Creepy - Tales from Henry's Farm, Part 7: Where the Bad Things Are

Episode Date: May 15, 2023

All good things, must come to an end.***Written by: TW Grim***Produced by: Steve Blizin***Narration by: Joe Stofko, Steve Blizin, Nikolle Doolin, Michelle Kane, and Jimmy Ferrer***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea 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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And finally, over the years, there have been some standout stories and series that we'd get requests for. And at the top of that list are the stories from Uncle Henry's Farm. And, like all good things, that series must come to an end. What you're about to hear is the final part in the Uncle Henry series written by T.W. Grimm. Henry, performed so brilliantly by Joe Stofco, has one last story to tell. With the runtime of over an hour, there's just the one's story this week. And yes, there will be an ad break in the story at a natural break. Yes, the ads keep the lights on.

But if you want to hear the story on Interrupted, there's always Patreon. Just saying. So, without further ado, the final chapter, and the Uncle Henry saga starts. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous,

chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence

and explicit language listener discretion is advised creepy presents Tales from Henry's Farm Part 7 Where the Bad Things Are Written by T.W.

Grimm and produced by Steve Blizen With guest narration by Joe Stofco Steve Blizen Nicole Doolin and Jimmy Ferrer. Winter melts away into spring.

Spring and nights into summer. Summer smolders into autumn. And the colds of autumn are extinguished by the cold snows of winter. All things in this world revolve around the cycle of life, death, and renewal. That's the nature of existence. And tries you might, there's simply no stop in the cycle. Uncle Henry was entering the last stage of his journey through this big, weird, old world, and this fact filled me to the brim with anxiety.

I couldn't possibly imagine his absence from my life. It was incomprehensible to me that he would eventually exhale his last breath. And then he'd be gone. On his end, he'd tried his best to settle into a new life and a new place. He actually did a lot better than I'd expected. I was half anticipating a barrage of angry phone calls from the director of the retirement community within the first few weeks. but Henry behaved himself.

He didn't tell off any of the staff, and he allowed the landscapers to do their work in peace. All in all, Henry adjusted pretty well for a crusty old farmer who wasn't used to being crowded by strangers. He liked walking down to the community center to socialize with the other residents, but he referred to their shuttle bus outings as taking the Oldie Express at Diper Town. Instead, Henry took up lawn bowling. And he became almost obsessed with the car game cribbage.

He spent hours researching strategies on his new laptop, squinting at the screen with a notebook and a pen at the ready. I've been mopping the floor with these old fuckers. He told me with a grim smile. They call me Hank the shark down at the community center. Hank the shark. I repeated slowly, and I shook my head. Henry, you're the only person I know who'd moved to a retirement village and immediately turn into a degenerate gambler.

Don't drain anyone's retirement fund, okay? Can't promise anything. Henry grumbled sourly. There's nothing else to do around here, except play cards and make myself some enemies. Hell, I can't drink anymore, and they won't even let me smoke inside. What a bunch of horseshit! Who the hell cares? if I'm smoking in my own freaking house.

I live alone, for Christ's sake. One of the first time I'd heard that particular grievance. I patted his hand inside. You can't smoke indoors because you're an old fart with the memory of a housefly. You'd fall asleep mid-puff and burn the entire complex down. Well, fuck you too. Henry retorted sourly.

Everything is changing, isn't it? I don't just mean my own predicament. I mean everything, and hardly none of it is for the better. Things just aren't the same anymore. Everyone's got their face glued to their smartphone, watching stupid little videos and reading jackass opinions. I see you doing it all the time, kiddo, so don't try to deny it. People donate all their money to loudmouth dickheads,

so they can sit on their asses and stir the pot all day. Meanwhile, working folk can't even afford to live anymore. I tell you something, when ordinary people who keep this whole shit show running can't afford to live, well, that's a pretty good indication the whole thing is fucked beyond with there. I say, we throw it all out and start over, because this isn't going to end well. I gravely shook my head and murmured. No, it won't. Things are getting ugly out there.

Oh, it's all horseshit. Henry mumbled. You're telling me these billion-dollar corporations can piss down our banks with their chemical spills and toxic pollution, but I can't light a cigarette inside my own home? Oh, good Christ, what a farce. This isn't the world I used to know, kiddo, not even close. No, I countered. Maybe not.

But I'm glad you're still here with the rest of us. and you should be glad too. Say, didn't I tell you to fuck off already? Henry grunted and I laughed until there were tears in my eyes. Henry didn't laugh along with me, however. He wasn't joking. This isn't the world he used to know, and he didn't care much for what had come to replace it.

His time was already becoming an echo of a faded memory. Shortly after Henry had moved into the retirement village, I started the process of quarry and literary. agents to represent a collection of tales from Henry's Farm. By the time December rolled around, I had only heard back from two of them, and both had declined to represent the book. Rejection is enormous in this business, unfortunately. But I was still pretty disheartened.

They were good stories, and they deserved an audience. I started out my skills as a writer. Was it my own fault? Did I fuck it all up somehow? Well, Michelle tried to console and encourage me the best she could. But she didn't really understand my drive to get this work published as soon as possible. I wanted other people to read it, sure. Hopefully lots and lots of people.

But I wanted Henry to read it even more. I wanted him to see his own words in print before he... Well, before it was his time to go. I wanted him to be proud of me. And even more, I wanted Uncle Henry to be proud of himself. If this store was one of those hallmarked feel-good movies, some up-and-coming literary agent would have agreed to represent tales from Henry's farm, resulting in a decent offer from a major publishing company.

In this squeaky-clean version of reality, the book would rocket to the top of the New York Times' bestseller list and stay there for months. Henry and I would receive bags of money from our ecstatic publishers, and we'd all live happily ever after. But this is real life, not a movie. Real life is messy and painful. Your hopes and dreams mean nothing outside of your own head. In reality, I kept plugging along, making queries and hoping for the best, and time passed.

Christmas came and went, and then it was a brand new year. More rejections, more queries, and the occasional visit with an ever-declined, and Uncle Henry, a colorful bird who was never meant to live in a cage. Henry lost interest in matching wits with the other old timers down at the rec center. And he gradually became a shut-in. The last time I visited him, he barely looked away from the television. He was watching a 24-hour news channel without really seeing or hearing the talking hands on the screen.

My fucking heart. Henry was a shell of the man he used to be. A shrivelled husk with no motivations or desires. He wasn't living. He was simply existing. And that was all. In March, I got a call from the retirement village. It was bad news.

I was keeping staff out and Henry lying on the floor in front of his easy chair. He'd suffered a significance of arachnoid hemorrhage. In other words, Uncle Henry dropped from a massive stroke. as he crumpled to the floor the space between his brain and his skull filled with blood, putting a dangerous amount of pressure on his brain. Gently they informed me that Henry was in a coma. It was unlikely he would ever become conscious again. Michelle wandered into the room as I was finishing the call.

She saw the look on my face and immediately asked. Is it Henry? What happened? I cleared a lump in my throat and croaked. he's in a coma it was a stroke they said we should get there as soon as we can quietly michelle murmured oh my god and gave me a tight hug i'm so sorry where'd they take him st anne's or general i'll drive just let me pop into the bathroom real quick first okay i'll just be a few minutes even heard what she was saying i was numb all over She skirt into the bathroom and I sat down in the living couch to wait.

I stared blindly at the TV and concentrated on holding it together. Obviously, I had known that Henry wasn't going to live forever, but I assumed we still had a few good years left before he died. It's all just so abrupt and cold. Boom. Just like that. Uncle Henry was gone. He wouldn't live to see the book published, not even live to see tomorrow. His days of seeing and experiencing things were over. Just heartbreaking.

It wasn't fucking fair. Good people should be allowed to live a long, long time because good people are so tragically rare, aren't they? Bad people are a dime a dozen, but good people are like diamonds and quicksand. They briefly shine and then they're gone forever. Nobody cares. We remember the names of tyrants and madmen for centuries. But those who make the world a slightly better place are so quickly forgotten. Beside me, Henry grumbled.

Hold your horses, kiddo. I'm not gone just yet. I gasped. What the fuck? And I slid off the couch in a state of pure shock. Uncle Henry had suddenly appeared beside me looking pale and very, very tight. hired in a hospital gown. Empty couch one instant.

Henry the next. I almost had a heart attack. Henry grinned slightly in my expression and said, Don't shit yourself, okay? I'm not really here. I'm not at the hospital either. I'm somewhere in between. I stared up at him from the floor and whispered,

oh, no, come on, man. "'That shit again?' Henry threw back his head and that out of deep, genuine belly laugh. He nudged me with his white wrinkly foot and said, "'Oh, I'm afraid so, kid. Listen to me, okay? "'Don't say anything. Just listen. "'It's my time to go, but something is holding me back. "'I don't know many of the particulars,

"'but you have a job to do before I can move along. on. I wish it wasn't so, but it is. I stared at him mutely. My heart still pounding from the sudden adrenaline rush. Finally I managed to peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth, and I croaked. But I don't want you to move along, Henry. That's the last thing I want. Henry blew out and irritated breath and snapped. Do you think it's a choice? People die. Every single one of it. dies. That's just how it is. It doesn't matter if you like it or not. It's a fact. My time has come,

and I need your help. Do you understand? I can't come back. It's done. Henry was right. No, I didn't like it. Not at all. And I sure as hell didn't want to accept it. But I knew Henry was right. We all die. All we can do is. was wake up every day and hope for the best. Everything beyond that is just whistling in the dark. Yeah, I answered faintly, and I wiped away a film of tears on my sleeve. I get it. Stop being such an asshole.

I'm grieving over here. Henry patted my shoulder and slump back into the couch. He looked exhausted. He sighed. I don't want to. to be an asshole, but there comes a time when the hard truth needs to be spoken. Anyway, I know it all has something to do with you and the farm, but that's about it. I need your help to figure this out.

And don't fuck around while you're out there, kiddo, because if I don't leave soon, no, I think I might be stuck here. I stood up and blink down Adam in confusion. Slowly I asked, Stuck where? Are you saying you'll be stuck in between? No, jackass. Henry snapped.

I'll be stranded in fucking Florida. What do you think I mean? Look, it's not safe here. Do you understand? Before the dead can move along, we have to leave all the bad things behind. The bad stuff stays in between. I crossed my arms defensively and asked,

When you say bad stuff, what do you mean exactly? Evil thoughts and horrible deeds. Henry answered quietly. The worst things you can imagine. I felt to stir a goose flesh raised a hair on my arms. I cast a quick glance down the hall and said, We're going to be leaving for the hospital shortly, so make it quick. What do I need to do?

Hainer shook his head in irritation. He grunted. Aren't you listening? You're not heading to the hospital, you damn fool. You're going out to the farm. I sputtered. Okay, fine. I'm going out to the farm.

What am I supposed to do while I'm there? What am I looking for? Hainer rubbed his temples and mumbled. I don't really know. But I have a feeling you won't have much difficulty. goldie finding it. The future may be silent, but the past is loud as hell. I slumped my shoulders into feet and murmured. I hope you're right. Henry heaved himself to his feet and squeezed my shoulder. Quietly, he said,

I need to move on, kiddo. I'm tired, and it's time for a rest. As the last word left his mouth, I abruptly found myself. standing alone in my living room. Henry was gone. I took in a deep breath and lurched down the hall to knock on the bathroom door. I wasn't sure I was going to explain why I was going to drive out to the old farm instead of the hospital. Hey, I need to talk to you about something real quick, okay? I was met with silence. I knocked again and called her name, but there was no answer. I hesitated for a second. My heart suddenly pounding in very. very fast in my chest.

I started to say her name as I opened the door, and it died on my tongue. The bathroom was empty. Michelle had closed the door and disappeared. I ran around the apartment, calling her name with rise in panic until I realized that Michelle wasn't the one who disappeared. I had slipped in between, a place that's neither here nor there. I wandered back into the living room and flopped. popped onto the couch. It felt real, and I also felt real. But it wasn't exactly true anymore.

I looked up at the ceiling and demanded, now what? Do I drive there? Can you drive when you're in between? I shrugged on my coat, pulled my hat snuggled over my ears, and I cautiously stepped out the front door. said of the carpeted hallway outside my apartment, I found myself standing outdoors on a brisk march evening. I was at the farmhouse, shivering at the edge of the front lawn with a million stars blazing overhead. I said in a faint voice, I guess I don't have to drive. Then walked up the driveway. Henry had sold the farm to a couple in their early thirties. Your names were David and Cora, something or other.

I could barely remember what they look like. What was I supposed to say to these people if they open the door? I don't even know if we'd be able to see each other. I snarled, fuck it. They can use a Ouija board and wrap sharply on the door. The new owners had installed the door bill, but I refused to ring it. The glowing button looked completely out of place on the old doorframe. It was an unwelcome intruder, just like the new owners.

didn't belong here. A few seconds later, David something or other, opened the door and gave me a blank stare. He said, Yes. Can I help you? I had no idea how to even begin, so I took a deep breath and mumbled. Um, good evening, sir. Nice night out, right?

He looked at him with open hostility. I stammered. Um, it's David, right? I'm Henry's nephew. Henry's the old farmer who sold you this place. We met a couple times. Do you remember me at all? David's eyes narrowed, he said.

Yeah, I suppose so. And folded his arms, glaring at me with thinly veiled hostility. What do you want? This wasn't going well. But I had no choice but plow head anyway. I said, Well, this is going to sound a bit odd, I suppose, but I'd like your permission to take a wander around the farm. I know there's a bit of imposition, but I really need to do this tonight.

Henry, um, he isn't doing so hot right now, unfortunately. He had a stroke, and they don't think he's going to make it. Before he went under, he asked me to come out here and he asked me to... My words dried up in mid-sentence. I had just noticed that something appeared to be crawling out of David's ear. He gave me a strange look and said... Oh, I guess you didn't hear about it. Before you go on any further, I should probably tell you something.

His words seemed fuzzy, far away. I was too busy staring at the object that was slowly pushing itself out of his ear. It was fat, round, and pale as milk. David whispered. Happened a few months ago. I looked into his wide, glistening eyes and choked... What? You did what?

Can't even remember why it happened. She was in the kitchen and I came up behind her with my gun. She asked why I did it, earned answer. I just shook my head and waited for her to die. I took in a deep, shaky breath and quavered. Your ear! David ignored me and plowed down. When she, you know, when she stopped talking,

I went up to the attic and I screamed for a while. I couldn't believe it happened. You know, I was like, what the hell did I just do? But it was done. I couldn't take it back. I didn't want to go to jail. So I hugged myself from the rafters with my belt. Couldn't see another way out.

I watched in a state of tongue-tied revulsion as the thing in his ear squirmed free and fell out onto his shoulder. It was a long white worm. David casually flicked it aside and said, This is where the bad things are, kiddo. Henry doesn't belong here. He won't last very long. I took a big shambling step back and almost fell down on the porch steps. I gasped.

What do you mean? What'll happen? They don't be like a cubby in a fish tank. David said softly. Sooner or later. He'll be eaten alive. He barked out a harsh gust of laughter and slammed the door in my face. Leave me standing there on the front step with my breath pluming and a weak glow of the porch light.

I realized there weren't any tire tracks in the crusted snow behind me. I would have pulled into the driveway for a good long while. In the gloom just beyond the glow of the porch lot, someone said, Don't let them rattle you, kiddo. Go on inside. I turned and saw Henry strolling up to the porch in his hospital gown. It somehow hung motionless in the cold, stiff breeze. In a grave tone, Henry said.

Doubts and fears can take on a life of their own. But none of that can hurt you, not if you don't let it happen. I groaned. I don't know, Henry. I seem to recall walking away with some pretty decent bruises, Last time, not to mention the nightmares. Henry flapped his hand dismissively and snorted. Nightmares are a dime a dozen.

The good dreams, though, well, that's different. The good ones are priceless. Forget the nightmares and cherish the good ones. They can get awfully scarce. Henry swung open the door and gently steered me inside. One, dragging your feet isn't going to make it go away. The mud room was dark and empty. I flicked down the line and saw the new occupants that torn down the old wood paneling.

It painted the walls a light, air, shade of blue, and said, I hated it. It was all wrong. He looked and smelled different in there, and I didn't like it one bit. I pushed through the door into the kitchen and was greeted by gloom, dust, and silence. The house was ominously vacant. David and Cora something or other appeared to be long gone. I reached out and flick the light switch on the wall. The overhead light revealed a faint maroon-colored stain on the floorboards in front of the sink.

I stared at the stain on the floor and thought, Ah, fuck. This doesn't bode well at all. I cleared my throat and tried an experimental... Hello? Is anyone there? I was answered by a flat, damp echo, and my own voice bouncing back from the barren walls.

It seemed that David and Cora had moved in, performed a large amount of home renovations, and then disappeared, all in a span of less than a year. What happened? I had the bloodstain on the kitchen floor and muttered. Murder. That's what happened. I wandered around the main floor and turned on all the overhead lights. At the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor, I paused and listened intently as I peered up into the darkness above. I called out.

I'm not here to play Ghostbusters or whatever, okay? Believe me, I don't want that. I just want to help Henry move on. I was answered by a strangled, gurgling cry from the upstairs bathroom. It was followed by a string of desperate Gagin sounds. I grimaced and reluctantly started climbing the staircase. The horrible Gagin sounds grew more frantic by the second. It was like someone was trying to scream with a lung full of water.

The rack had seemed to be coming from the upstairs bathroom. I fumbled with the light switch and illuminated the second floor hallway with a weak glow of a single overhead bulb. I walked up to the bathroom door with lead and feet and called out. Someone in there? Hello? The gurgling fell silent. I hovered indecisively for a moment, then took a deep breath and opened the door. The smell hit me like a punch in the gut.

It was awful beyond description. A stomach turning bland, a sulfur, rotten flesh, and hot sewage. Palad light spilled in from the hallway, revealing a large man gasping for his life on the floor. He was on his hands and knees. A stream of dark fluid pouring from a gaping wound across his throat. A stray razor lay on the splatter tiles near his hand. The dying man stared up at me with wild rolling eyes and he tried to speak. A dark sheet of foul liquid oozed over his lips and drewled down his chin.

He reached out with a trembling hand, and I instinctively moved away from his touch. His skin with a model patchwork of purple and blue It looked like a corpse The ghastly spectre started crawling at me Gagging on its own blood as I tried to speak I skittered away from it Involunteer cried disgust on my lips

And I slammed the door shut I fled down the hall and took the stairs two at a time I stopped just short of bowling out the front door And forced myself to breathe for a minute I was pretty sure I'd just witnessed last moments of the unfortunate Willie Van Klein, Uncle Henry's former neighbor. According to Uncle Henry, poor Willie slipped into a downward spiral when his oldest boy died in Vietnam, culminating in the unwitting release of a supernatural horror upon the world and a final act of madness.

He'd cut his own throat into blood sacrifice. I told myself, It was just a story. But I knew better than that. When he slipped in between, the concept of reality becomes entirely subjective. Restless spirits reside there. Wandering among the dreadful compulsions and unimaginable terrors,

I turned away from the door and shouted into the empty house. What the hell am I even doing here? I waved for a response. My heart pounding in my chest. The house was empty and silent as a tomb, but I knew I wasn't alone. I found that I threw my hands up in exasperation and snarled. Okay, sure. That's fine. I don't have a fucking clue what I'm looking for, but that's just fine.

I'll keep looking around. How's that? From out in the kitchen, a rough, slurring voice shot it back. You should look for a pair of balls while you're at it, kid. A pair of balls in a goddamn spine. My stomach dropped into my feet, my breath caught my throat. I knew that voice. I knew it all too well. Twenty years after his death, that hoarse, boozy growl still honed my dreams.

It was my dad. Not long ago, I'd banished the remnants of his odious presence in this world with a swing of a shovel. But now I was in between Where the bad things are Dear old dad came stagrin out of the kitchen And fixed me with a bell for gaze His eyes were bloodshot and feral Beneath the heavy shelf of his brow

He was blackout drunk and almost crackling with aggression Dad had a bottle of rum in one hand And he was carrying a shovel in the other He pointed at me with a shovel and said We're going to dig ourselves a couple of holes tonight, boy. One's for Henry, and the other one's for you. I fought the urge to run. Instead, I took a step forward and said,

I'm not afraid of you anymore. The jig could flutter in my voice told a different story. I was very afraid. Whenever my father had fallen deep into the bottle, he had always become filled with a black, murderous rage. He had killed many people during the war, and I believed he may have started to enjoy it after a while.

After the war was over, he killed at least one more unfortunate soul in a drunken road rage incident. As you may recall, the body was buried in Henry's root cellar. At Henry's request, I dug up the victim's remains and disposed of him in a bonfire, Then I'd exhumed the mummified corpse with the very same shovel my father was holding in his rough callous hand. Dad slowly shook his head at me. His lips curled down and disgust. He said,

I always told your mother you'd grow up to be a sissy, but she wouldn't listen. I told her you'd never make her proud, and I was right. What have you done with yourself, sissy boy? What did you ever do to make your mother proud? I croaked. Nothing. And I felt tears sting my eyes. He grinned and shook his head again.

Nothing. He echoed. Then he took a long swig from the bottle. Look at you. You sorry little shit-stain. Just look at you. Cowering in front of another man with tears in your eyes. This is what your mother brought into this world?

This cry-baby sack of shit right? Here? Your existence is a sin. I whispered. You shut the hell up. You aren't any better. Dad narrowed his eyes and leaned against a shovel. He said, Let me tell you a story real quick, Mr. Ryderman.

You like a good story, don't you? I wiped my eyes and said, Nope. I don't have to listen to you anymore. You're gone. They had grinned and shot back. Then who the hell are you talking to right now, stupid? I ain't gone.

I'll always be alive in your head, boy. I ain't going nowhere. An unexpected jolt of fury shove my fear and grief aside. Because the malignant son of a bitch was right. Bad memories fade, but they never disappear entirely. I can make peace with myself and move on. But I'll never be able to erase him from my past. I bellowed.

Get out of here! And I learned for the shovel. Dad yanked it out of my grasp and belated me in the side of my head with the bottle. It exploded in a shower glass. And I hit the floor with blood running down my face and crimson curtain. I tried to sit up and was promptly shoved out of my back with a muddy work movement. Dad said, There ain't no rules in a fight.

And there ain't no rules in life, neither. And there sure as shit ain't no rules in death. You should head back to the other side and forget about Henry. You can't help him move on. You can't do nothing right. Nothing at all. You ain't no fucking good. I groaned.

I'm still better than you. But I was talking to an empty room. He was gone. I struggled to my feet. My hands clenched into fist, but there was no one to fight. I had a phantom ache in my skull with a bottle it connected, but the gash of my scalp had vanished, along with all the blood. Dad had disappeared into the background miasma this bizarre reality, a place in time which were neither here nor there. For now it was just me, an empty house, and whatever horror is my subconscious might summon

out next. I looked around and mumbled. Well, fuck. I had no idea what to do next. At that point, I was afraid to do anything at all. I rubbed my temples, led out a defeated sigh, and said, Okay, here goes nothing. Bracing myself for disaster, I closed my eyes and started walking blindly across the living room, using my extended arms as feelers as I let my feet take control. Why not? This is a good plan as anything else. I opened my eyes and found myself standing in the kitchen. David and Corr had painted the walls as sickly shaded yellow.

I shook my head and grunted. It looks like shit. Now what? I closed my eyes, spun around a few times, and resumed my blind search of my surroundings. I am brushed against something hard and cold. which turned out to be the brass knob on the back door. I decided I could use a breath of fresh air anyway. Mulevan Clines the cane corpse stench was still lingering deep in my sinuses.

Maybe a blast cold air would clear my head. I swung open the door and there it was. Towering high above the frozen fields and the moonlight. It was Helmut Schneider's cross. A lumine monstrosity that had rotted and eventually toppled beneath the its burden to human misery. I gaped at it in disbelief. It was possibly the ugliest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

And it's easy to understand while all the neighboring farmers that all turned against Helmut and his followers. This thing wouldn't just an eyesore. It was not short of completely fucking horrifying. My boots crunched against the snow as I gingerly made my way down the back steps. Clutching the railing so I wouldn't. and crack my tailbone. I couldn't take my eyes off the cross.

It was a monolithic tribute to an unforgiven master. An arduous project that served nothing but the darkest desires of an otherworldly evil. I stood in the barnyard beneath the stars and stared at the behemoth with equal parts of awe and loathing. I could actually feel that it wasn't right. It was radiating a feverish horror of a problem. Depression, madness, and bloodshed. Ugly fucker, isn't it?

Henry asked. You're suddenly standing beside me in the yard with a grim look on his face. You know, Helmut sired a lot of children with his wives. I imagine his bloodline still exist. Did his evil trickle its way down the family tree? Where are they now, these people? Do any of them speak to demons in their dreams? I snorted.

Well, I sure hope not. Didn't all that die with Willie Van Klein? Isn't that why he... Um, do you know? Well, that was part of it, yes. Henry answered gravely. But I also believe he just didn't want to be alive anymore. I suppose the boozing would have gotten him eventually,

but the other way was faster. It was almost a two birds with one stone situation. Hell of a thing. But sometimes that's how it goes, doesn't it? Two wrongs can make a right, but nobody comes out clean. That's for damn sure. We stood there for a bit,

looking out at the monstrous cross in the distance and silence. I could see my breath, but I couldn't feel the chill in the air. I felt like I was trapped in a dream, and I didn't know how to wake up. Well, Henry asked hesitantly. I'm guessing you haven't made much progress yet. What happened? You don't look so good. I rubbed my eyes and muttered.

Um, yeah. So I got here just by stepping out my door, right? And right off the bat, the dude who bought the place tells me he committed a murder suicide. I'm guessing it's been a few months since it happened. Did you know that? Well, shit. Henry said faintly. No, I didn't see anything about it in the news.

Yeah, me neither. Then I went upstairs and some gross shit was going on in the bathroom. I ran back downstairs and guess who ended up breaking a bottle on my head? Just guess. Now I'm standing out here with you looking at this friggin' nightmare of a cross. I gotta say that I'm just about done with this shit. Henry held up a hand to shush me and pointed into the darkness. He said,

Do you see that? Something was moving out in the icy barren fields. My straining eyes registered a stealthy advance in the starlight, smooth and deliberate. A number of figures were visible against a patchwork of dirty white snow in the distance. There are at least ten of them, maybe more. Softly, Henry said. Get in the house, right now. I took a step back and stammered.

Do you see that? It looks like they're not touching the ground. They're not even... Henry roared. I said. Get inside and shoved me towards the house. He disappeared with the soft wooshin sound and I ran for the back porch with the agility of sudden terror. I slammed the door and engaged the deadbolt, my heart hammering in my chest.

I didn't know what was going on out there, but it was definitely bad. I took a stealthy peek through the window and saw a group of disturbing figures entering the barnyard. The intruders appeared to be wispy and amazing. They're all dressed in tattered rags. I thought they all look like they're dead. They look like zombies. The group drifted apart and surrounded the house in the wide circle. Their bare feet never making contact with ground.

They gazed at the farmhouse with the hollow creek and sunken eyeballs. It seemed like they were waiting for something. But what was it? That's what they were waiting. for. If I tried to go back outside, I would be swarmed in the blink of an eye. I was trapped inside until the light of dawn. A horrible, dreadful thought crept into my head. I felt a flutter of panic in my guts. I looked around at my empty surroundings and called out. Does morning come when you're in between? Hey, Henry? Anybody? Come on, man. Give me a breakover here. I started a pace around

the living room and I stayed a high agitation. I wasn't sure if time flowed the same rate on both sides of the fence, but I knew that Uncle Henry couldn't hold on much longer. Whether I succeeded or failed, Henry would soon die on the other side. If he died before I could help him. He'd be trapped in this off-kilter, nightmarish version of reality. I turned to a blank wall and begged, give me a fucking sign, man. Show me where to go. Come on. I don't know what the hell I'm looking for. For Christ's sake, give me a sign over here. From somewhere far beyond my head, man started to scream atop his lungs. Froze my blood, and he froze my blood and made my heart, skip a beat.

At first it was just wordless, anguish, screaming, and then he started to wail. The sounds were too muffled to be coming from the second floor. The unknown screamer was up in the attic. He repeated this sentence over and over, kicking the walls and stomping up and down

on the floor like a toddler having a screeching meltdown. After a minute or two of the wild screaming tapered off into horse shone. shouting. Then there was nothing but ominous silence. I shuffled over to the staircase and considered my options. I wasn't looking forward to whatever was waiting for me in the attic, but every corner of that old farmhouse harbored a restless spirit or two. Memories of the very personal ghosts of your past experiences, and they haunt the mausoleum of your heart until the day you die, and then you become a ghost. I murmured out loud, and I trudged up the stairs with lead and feet.

Thankfully, the bathroom door was still closed. I had no idea if Will the Van Kline was in there and now, but a strong hint of his putrid essence was lingering in the air. I had no intention to find it out. Fuck that. If I had taken a leak I'd do in the laundry room sink. I flicked the switch for the attic lights and pulled down the trap door. Swung open as a low-grown, releasing the ladder with her rusty squeal. I looked up into dim glow for head and thought, It's going to be that day of a guy, isn't it? He killed himself up there.

I mumbled. Only one way to find out, my man. Forced myself to climb up into the attic. Heroes aren't always fearless and brave, and all they want is to run away, but they don't run away. And this is what makes some heroes. As it turned out, I was right. And it was David something or other in all his dangling purple-faced glory. He was hanging roughly 18 inches below one of the rafters by his neck, and his eyes were open.

His lips were twisted in a malignant little smile. He said, When the noose went tight cut off my hair, hard to save myself. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but it wasn't working. I closed my eyes and asked, How can I help Henry move on? What am I looking for? David made a shoeing gesture with one of his blackening hands and said,

You don't belong. You're not dead yet. Neither is Henry. I replied patiently as we stared at each other for a while. David's grin faded and he sighed. Why don't you look inward? That's where you'll find your answer. Oh, don't look at me like that.

I'm a ghost, not therapist. I snap. Can you be more specific? Because that doesn't tell me anything. The hanging corpse rolled his eyes and sneered. The living are dense-ass brick. You already know the answer. My whole body is stiffened with a jolt of anger, and my hands clenched into fists.

I glared up into his bloated purple face and barked. No, I actually don't know the answer, which is why I'm asking you. What the hell am I supposed to... I realized I was arguing with a dangling corpse, and I stopped talking. David gave me a mocking grand and he crooned. I guess he won't be moving on then. You failed. Yet again.

I bellowed. Fucking what? I punched him as hard as I could in the stomach. The leather belt creaked as he swung backwards. His smug expression didn't change and that infuriated me even more. I tore into him with a barrage of punches, swinging as hard and fast as I could. I hit him until my knuckles hurt and I was out of breath.

When I was done, I collapsed to my knees and painted like a dog on the dusty floor boards. Still twirling and swinging around his neck, David giggled at me and asked. Do you feel better now? Idiot. You can't hurt me. I'm not real. None of this is real. You've been talking to yourself this whole.

time, but you haven't been listening. Once again, I abruptly found myself alone in an empty room. My hands still hurt, but pain was a distant murmur. A ghost, if you will. I stood up, gingerly flexed my fingers and said out loud, Am I losing my fucking mind? Then he stepped out of the gloomy corner at the far side of the room. He crossed his arms angrily and said,

I hate to be a nervous, Nelly, but I can hear them talking about shutting off life support. They're not going to do anything just yet, but you should probably hurry the hell up and get this figured out. I stabbed the air between us with a stiff finger and snarled. Well, they can just slow the fuck down over there, because no one's making any decisions yet, not without me. Then reside deeply and put a hand on my shoulder. Gently, he said. I already arranged that a while ago. kid. If they take me off life support and my ticker stops, it's over. I'm a DNR. Do not resuscitate.

I stared at him in dismay. I sputtered. What the fuck, Henry? He never told me about that. Why didn't you? Because I didn't have to. He interrupted. Then I shut up. Hanner squeezed my shoulder and looked me in the eye. I could see how diminished and tired to become. You're so dreadfully tired. I can make my own decisions.

It's my life, and it's my death, too. You have no right to dictate how or when I pass on. Like I said, they're not going to do anything yet, at least not until you get there. but you have to understand that I'm gone. There's no coming back from something like this. I walked away from him and gazed out the window. From my vantage point, I could see a few of the undead creatures standing motionless in the yard, standing guard against my escape.

Beyond that, Helmut's cross loomed high in the sky, rotting away in the frozen moonlight. I swallowed back a lump in my throat and said, I'm trying my best, Henry. I've been trying really hard to accept your situation. I've also been trying like hell to get your stories published before your situation gets worse. And I'm trying to understand all this other bullshit and I just... I'm pretty lost over here. You know what I mean?

I just... I'm fucking lost. Oh, hell. Everybody is lost. Henry chuckled. You're definitely not alone. Listen, I'm not going to lie to you. I can't make it any better.

Wisdom isn't magic. It's just experience. All I can say for sure is the sun will rise tomorrow and it'll rise again the next day too. So quit belly aching and let's figure this out because I'm trying to die over here. I turned back to him with a look of shock, and Henry mimicked my slack-chrod stare with wicked precision. I started to laugh, and he started to laugh along with me.

We laughed until there were tears in our eyes. Henry gave me a clumsy side-hug and said, I've got a question for you. Why do you think the blood suckers are waiting outside? Because this plays a horrible garbage heap in the fabric of reality. Sure is. He agreed. But that doesn't really answer my question.

What are they doing out there? I gave him an irritated glance and said, isn't it obvious? They're making sure I can't leave. And suddenly there I was. Stair me in the face with a hundred-wacht glare. My eyes widened in shock and I looked over at Henry, but he was gone. It was just me and my baggage

Trapped behind walls of my own devising I was the one who was holding him back It was me And my rock throughout my life And he had always wanted the best for me If he could have done so Henry would have reached into the sky And giving me the stars

But he couldn't do that So he taught me how to reach for them myself and he was always there to catch me when I soared too high and fell back to earth. But now he was tired, and it was time for him to rest. I found myself standing on the back porch. The gaunt apparitions in the yard drifted closer. Their eyes glinted with hunger. And I walk right past them without a second glance.

Ghosts and memories. Both are nothing more than echoes of the past. They have no power of their own. They can only hurt you if you allow them to take control. I left them behind and kept walking. Looking only forward as I marched away from the farmhouse. I crossed into the frozen fields and headed for the dreaded cross. As a loom closer, I gradually became aware I was walking on concrete.

Michelle was at my side. We were at the hospital, shuffling across parking lot to the main entrance. I could still hear the faint moans of the undead behind me. I ignored them and kept walking. Michelle's hand was firmly gripping my own, and the entrance of the hospital was drawn ever closer. Michelle asked me if I needed a moment to compose myself. I shook my head and picked up the pace. For a very long time, Henry had been my life.

But every shooting star must burn out and go dark. It was time to let him go. The funeral service was absolutely packed. All the seats were taken. People were standing three deep at the back. It appeared that every distant family relation had shown up to pay their respects, along with a large number of friends and acquaintances. I didn't recognize even a quarter of the people who attended the service.

Henry's light had illuminated many lives. He was a good man, one of the best. And I'll miss him very much. After the service, I stood outside and chatted with people as they drifted out the door. A number of strangers came over to introduce themselves and offered their condolences. One of them was a large middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar. He said, I am so sorry for your loss. I was Henry's neighbor down the road when I was kid.

My name is Aaron Van Klein. I did double-taking gasp. Oh, wow. I mean, yeah, thank you so much for coming. Henry was a hell of a guy. I guess he tried to help my dad. My mom always really liked Henry and your aunt. He always spoke highly of them.

Once again, I'm so sorry for your loss. I gave him a polite nod and said, Well, thanks for coming. I appreciate it. Of course, Aaron said somberly, and he moved along. I turned to the next person in line without really looking at him. I was getting tired. All I wanted to do is go home and lay in my dark bedroom. I stuck up my hand and muttered,

Hi, thanks for coming. An elegant southern drawl responded, saying, Well, thank you for having us, dear nephew. It's good to see you again, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Have you been, Sugar? I snatched my hand away like it had just been burned and took an involuntary step backward. There's none other than Henry's half-sister Delilah, mysterious and forbidden in a long,

black dress and matching veil. Diego stood beside her, looking large and sinister in a black trench coat and mirrored sunglasses. He nodded at me and said, My condolence, this homie. Your uncle had a pair of big brass balls on him. I respect that. I heard about the unfortunate incident after the farm changed hands.

Delilah purred softly. Such an awful trash. It's currently on the market again. Just say the word, sugar, and it's yours. Auntie Delilah will buy it back for you in a heartbeat. I could tell how much you loved that place. It's the least I can do. Thank you, I said stiffly.

But that's okay. I don't want it anymore. It's history now. I'm trying to live for the future. That is very wise of you, nephew. Delilah agreed. Well, if you ever need anything at all, just find one of my people and let them know. My organization keeps expanding.

I have acolytes just about everywhere these days. I thought about the store clerk with a serpent tattoo on his hand, and I tried to suppress a shutter. I gave her an awkward smile and said, Yeah, I bet you do. Thank you. I'll keep that in mind. After Henry was interred in the cemetery, the more immediate family headed into the church basement for reception.

We had sandwiches cut into wedges and other funeral classics. We all chatted amongst ourselves as if we hadn't just lowered a loved one into the ground. I excused myself from a raucous conversation with a gaggle of agent. an aunt and found a bench outside. I sat down and looked out at the graveyard next door. I didn't feel like babbling about nothing. I just wanted to exist for a while. I felt eyes watching me and twisted around in my seat.

It was several of my young nieces and nephews, uncomfortable in their funeral clothes and bored out of their minds. I said, What you guys doing? One of my nieces gave me an exaggerated shrug. Nothing. She groaned. There's nothing to do.

Aunt Maggie said we're not allowed to play tag in the churchyard. I nodded sadly and said. She wouldn't let me play tag at funerals either. She'd yell at me and grab my arm. She's mean, my niece muttered sourly, and she kicked her rock with a little buckled shoe. She always yells. I motioned from together close, and I said in a conspirators whisper, I ate too much fruit salad at a wedding and threw up on her shoes.

It was really gross. She ran away and cried in the bathroom. The kids stared at me in surprise, and they all started to giggle. The youngest boy plopped himself down beside me and said in a grave tone. Uncle Henry said a lot of swears. He smoked cigarettes. I smiled and said, yep, he did both. He's from a different generation.

"'What's it, Jen Nation?' he asked suspiciously. "'Smoking is bad. He was a bad guy.' I laughed a little and said, no. Henry was a good guy. He was a little rough around the edges, but he's a good guy. A lot of great stories. My niece perked up immediately, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. She asked, what kind of stories? I gave him all the stern look, and in a low voice, I said, scary stories.

You wouldn't like them. Younger boy jumped off the bench and hollered. Would too? I love scary stories. The rest of him chimed in with a chorus and me too when they all cried around me and excited nod. I saw a reflection of my own youthful exuberance in their animated little faces.

And my heart hurt a little in my chest. But it's a good hurt. You know what I mean? It was bittersweet. I could be in my golden sunlight peeking through the clouds after a violent storm. It would take some time, but I was going to be okay. Are you going to cry? An older nephew demanded in a brash tone, because I don't want to see another grown-up cry today.

I grunted. No, Mr. Bossy pants, I'm not going to cry. Okay, everyone sit your butts down on the grass. I'll tell you one of your great Uncle Henry stories. There was a chorus of cheers And they all arranged themselves into semi-circle With only a minimum of pushing and bickering They looked up at me with guarded wonder in their faces

They were ready to believe But only if the story was good enough Well I drawled slowly I'll start by point now This is a big weird world And we really don't know jack shit about it You swore, a little guy popped up indignantly.

He was violently shushed by the others who urged me to continue. I leaned in close and warned, This story is pretty scary. Are you sure you all want to hear it? They all nodded yes. Their eyes now blazing with excitement. And I let the story take me where I wanted to go. It began with Henry's words, but before long,

My own voice took over the narrative. The magic was now my own, and I could use it to take people far away from themselves, if only for a little while. I could use it to guide my own future. At long last, could be free. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.