a glimpse of its spine as he swung it back and forth. The word's almost legible.

Imperfect, imperfect, imperfect, imperfect, imperfect, imperfect, and perfect, imperfect. Harrison asked what the fuck I thought I was doing. He said he'd woken up in the middle of the night with a doll sitting on his chest, staring at him, he said. staring at him. He accused me of going into his room, rifling through his things. He said I was trying to scare him, creep him out with all my fucking river junk. I tried to explain that I'd been nowhere near the flat last night,

that I wanted him to put the doll down. But Harrison wouldn't listen. He threw it at me. And I ducked. That all flew past me, at the coffee table with a crunch and landed face down on the carpet. Something deep and dreadful rose in my chest. Suddenly I wanted to throw myself at Harrison.

Wanted to smash his drunk fucking face in. Harrison was never my friend. But this was different. This was a spark of pure, unfettered rage. I ran to the doll and scooped it up, partly so Harrison wouldn't see my face, partly to stop myself from doing something to him. There was a middling-sized chip taken out of the doll's top lip. Right where the tabletop had struck it.

The delicate wire in its jaw had snapped, leaving the mouth hanging open in a terrible parody of surprise. A few tiny white teeth lay scattered on the carpet, so small and delicate they were almost lost in weave. Harrison stormed out, leaving me with the doll and the mess. I'm not sure why I didn't throw it away. It wasn't worth the price of fixing it. I knew that.

But something stopped me. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't possessiveness. It was a feeling I'd felt upon discovering the doll when I'd found it with a glass eye, watching his Harrison threw it across the room, a deep, bitter unfairness. It was imperfect.

It looked imperfect again. And that was almost unbearable. Shaken, I put the doll back in its box and stumbled to bed. I slept terrible. Harrison didn't emerge the next morning, nor the next, or the next. This was typical Harrison behavior. I assumed he was sulking or passed out of one of his girlfriends to sullen to text me. But by Saturday, at which point he'd usually clatter in at midnight with one of his weekly appearances, I began to worry.

Harrison was a flake, but he'd never vanished before. I called his mobile, left messages, even visited his usual bars. but no one had seen him. Eventually, bereft of options, I fished the spare key out of the kitchen drawer and tried his room. I don't know what I expected to find. I don't know what I thought he might have done. I don't know if I was upset or relieved upon easing open the door

to find Harrison's bedroom empty. His bed was unmade. His carpet, the same array of dirty clothes and old cutlery had grown to loathe, but Harrison wasn't there. It all was, though. It lay spread eagled in the center of the room. Its eyes shining like it had a secret. It had been waiting all week to tell me out of its box.

Out of the cupboard. But that wasn't the worst of it. That wasn't what filled me with such visceral dread. Someone had cut a perfect circular hole across the doll's forehead, all the way along the top, like a breakfast egg or a tin-atunus. Luna, leaving the cranium wide open, and embedded around the inside of the skull, round and round in a perfect spiral.

Were teeth, rows and rows of human teeth. Harrison still hadn't reappeared. I've considered calling the police. What exactly do I tell them? That a haunted doll I dredge up from the Thames whisked away my flatmate, and what? Sometimes I picture myself returning to where I first uncovered the doll, sitting down past the waterline and digging. Digging until I discover something buried beneath the mud. Something that stares up at me with glassy black eyes and an empty, toothless mouth.

Something that was once Harrison. Something the doll collected. Everyone's waist ends up in the Thames eventually. I'm going to jam the doll in a box and throw it over black friars. I've decided, and I don't care. Maybe it already knows. Christ I'm sure it does. Maybe it'll find me.

Maybe it'll pass itself onto some poor bastard. Whatever happens, it'll buy me time to get out of London, away from the Thames. What else is the doll missing? What other parts does it need? I remember that thing's blank staring eye. I remember it's rubbed away. face, the little parts of it that weren't quite perfect. I remember the glass eye.

I remember Harrison's shiny, perfect teeth, spiraling away down the doll's hollow insides, perfectly ordered, perfectly collected. And I pray to God, I have nothing at once. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, Why I Quit Delivering Food, Written by Mr. Michael Squidd. I've been dashed delivering for a few months now and enjoy the freedom of not having a boss order me around. I can play whatever music I want in my car and take jobs I want and skip the ones that tip poorly. I'm not saving much due to gas costs, but I am saving and I was enjoying seeing new places and meeting new people.

That changed after I received a notification for a $150 paying delivery. Immediately I swiped accept and then pulled over to read it. I first expected this to be some out-of-state delivery to some rich individual longing for some Michelin-rated specialty. I regretted not checking the distance first, and after reading the address, I found it was a bit out in the sticks, but still very much worth the easy hundred and fifty bucks. I sighed with relief and press a GPS button to bring up the map to a restaurant named Danes that had not previously heard of.

The sun was sitting early, as it does in October, and had my lights on by the time I made it to the less populated corner of town where the restaurant was apparently located. Dinner brings the best tips, but I hate driving at night since it's harder to find restaurants without a boldly emblazoned logo lit up in neon. That and I've always harbored some lurking fear of a delivery-turned-mugging, or worse, some gang-initiated killing.

Rare as it is, it has happened. You have arrived at your destination, the soothing voice to the GPS alerted me. I slowed to a stop, confused. I was on a dark residential street, no sign of a restaurant in sight. Where Dany's was supposed to be was a dark gap in between two homes.

I checked it again. Even typing the restaurant name into maps outside the delivery app, but nothing popped up. I realized then it might have been a glitch. In retrospect, $150 for a 30-minute delivery sounded too good to be true. I sighed and began searching the app for the troubleshooting menu when a loud slap on my passenger's side window caused me to jump out of my skin. A man stood outside my car, his ham pressed against the pain. I rolled down the window only a crack,

just enough to hear him. You the delivery driver? He asked and my mouth went dry. I didn't want to say yes because the vision of a pistol pulled and a muzzle flash kept playing in my mind. But he seemed harmless enough. Older too, maybe 50s,

receding hairline, thin frame. Not quite the gang initiation type. I was fairly certain everyone knew that delivery drivers nowadays don't carry cash. Yeah, I'm looking for Danny's restaurant. Is it near here? The man just looked at me with a hollow stare before raising his other hand. The fear of an impending bullet to the brain immediately dissipated

when I saw a large plastic bag. I sighed out in relief and lowered the window, accepting the delivery. It was large, much larger than I was used to delivering. I typically receive a sterifilm container or two, a drink as well. This plastic bag contained a staple paper one, filled out nearly to the top. I needed to use both hands to accept it. I placed a surprisingly heavy meal on the passenger seat, staring at it for a moment before looking up again. Thank you.

My words tapered off as I realized the man was already a few yards back. I watched him disappear into the shadow-filled gap between houses. I have no idea where he was going or where he'd come from. Derek Curiosity led me back to the app to see what I was even delivering. My confusion only heightened when I read the order. Danny's, it simply said, where cheeseburger or fries and the like would typically be listed for me to check off upon pickup. Despite the questions that kept tugging in my resolve, $150 for this awkward delivery was the overpowering factor.

I swiped the slide after pickup bottom bar to continue the delivery. The GPS once again popped up, and I stared at the large green area encompassing the pinpoint. My inside squirmed a bit at the revelation. The delivery address seemed to be dead in the middle of the woods. I shifted into drive and followed directions onto the highway. The sun had fully set, but the tunes from the radio had kept me in good spirits. Few people were on the road, so I was making great tell. and could call on early night after this gig.

The miles counted down from 15 to 10 to 5. The off-ramp came into view, and the large pine trees and either side of the highway continued to darken the path as I merged onto smaller roads. With every mile further into the wilderness, my uneasiness grew. More than a few times, my eyes darted over to the suspicious double-bagged delivery on my seat.

My heart raised as my mind played tricks on me, me in the shroud and darkness of tall trees on either side. I did a double take when I thought I saw the big rustle. Something within appeared to have moved. The last turn on the GPS signaled for me to take a left. It was a turnoff of the paved asphalt road and onto a dirt road that cut into the woods. I slowed to a stop and double-checked the app. Craying, there was some sort of mistake.

On occasion the wrong address was listed. No luck, however. My destination was half a mile into the dense wall of pines. I took the turn and slowly drove into the dark tunnel cutting through the arching trees. I could barely see the sky through the dense copse overhead, just darkness broken by the limb-like branches. With each rocking of the chassis and each bump in the narrow dirt road, that heavy bag on the passenger seat seemed to rustle. I fixed my eyes on the road, deciding not to look at it after I began to hear a faint noise emitting from the stapled inner bag.

A noise that sounded like a faint wheezing. By the time I arrived at the destination, my knuckles were white from gripping the wheel so hard. I was sweating, despite the autumnal chill that had breached my car in clothing. This part of the wood seemed colder than any part of the drive by at least ten degrees. I shifted into park and looked at the app screen. The only source of light aside from my headlights, which faded only a few meters out. The address was supposedly on the left,

and the instructions read, Leave a door. There was no house in sight, however. It had to be a glitch of sorts. Above all else, I didn't want to leave the safety of my vehicle. This entire delivery had been wrong. Something dreadful about It made me crave a shower

You'd maybe want to run screaming From the situation I didn't normally got myself into And then the crinkling noise I saw the big shift in my peripheral vision And I let out a glottal yelp I hurriedly opened the car door and got out Eager to distance myself With whatever was in that bag

I then navigated the menu of the app On my phone screen Seeking out the cancel order option My score will go down I'd miss out of the money But I'd be able to get out of this strange gig That I wanted nothing more to do with I was about to press confirm on the cancellation

When I spotted the door A few meters to my left Illuminated only faintly from the light of my phone screen Stood a door It looked ancient Its thick wooden beams bone white from petrification The design was archaic something that belonged on the side of a medieval European church.

Black steel hinges and latches ornamented it, but the most noticeable feature was the one it was missing. The door was housed in a frame of charred black beams, but aside from that, it wasn't attached to anything. I stared at the structure and felt my heartbeat quicken, treading curiosity battles in my scrambled mind as I tried to register what this door was and why it was out there. I took a few hesitant steps towards it and felt the hairs on my body rise. With every step towards a detached door, the temperature dropped.

I stepped around the unnatural thing to peer behind it, and sure enough, there was nothing behind it but endless trunks of trees. I'd made it this far, and I'd just won't. I wanted to give my money and get out. With a few deep breaths, I returned to my car and opened the passenger door. With two hands, I lifted the heavy delivery, which shook in my shivering arms. It moved. Something gasped and gurgled from within, but I continued to carry the parcel over to that strange door.

My teeth chattered from the chill as I placed a large bag on the dead leaves in front of the door. I took a photo to verify the delivery, then swiped a completely. and with that I rushed back to my car and got in as quickly as possible. I then heard the faint cries of an infant. I saw the big shift and shake, poked outward from the inside. I shifted into reverse and began to backtrack down the pitch black road into the heart of the woods. But not before I saw that door creak open. Not before I saw that rotted black arm with long,

desicated fingers reach out eagerly. I watched a yink that screeching delivery bag into the impossible space behind the door that should not exist. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments, share-alike licensing,

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