Creepy - Strigoi

Episode Date: January 6, 2020

The old countries has old legends...***Written by TW Grim and guest narrated by Joe Stofko***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***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.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. The ongoing existence of this podcast is thanks to our patrons. So please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Jamie Milton, Jaericano, Michelle Murphy, Colleen, Vanilla Bean Jambrey,

Tyler Fallon, Rodney Sutton, Anthony Domcello, Jason Solisano, Michael Icons, Horace Lambert, J.C. Metro, Jacob Jones,

Corey Eaton and Alcobo Takagawa. Our patrons meet everything to us, and we do all we can to give back for their generosity. Starting for as little as $1 a month, our reward tiers include bonuses like early commercial free access to all episodes. Shoutouts, up to four bonus episodes every week, immediate access to almost 500 Patreon exclusive episodes, coffee cups, t-shirts, and logo hoodies.

If you'd like to see how you can support this podcast and get rewarded for doing so. please check out our reward tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. And as you might be able to tell, my voice is a little messed up right now. I've been fighting a sinus infection the last couple of weeks. But if you're not, the show must go on. We haven't missed a Sunday release in over two years and I don't plan on it now. Speaking of which, let me see if I can say this at the moment without my voice cracking.

Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing The most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Strigoy Written by T.W. Grimm With guest narration By Joe Stofco I spent a day helping out around my uncle Henry's farm earning so much needed cash while I'm waiting out another layoff.

It was a long day out in the hot sun and I'm dead on my feet. I don't think I'll be sleeping much tonight. The original plan was grab a bite to eat and melt into the couch with some low-rent horror movies. But I don't seem to be very hungry anymore. And I definitely don't feel like watching a horror movie. Maybe not for a while.

Around 11 this morning I was up in the loft at Henry's barn, pitching down hay and drizzling sweat from every pore like a fountain. He was squinting up at me through the haze of his players unfiltered. John away as usual about life, the universe, and all the things in between with his dry. amblin country man's way. He asked me what me and the missus would be getting up to this evening and with a sly wink from under the brim of his gray, hip dude from the 40s-style hat, turning the innocuous question into a sex joke.

I grin down at him with sweat dripping from my eyebrows and said, You're an old goat, Henry. We're probably going to just veg out on the couch and watch a movie. We're on a zombie kick these days. Lots of fake blood and bad acting. Good mindless fun. Henry waved a dismissive hand and said, Zombies, hell, don't you watch no titty flex?

You've got all kinds of porn on the internet these days. Live a little. That barked some surprised laughter and shook my head. My uncle is almost 83. Throw me up a smoke? Don't start a fire in my head off, you idiot. Just climb down here. Here and take a break. Do I look like a shot-foot champion to you?

I climbed down the ladder that's nailed in place against the loft and accepted a palm all unfiltered. It made my head swim with the first harsh, heavy drag. I sat down on the seat of his big riding moor and coughed until my face was red. Henry dragged his beer cooler over to the tractor and he plopped down on top of of the wince and a sigh. Careful, man. You can't handle these ones your generation's kind of delicate in willow. And you can pitch the fucking hay yourself. I finished for him. Henry laughed at that and gave me a beer out of his cooler.

He was quiet for a few minutes. Just leaning back against the tractor tire and staring off into his barnyard with the cigarette smoldering away between his fingers. He looked like he was deep in thought. I drank my beer and waited for him to say what was on his mind. Henry grunted. I saw some zombies once. Weren't like they were in the movies, but I guess you'd call them zombies. His customary to hell with the world grin abruptly faded and died.

We came over here from Romania. Did you know that? That was back in the early 30s. Yeah, yeah, I know all that. But what's this about fucking zombies? I'd had many beer-fuel discussions with Henry on various paranormal subjects. and he's rambled on about some pretty crazy stuff before, but this was on a whole new level. Henry's forehead wrinkled into a frown. He suddenly looked older than I'd ever seen him.

Old and tired. His roomy brown gaze was flat and completely humorless. Henry no longer resembled the cheerfully eccentric country character I'd know my whole life. He looked like a hardened man that survived the Depression, a world war, and hardships I could never imagine. It's important to the story. He said. What he meant was shut up.

So I did exactly that and waited for him to continue. We were supposed to board a train on the east coast and make our way out to a community of Romanian folks out west. I was too young to remember what happened exactly, but there was a fuck-up, and we didn't make it to our... destination. Not just us, but a bunch more Romanian and Hungarian families and a few Germans, too. Probably almost 30 people in total. We got rerouted somehow because no one spoke English and we couldn't communicate with anyone. We ended up being dumped off at a train station that was located

near Fokal in nowhere. No money, couldn't speak the language, no place to go. We didn't even know where the hell we were. On top of all that, it was late in the fall, and it was getting cold. We sheltered in some abandoned train cars and barely made it through the winter. Holy shit, I whispered. I had no idea. Henry looked me in the eye. His gaze had weight.

Somehow, everybody survived that first winter. No one froze or starved. And remember now, this was back in the dirty thirties. There weren't any social programs like nowadays, not for a bunch of dirt farmers from across the pond, anyhow. When spring came, it was decided that the able-bodied men and older boys would leave and try to find work somewhere. Never heard again from a lot of them.

But after a while, money started finding its way back to us, and we got by. some german women from a lutheran church heard about our situation and they were coming by with food and clothes as often as they could we weren't thriving but we got by he lit another smoke he offered me the pack but i didn't want it problem was we were stuck nowhere to go no money to go nowhere with just foraging and surviving on what little came back to us. I was trapping rabbits in the woods, picking wild berries, stealing ears of feed corn in the middle of the night. Shit, whatever we could do to eat, well, we did it. The cops left us alone because we didn't bother no one or take anything of real value, but they sure didn't help us either. And then the winter came again. Henry laughed in his silence. I waited through a full minute to tense silence before I prodded.

Henry, winter came, and he snorted. Let me tell you something. It's damn near impossible to keep a tin box heated with a makeshift barrel stove, and we weren't just cold,

we were hungry. The snow was bad that year. Now, ladies from the church were having a hard time getting out to see us, and we could hardly ever make it into town, to pick up the money the men were sending back.

It was a desperate situation. Henry stopped to drink his beer. And I saw that his hands were shaking. There was a Hungarian family. The man had left to find work with the rest of them, him and his brother. They left his wife, a grandpa, and four kids. The youngest of him, he was maybe four or five, just a little guy. One morning he goes out with his oldest brother to fetch some firewood, and only the oldest brother comes back.

He said a wolf come running out of the woods and took his brother away, said it snatched him up and was gone before the kid could even begin to react. I shifted uncomfortably in the worn and torn seat of the mower and said, Jesus Christ, that poor kid. No. Henry grimaced. There was a problem, see. The kid didn't come running back after his brother just got dragged away by a fucking wolf like he'd think he would. Your little brother gets taken by a wolf hell.

Most kids would come screaming back like the ass was on fire and their hair was catching. But he didn't. No, this kid stayed right there and gathered up some firewood. He was gone for almost five hours. And there was blood all over his coat. Henry waited a few moments for the implications to sink in. The kid's grandpa grabbed him and tore his coat off, ripped it right open at the seams in a rage,

and suddenly I understood. We all started screaming at him, everyone standing in a circle in front of their box car, just a yelling and screeching at this kid at the top of our lungs. His mother wailed, Why would you do such a thing, you little monster? And she slapped a tooth right out of his mouth. I saw it go flying through the air.

She gave him another zinger off the top of his head. Wham! And the kid ran for it. His mother grabbed a good-sized branch from a pile of firewood that he'd brought back, and she chased after him. Weekly, I interjected. Hey, Henry, maybe this isn't... Henry ignored me and plowed on.

He wasn't looking at me. He was looking out at the barnyard again. He didn't get very far. She was a woman possessed, shrieking like a banshee and swinging that branch with everything she had. No one tried to stop her. We just stood there in the howling wind and watched it happen. After his was over, some of the women buried him in the snow.

He took his shoes off first, though. They still had some wear left in him. It would have been a waste to bury them. I drenched my suddenly parched throat with a few large swallows of my beer and gasped. Good God! What did the mother do after he was dead? She walked into her box car and laid down on her blankets. Henry weezed.

Didn't come out for three days. I abruptly realized that I would have rather been almost anywhere else than sitting there in Henry's barn. Feeling slightly ill as this horrible tail fell like a toxic rain from his trembling lips. It somehow made it worse that was coming from Henry. A good-hearted fellow and all-around decent human being. A man who had no mind to hire life. Infinitely worse, I asked, What about the youngest brother?

And Henry's grimace deepened into a tragedy mask, of deep lines and spider-web wrinkles. He had himself another long swallow from his beer can. Me and a few of the older boys followed their tracks out to the woods. They're not far from the tree line. The two sets of tracks joined together.

There were drops of blood in the snow. The trail ended in the weeds and there was blood everywhere. Big splashes and frozen puddles of the stuff all over the place. We found a good size rock with a sharp edge lying on the ground. There was more blood on the rock, a lot of it, and strands of human hair. He'd made a fire pit nearby. He'd kicked some snow over it to bury

the evidence, but it was a pretty half-assed attempt. He was just a kid after all. I felt a shiver at that statement. Just a kid. Just a normal boy who'd slowly become a desperate and starving boy with another long, hopeless winter ahead of him. Did the older brother cry as he beat his defenseless younger sibling with the rock? Did he cry when he sink his teeth into the boy's burnt and black in flesh? There were some scraps of burnt-up clothes in the ashes. I could smell an odor of roasted meat in the fire pit just faint, but it was there. And God helped me.

My stomach was growling. I couldn't help it. None of us could. We turned away from the fire pit and followed another trail further into the woods. He tried to hide the body under a pile of pine branches. I think he was hoping to come back to it later. I made a sound of disgust in the back of my throat. Henry solemnly nodded in agreement. We didn't want to leave them to the coyotes. So we made a sled out of branches and hauled the remains back to our camp. He got buried not far from his brother. And that was that.

It was done. We all tried to forget what happened, and we moved on. It might sound fucking horrible, but there wasn't any way to make it better. The deed was done, and it would never be undone. The rest of us had to get back to the business of survival. I blinked up at Henry and breathed. Oh, man, this is fucking hell. Heavy, Henry Quavered.

Awful thing, especially for a kid my age. Too young to do anything about it, and too old to forget. I was nine years old that winter, and I was the one who saw them first. Henry sipped at his beer. I could see that he was trying to get his thoughts in order. I patiently waited from to continue. It was right around dusk, maybe a couple weeks. A couple weeks after we put the two of them under the snow.

I was having a pee before bed standing just outside the door of the box car with my willy shriveling in that frigid breeze. Just as I was finishing up, I realized that I could feel something staring at me. I could actually feel it, you know? I could feel the eyes on me. Yeah, I know that feeling.

My voice was thick. I didn't want to listen. even one more second of this story. But I didn't have any choice. Henry was going to let it all out. And it was far too late to stop him now. I looked up and saw him at the rear of the car standing just as still as a mannequin.

His forehead was dented in and one of his eyeballs was hanging from its socket. It was the Hungarian boy. His good eye was blazed in a deep shape. or red. This, I don't know how to explain it. It made me think a hellfire. I could see that his bare feet weren't touching the snow. I felt the beer can crumple as I even voluntarily tightened my grip. Despite the heat of sharp chill, it braced up my spine. I screamed and ran back inside with both hands holding my pants up. Henry grinned. There's no humor in that grand. None at all

I told everyone what I'd just seen, and the other kids all started crying. Your grandma grabbed me by the arms and demanded to know if I was telling the truth. Her eyes were so blind they were almost popping out of her skull. She was scared, really scared, and her reaction scared the rest of us even more. She called me a liar and a horse's ass. She yelled, What would happen if this poor mother heard you say these horrible things? Has she not suffered enough, you lying little bastard?

Henry wiped back of his hand across his mouth and let out a shaky brass. I kept crying that it was true, and your grandma snapped. She started roaring liar at the top of her lungs, and she beat the tar out of me. She was scared, and she was hungry, and I think she was probably losing hope, too, just like the rest of us. She was tired of being strong, and she was tired of being alone, So I guess I understand. I don't blame her for beating on me.

I just sat there and stared at him. Until that very moment, I never suspected the tiny, kindly old grandmother of my childhood memories were capable of such a thing. My jaw was probably on the floor. And the next day, Ma and some of the other women went out to collect firewood. Ma left me in charge being the oldest.

When they were gone, me and your dad snuck out to the oldest brother's grave. We knew what he had become. He was. I trailed off. I couldn't quite get the words out of my mouth. Some people call them vampires. Henry said. He dropped his empty can on the dirt floor and fetched himself in another one.

In the old country, we knew them as Strygoy. And I suppose other people have names for him, too, but it's the same thing. A corrupted spirit that feeds on the living. He was still hungry, that boy, cold and hungry for our wants. Ma knew it, too, but she didn't want to believe it. I had a shovel, and your dad was carrying his pocket knife. It was a cheap little thing with a blade maybe three inches long. Now, we had no idea what we were doing, and I was scared shitless.

Despite myself, I was on the edge of my seat. I asked for a cigarette. He lit it for me with his big tarners zip-ball and lit himself another one too. I dug through the snow all the way to the frozen ground, but he wasn't there. The snow hadn't been disturbed, but the body was gone. The mother of the dead boys was the first to disappear. She stepped out one night to scoop a pail of snow for water, and she did. didn't come back. Her tracks stopped about ten feet from the door to their box car, just the one pair

of footprints and nothing more. The next night, the little girl went out for a pee after dark, and she was never seen again. Once again, there was only one set of tracks in the snow. After that happened, I steeled myself for another beaten and told your grandmother, the boy was no longer in his grave. She cried with her face in her hand. then grabbed me by the shirt and hissed, You must not go out after dark. Promise me, you won't promise me. I gave her my word that I wouldn't.

Later that night I woke up to the sound of fingernails scratching at the walls of our boxcar. Your dad heard it too. We crept up to the ragged old blankets that hung over the door, quiet as a couple of church mice, and I pushed them back to take a peek just a crack. I found myself staring directly,

into a blazing red eye. It was right there on the other side of the blankets, waiting for me. Henry shuddered in the oppressive heat. He wiped away the slick layer of sweat from his brow and regarded the lid end of his cigarette with a look of horror. His bony old knees were trembling inside his baggy green work pants. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his work boot. Red is hellfire.

He murmured. I froze like a statue. There were only a few layers of horse blankets between me and the thing outside. I could smell him. He smelled like rotting meat and burning sulfur. I could only see that one eye, but I knew he was smiling. I could feel that smile. It chewed right through the blankets and gnawed into my soul.

The thing let out a high-pitched whining sound like a hungry animal begging for. scraps. And it whispered, Let me in, Henry. I'm cold. I'm lost. My mind went blank for a second or two. I felt like I was falling into that eye, thinking down and down into burning oblivion. Your dad whispered, what is it?

From behind me, and I snapped out of it. I yanked the blankets closed and pushed him away. I snapped nothing. There's nothing out there. We crawled back into our miserable little beds, and after I was sure he was asleep, I started crying as quietly as I could. I was shaking like a leaf. God help me.

I'd wanted to let that thing in. Hell, yes. Just throw back those horse blankets and welcome that awful thing inside with open arms. I was probably seconds away from doing just that. And if your dad hadn't snapped me out of it, I reckon we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Neither one of us would be here.

I sat up straight in my seat and interjected. Okay, just a second, Henry. Where the hell was Grandpa when all this was going on? Didn't he know? Could you, like, send him a telegram or something? Write him a letter? Henry snorted at the floor. He shook his head.

Nobody knows for sure what happened to your grandpa. He left us and we never saw him again. He didn't send one thin dime back to his family. Not once. as I know, he was either in jail or he was dead. It's the only conclusion that makes any sense to me. I raised an eyebrow and shook my head. I could see in his face that this was a lie. Never saw him again? Of course he came back at some point. How else would I have known the man during my childhood? Trying to keep my tone neutral, I said. Well, obviously you all ended up being reunited at some point, right?

I know this for a fact. I spent a lot of summers working on his farm. He's definitely alive and well. Henry gave me a look like I'd never seen from him before. A cynical and calculating assessment. After a moment or two, he chuckled. Oh, you know it for a fact, do you? No, you've never met your biological grandfather.

The man you called grandpa was actually your grandma's second husband. and my stepfather, I guess, although I was already long gone by then. They married in the late 50s. Once again, my job was on the floor. I sputtered. What? Why didn't I know this? Did any of my cousins know?

Henry cocked his head and drawled. Nah, I doubt it. Ma and us kids, we never talked about those days. No point from dredging up all those bad memories. i just you know i trailed off trying to choose my words carefully i mean this story's pretty far out there henry i don't feel like you're pulling my leg either i just don't know well maybe you don't but i do because the german family that lived in the train car next to us were gone the next morning all of them the tarp they were using for a door was hanging wide open and their barrel stove was cold. No signs of a struggle, nothing missing. They were just gone. Six kids and four women left everything behind and vanished.

I had my phone within his pack for another cigarette. I held up my hand and he passed one over. I squinted through the smoke and shook my head at him. So you guys packed up and immediately got out of there, right? I mean, I'd been out of there so fucking fast, I'd leave a trail of smoke behind. Fuck everything, just bundle up and go. Go where? Henry countered. I threw my hands in the air.

Go anywhere, man. Jesus Christ, who gives a shit wear? They're fucking vampires scratching at the walls. It's the high time you put on your buggy shoes and go. I didn't have no boogie shoes. Henry weezed. I was wearing the Hungarian boy's shoes. The shoes they pulled off his feet.

before they buried him in a snowdrift. They were just about wore out, and my socks were full of holes, and once again, go fucking wear, huh? It was the Great Depression. We were in a foreign land. You think there was somewhere we could go? Pull your head out of your ass.

I looked down to my beer can to avoid making eye contact. I didn't know this version of Henry. I never even suspected that he existed. Meekly I answered. No. I guess not. I guess not.

It's easy to say what you would have done when you weren't actually there, isn't it? There were only two options. We could stay there and pray to God that we'd be spared, or we could try to reach to the nearest village and freeze to death. The snow was deep. It would take the better part of a day for a healthy adult to make that journey. Almost three-quarters of the group were kids, and most of us weren't even ten years.

old. Even if we made it there, there would be nowhere for us to stay. The people in the village had already made it known they wanted nothing to do with us. We hadn't even heard from those women from the Lutheran Church for almost two months. We were on our own, and you could taste the panic in the air. They decided we would cram everyone into just three of the boxcars when the sunset, so we could all keep an eye on each other. It was great. cramped as a bitch in there, but at least it was warmer than usual. No one said a word all night. Even the youngest kids were quiet as church mice. I was scared, but I thought we would probably be safe as long as no one looked outside. Even so, no one really got any sleep. We heard voices

in the wind. Sometimes there would be a bang against the side of the car and my heart would start Pounding. Right around two in the morning, we all heard a scream just one word. No, and then silence. Morning was a long time coming. When the sun finally came peeking up over the horizon, we found the other two boxcars standing wide open. Everyone inside them was gone. I felt a shiver race up my spine. Henry got off the cooler with a loud pop in his knees and he offered me another beer. I popped it open and drank deeply. It was about the oppressive heat shimmering in the air outside the barn door. I felt cold all over. You think that no one would be able to sleep the next night?

But everyone was saw in logs by midnight. We'd all been awake for at least 36 hours. I fell into this incredibly vivid dream that spring had arrived. In the dream, I pulled back the horse blankets and saw gold. and sunlight shining down on a green meadow. The snow was gone and it was warm. I could hear the birds singing. The Hungarian boy's mother was sitting out there in a rocking chair, rocking away and humming to herself in the sunshine. Both of her boys were sitting in her lap, one on each leg. They looked clean and happy and well-fed, and butterflies were dancing in the air above their heads.

It was picture perfect, like a scene right out of a magazine. I could see the others roaming around in the background calling out to each other and laughing in the warmth of the sun. No one was hungry. No one was cold or afraid. Their suffering was over. The dead boy's mother saw that I was watching them, and she called out, come join us, child.

Winter's over, you look hungry. Here, come have a nice bowl of goulash. She walked up to the door and held out a big steaming bowl of meat and gravy, and oh my Christ, did it ever smell good. I wanted it so bad I wanted to be outside in the warmth and feel the sun on my face. But even in the dream, I knew something was wrong. Her eyes weren't right. They were glowing that deep, ugly red, that hellfire red.

She stood in front of our door with that steaming. bowl of stew cradled in her hands, smiling up at me in the sunlight, and I realized that it smelled exactly like the burned body we found in the woods. Her grand, this crooked humorless grin at the floor between his feet. She almost got me. I'd almost reached for that bowl. It took everything I had to step away from the door and say, no, go away, you can't come in. The next instance, someone was screaming in the dark.

and I was fighting to throw off my blankets. My heart was racing a mile a minute. It was your grandma. She was screaming at the old Hungarian man. The grandfather of the boys we buried in the snow. He was standing in front of the door where the blankets pushed aside. And I could see in the moonlight that he was still asleep. Ma grabbed his arm and yelled, let me go.

I want to feel the sun. I barely even saw what happened next. It was just a blur. The old boy hopped outside and his head. outside in his long johns, his arms spread out like he was about to give someone a hug, and then he was gone. He was yanked right off his feet and gone in the blink of an eye. Moss screamed again and pulled the blanket shut, but I caught a glimpse outside before she did, and I saw them, the people who went missing. I saw their eyes glowing in the dark.

Henry went silent again. I finished my beer and waited for him to collect him, But when he was able to continue, he said, Trauma is a hell of a thing. I fell right back asleep after the old man was taken by the monsters outside. Out like a light. I think I probably fainted. I woke up to voices outside. They were calling for us to come out.

I thought it was them at first. The things were the red eyes, but it was the German women from the church. They'd stolen a slave from the state. in town a great big sleigh with a team of horses they'd been trying to come out to see us for weeks but no one would help them so they finally took matters into their own hands and helped themselves to the sleigh they said that it was what jesus would do henry chuckled himself and took a long swallow from his beer can your grandma flung herself at their feet and begged them to take us back to town they asked where the rest of us were but ma just shook her head and kept saying take us with you please you must take us away from here in the end they simply couldn't say no and we found ourselves staying in the basement of the lutheran church the townsfolk weren't too happy about it but the german women shamed them with bible quotes until they finally shut the hell up and left us alone what did grandma say about the people who went missing She had to tell him something.

The truth, Henry grunted. They were church-going folk in a simpler time. They believed in the forces of good and evil. When the spring thaw came, they took them out back out to the junked-out boxcars with a few bags of salt. I went out there with them. We salted the earth and gave the little Hungarian boy a proper burial. I was the one who dug the hole. We planted an apple tree.

Marker's grave and we never came back. Henry looked at his watch and sighed. And that's pretty much it, kiddo. That's the story. Well, I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry. Let's go on up to the house and get some lunch. Henry's story left me like a wrung-out washcloth. It was a fantastic and dreadful tale. But there was no doubt in my mind he was telling the truth, except for one crucial detail. I cleared my throat and asked, What really happened to Grandpa, Henry? I think you know the answer.

Henry grimaced and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. He looked exhausted, but he also looked relieved. Secrets are heavy baggage. It is always a relief to be free of their burden. He crossed the border and left us. for dead. Got married to some flusy who owned a brothel. Had a bunch of kids with her, got divorced, and got hitched to another one. He ran a bootlegging business from what I can gather. Got rich off it, too. Lived in a mansion with his third wife until he died in the early 80s. Went peacefully

in his own bed. I hope hell is hot enough for that man, because he never did like the cold very much. With that, story time was officially over, and we went up to the house for sandwiches and soup. Aunt Eustace prattled on about family gossip as we ate. By the time we finished, I almost felt normal again. But that was before the sunset over the horizon. Things are different in the dark. The house creaks. The shadows crawl across the walls, and all symbols of rationality goes right out the window.

It's almost one in the morning I'm tired as hell, but I doubt very much I'll get any sleep tonight. If I close my eyes, I'll see a little boy with a dead complexion standing in the snow. A little boy with a dent in his skull and a mad glow of crimson flames dancing his remaining eye. He'll bear his teeth in a feral smile, and that will be that. I'll just end up coming back downstairs to watch infomercials with all the lights on, waiting for the sun to rise. Things are different in the dark. If you don't believe me,

just to ask Uncle Henry, he knows all about it. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, Please visit us at Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikiya.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated. Bloody disgusting podcast network, home of creepy

for disturbing and terrifying creepypasta. SCP Archives with full cast storytelling, horror queers, genre commentary from the LGBTQ perspective, the boo crew for horror-centric interviews. Listen free, wherever you stream audio, and at bloodydiscusting.com slash podcasts.