Creepy - Thanksgiving Break

Episode Date: December 22, 2025

Thanksgiving Break***Written by: Jerry W. Simmons***Checkpoint 9***Written by: EM Otero and Narrated by: Heather Thomas  ***One Gravedigger Too Many***Written by: A.T. Dusk and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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. We have a quick thank you to our new supporters at Patreon. H. Anthony Sampson, Joe Bullis, Alison Reinvault, Rebecca Martin, Matthew Clark, Bibabubi, and Corey Ryder.

To see how you can support the show and get rewarded, make sure to check out patreon.com slash creepypod. I'm not actually sure how many people are listening at this moment with the holidays on the horizon. hopefully you're all taking time for yourselves and relaxing as much as possible. I do have a little bit of an early present in that I was able to dig up one more recording of Eddie Graves from the radio station. Probably enough, it doesn't look like it ever aired, but it was recorded. Not sure how or why that happened, but it is what it is. And after hearing this? Yeah, I guess I understand why Eddie dropped off the map.

Evening, morning? Ah, what the fuck? Times fuzzy lately. This is Eddie Graves on F-FETA after dark. Still here. Still kicking. Still waiting for management to answer a single damn phone call about getting some parking lot security around here. Never get that feeling someone's listening a little too closely? Yeah, not the fun breathing on the glass kind. The phones keep lighting up.

No voice is just static. but it's not white noise anymore. It's shaped. Like, I don't know. The power's been flickering. When it does, I see things reflected in the booth window that aren't... They're not... Me.

Yeah, and that broadcast on Sunday? You know, when I wasn't here. I never do shows on Sunday. Some of you called in thinking it was me, my voice, but not me. You were concerned for me. I was talking on a loop, just babbling over and over and over again. I got a little too much like that if I drink too much of Dr. Frankenstein's potion, if you know what I mean. It wasn't me.

I don't think. Huh! That's sound again. In the vents. Told the janitor about it. He said it must be a mouse, but it isn't a mouse. You can hear it, right? Someone's walking the hallway.

I can hear their shoes. Only there's no one else here this time of night. Just me. No producer. That's why I get the big bucks. Got some... You know what's funny? You know what's funny?

I keep hearing my name when the feed cuts out. Like the signals, um... Like the signals, I don't even say it. Like, I never leave anymore. All right, let's get the bats back in the... Storytime. The night's tale is called

The Dead Frequency. Guess we're living it, huh? You've tuned in to f*** us. After dark, where the lights flicker and the voice never real. Okay, so I guess I understand the station managers will call it reluctance to play old clips of Eddie and his desire to not open old wounds. I still don't know exactly what happened to Eddie after what you just heard, but he stopped broadcasting. I assume he left the station, probably moved somewhere else. Who knows? Maybe he switched up his name and tried to try to.

his look out in L.A. I feel bad, though. Even though I never met Eddie, it sounds like things kind of fell apart at the end. I get it. You spent enough nights alone talking to yourself and telling scary stories and it can start to feel like things are

off. It's not like I can pretend like there was never a moment where I thought I heard something moving around out in the hallway or saw a shadow at just the right angle to think it was something else, especially out here. So, I guess that's it for Eddie.

I'll admit, I enjoy the walk down memory lane, even though I don't remember ever listening to him. But you know what I'm trying to say. It was a good distraction from the busy work of audiophile transfer. Anyway, let's get to this week's stories. First up, a college student alone for Thanksgiving discovers he isn't as alone as he thought, and that his college dorm is housing far more than just students.

from writer Jerry W. Simmons, creepy presents. Thanksgiving break. Thanksgiving break for most college students is a relaxing time. Time to catch up with family, indulge in something other than cafeteria food, and forget about schoolwork for a couple of days. On Wednesday before the holiday, I watched packed cars filled with joyful students leaving campus in a mass exodus, completely unaware that my Thanksgiving break would take a much more terrifying turn

than theirs. The sky overhead was overcast with gray clouds, the perfect backdrop for my solitary form seated on a park bench. I stayed for hours, just watching the students who were the lifeblood at the university drain away. The next few days of isolation hung over my head like a rain cloud. I was in no rush to head back to my lonely dorm room. By seven in the evening, the whole campus was ghost town.

Wind rustled leaves over the brick wall. walkways of campus. Automatic light posts lining footpaths flickered on. I stepped off the bench and hefted my backpack onto my shoulder. The wind was picking up and I was starting to get cold. The empty anxiety of being alone in my dorm was strong, but the cold biting into my bones was stronger. With a sigh, I began the long trek back to Ross Hall, the bulbous light posts casting their eerie glow on the overgrown oak trees surrounding my route. As I walked in my loneliness, I thought about my siblings, already gathered at my family's house in California.

The first excuse I'd used for staying was money trouble. In hindsight, it was a stupid one. My family was wealthy, much wealthier than I preferred to show. My parents had been adamant that they would purchase the plane ticket, causing me to pull the only valid excuse they would accept. I lied about having to study for a test to fall. week. In reality, I just couldn't stand the thought of seeing them again. Since arriving at university, I had been able to feel like myself for the first time. No more wearing stupid uniforms

to private schools or attending self-aggrandizing fundraisers that were nothing more than an excuse for my parents to drink too much champagne. After a few months of freedom, the last thing I was interested in doing was returning to the family estate, guiltily staring at the yard-long spread of catered and perfectly prepared food that would mostly go to waste by the end of the night. It made me sick to think of the endless slew of crusty old-timers that couldn't think of a better conversation piece than how young people these days just didn't want to work anymore. They would moan and bitch just before cutting into their prime rib as a servant came and filled a glass with expensive wine.

No. Not this year. I continued past the red-brick campus buildings, a canopy of oak trees overhead blocking almost of the darkening sky. My mind continued wandering as I neared my dorm. It was certain that I had secured my position as the black sheep of the family. Since I was a kid, my father had always joked that I'd be a Princeton man. He could just tell.

It was a terrible embarrassment to the family that, of all the egregious things I could do, I chose to attend a public institution in another state. To make matters worse, I had been insistent that I pay for college myself. The wind began to rage, whipping the tree branches overhead loudly, bringing me out of my mind and encouraging me to pick up the pace. The light post illuminated gnarled and dancing over. trees which cast ghastly shadows. The pristinely lined brick walkways gave way to a pathway of crack concrete.

The canopy of oak trees was thicker here. The ground less maintained. Based on my surroundings, I knew I was near Ross Hall. The ancient four-story building materialized out of the darkness. Window AC units stuck out of its sides like a pincushion. The architectural features of the dorm were much different than the rest of the campus and hearken back to an early period of history. Surrounding the decaying building was a secluded and forgotten area of campus

covered with overgrown oak trees and an unkempt front lawn. The red brick on the building had turned an ugly brown. Several windows on the upper floors were broken, and the concrete walkway leading to the entrance was cracked like a spider web. A faded and flaking green sign lit up by a small light above the large wooden doors red. Ross Hall, in faded brown, lettering. I shuddered as I walked up to the front door, wind kicking at my back. The ancient slab of rotting wood was a terrifying thing of its own. The skulls of farm creatures,

homages to the university's agricultural roots, were engraved across the door's surface and portico overhead. In the middle of the oaken doors, splintered to the point that most of its details were unrecognizable, stood the university's crest over a backdrop of crossed rifles. I pulled out my key and placed it into the rusted brass lock. With a sigh, I pushed it open. The heavy door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway stretching before me. Overhead, fluorescent fixtures emanated pale light. Their tubes buzzing.

More than one needed replacement. Flakes of white paint hung off the walls. The brown stains from water damage dotted the ceiling. The floors were faded white and black tile. occasionally damaged to reveal concrete underneath. Rows of old wooden doors lined each side of the hallway, and a dark stairwell stood at the end of the hall. I drew a deep breath and started walking.

There was no doubt in my mind that I was alone in Ross Hall. The students who usually occupied the rooms that I was passing had filtered off campus earlier in the day. I was about to spend the night alone in a decrepit building. As I walked, I reassured myself to keep. keep my mind from wandering to a place where it would be susceptible to irrational fear. There was no one walking behind me in the hallway. There were no psycho-killers waiting behind any of the closed doors.

The nervousness I felt did not disappear upon reaching the stairs. The lights in the stairwell had never functioned. The only illumination available was from the open door at the top of the next floor, emanating pale light from its rectangular opening. I hobbled up the stairs, careful not to trip in the darkness. The hallway on the second story was a carbon copy of the one below. Faulty lights, rows of doors, chipping paint, putrid water stains, and all. My room was the first on the left.

I was in the middle of fumbling from my keys when I saw my door and stopped in my tracks. The door was already open wide, revealing darkness within. Panic gathered in my stead. stomach. I swivel my head toward the other side of the hall, but saw nothing except empty tiles and closed doors. Heart pumping, I leaned over the threshold of the stairwell, craning my neck up to catch a glimpse of any movement. There was no one to be seen. Cautiously, I inched toward the door, coming just close enough to the darkness without physically stepping into it. I braced myself as I reached into the gloom to switch on the lights, fully prepared for something to launch out of the

darkness and grip my forearm. The overhead double fluorescent light flickered to life. My heart leapt as one of the tubes let out a loud pop and fizzled out. The remaining tube buzzed, allowing a small amount of pale light to illuminate the small room. Pushed up against the right-hand wall was a plain desk with chipped maroon paint, complete with an uncomfortable wooden chair. Lining the far wall was an unstable-looking bunk bed topped with two thin mattresses no more than six inches thick. I crept into the room and shut the door behind me, locking it immediately.

There was no one in the room. That much was clear. The mattress on the top bunk was neatly made, just as my roommate had prepared it before leaving earlier in the day. I sighed. The only possible answer was that my roommate had left the door open while leaving in a hurry to head home. I tossed my backpack onto the ground and settled into the uncomfortable chair. A large book filled with economic principles already lay open in front of me. It was going to be a long night.

I awoke to the heaving noises of labor breathing. In my recently awoke in confusion, I flipped down to my side and peered into the dark room. Sensing nothing, I allowed my head to fall back down onto the pillow and close my eyes. It was mere moments later that I was again awoken to identical labored breathing. The flesh on my arms crawled, and my muscle. seized up with a suddenness that almost hurt. I pried my eyes open, giving myself a moment to adjust to the darkness while lying still as a corpse, holding my breath.

Slowly, I turned to look towards the room. Again, no movement, and no more strange sounds. I uneasily lay back against the pillow. For just a second, I considered falling right back asleep, chalking everything up to paranoia. When I saw the bottom of the mattress of the upper bunk, my body once again went rigid above me, no more than three feet from my face with a human-shaped indentation on the mattress. I stared in confusion and fear at the dark depression before me. Out of the darkness of the room, a low and painful moan resonated and burrowed its way into my ears.

I leapt out of bed with a scream and slapped the light switch with full force. The remaining fluorescent tube clicked on after a few short bursts of light, almost teasing out whether it would choose to turn on. The light revealed an empty top bunk. The bed was still neatly made, blue sheets pulled taut over the skinny mattress, pillow fluffed up. I sat on my chair with shaky legs, not able to rid myself with a strange thought that I ought to avoid going to going back to sleep. The analog clock on the desk cast an eerie glow about the room as the remaining fluorescent bulb

overhead flickered and fizzed every few seconds. I did not sleep for the remainder of the night. Thanksgiving morning found me walking down the hallway in my shower gear, yawning. My flip-flops flapped on the tile floor, sending amphibious echoes into the long, empty hallway. early morning light filtered through the dirty window panes along my route out of the night and into the light it was much easier for me to rationalize my odd experience from the night before after all i was alone in an empty building that was decades old it would have been stranger if i had not been hearing noises in the middle of the night i opened the door to the community bathroom was immediately blasted with a strong smell of bleach On any normal day, the bathroom would have been filled to the brim with students rushing to class.

During peak hours, it was not uncommon to wait 30 minutes or more to get a shower in. Empty toilet stalls with open doors lined the right-hand side. An empty shower is the left. On the back wall stood a line of sinks. But years of grime had permanently integrated itself as a feature of the tile, giving the floor a slight brown hue. The silence of that open space, normally so full of noise, was a stark reminder that I was alone. I thought to push those thoughts from my mind as I hung my shower caddy and robe on a hook and stepped into the coffin-like space of a shower.

After a moment of struggling with the ancient water fixture, I was finally able to get the water running. It felt good. Steam drifted about as I allowed myself to relax in that current of warm water. Anxiety sloughed off me and ran down the drain. By this time my parents would have been berating the caterers to hurry with their work. Guests would be arriving in a few hours, bringing judgment and haughty looks with them. To be free from all that was nothing more than a blessing. I smiled, thinking to myself that the next few days alone might not be so bad.

I shut off the water and dried. A draught of cold air tickling my skin immediately. Shivering, I put on my robe and shuffled over to the sink, catching my flip-flops on the way. Looking into the mirror, I was shocked at the newly formed bags under my eyes. Battle scars of several all-nighters. My reflection was almost unrecognizable from that clean, cut, fresh-faced boy just out of private school.

Since my arrival, shaggy hair and the wiry beginnings of a beard gave me a wild appearance. I lifted my chin and picked at one of the hairs, wondering what my mom would say about it the next time I saw her. As I glanced back at the mirror, something on the right hand side of the reflection caught my attention. The door of the middle stall was closed. I paused, staring at the reflection, reassuring myself beyond a shadow of a doubt that all

the stalls had been open when I entered the room. I struggled against the knee-jerk reaction. to rush toward the door. Instead, I wheeled around to look at the stall. The mirror had not lied. The stall door was closed. I crept forward on legs that seemed to be controlling themselves. With a shaky hand, I pushed against the stall door,

expecting it to fly open and reveal nothing more than a solitary toilet. My blood ran cold when it didn't budge. It was locked from the inside. Despite every inclination I had against it, I bent the look under the stall, holding my breath as I stuck my ear close to the grimy tile to get a better view. A pair of legs and shoeless feet were no more than a few inches from my face. They were dirty, like someone had just taken a midnight walk barefoot through the woods. The grimy nails on the toes were jagged and broken. The flesh of the legs above the dirty feet was model gray.

with varicose veins cascading like a spider web over swollen ankles. Oddly enough, my initial feeling was bewilderment that someone would walk into a public bathroom without shoes on. However, the reality of the situation quickly dawned. I shrieked and leapt to my feet. As I did so, the bottom of my sandals slipped on the slick tile. I slammed down onto the hard surface. filled with adrenaline, I ignored the pain and looked back at the stall.

The door was open again. The feet were gone. Nothing remained in the stall except for a solitary toilet. I was alone on the grimy tile floor without another person in sight. My heart pounded as I jogged across campus. A storm was quickly forming, turning the gray afternoon sky black. Occasionally a streak of lightning flashed. rain was inevitable.

All at once, the light post along the boulevard switched on and cast theory shadows across the brick buildings and sprawling oak trees of the vacant campus. The wind whipped about as shadows danced across the path before me. I decided that I wouldn't spend another night in Ross Hall. Earlier that afternoon, I'd checked into a hotel for the night. Before I could settle in, I still needed a pack an overnight bag. The initial thought had been that I could rush into my room, grab some things, and be away before any more strangeness happened. A storm overhead gave me doubts.

A lump developed in my throat as distant thunder boomed overhead. I picked up the pace as the first raindrops slightly hit my shoulders like someone trying to politely catch my attention. A raging thunderstorm soon found me running at full sprint. I put my head down against the piercing drop. In the distance, Ross Hall's bulk materialized from behind sheets of rain. My silk tennis shoes sent up splashes from the puddles I sprinted through. By the time I reached the relative safety of the portico, I was soaked and shivering. Struggling for breath, I opened the ancient door, cringing as the creaking hinges coincided with the clap of thunder.

The coincidence would have been almost comically ironic, were it not for the empty campus seeming to press in on me. Without thinking about it too much, I slipped into the warmth of the hall. The overhead lights were on in the long corridor, casting a pale glow over everything. The door slammed behind me, plunging me into a world where the only sound was that of the buzzing tubes overhead. I took a deep breath and walked towards a stairwell, my soggy tennis shoes hugging my feet uncomfortably, wedging my socks in between sore toes. I didn't make it very far before the next incident occurred. With a click that resounded in the empty hallway as loud as a gunshot, all the overhead lights

I had just walked behind shut off. I stopped in my tracks. In front of me, light illuminated the rest of the hallway, but behind me I could feel darkness pressing against the back of my neck. My heartbeat rapidly as I stood still, instinctively wondering if I could avoid whatever was in the darkness if I simply pretended not to exist. There was no reason for me to be. not to run toward the stairwell, no reason that I should turn around and face the darkness behind me.

However, for reasons that my rational brain could not understand, I had to know. I turned around slowly, peering into the now-darkened portion of the hallway, trying to make sense of anything in that void. Instinctually, I knew something was in there. I imagined it was peering back at me. like a hungry wolf with a mouthful of teeth. My heart leaped as I watched a shadow, a different shade of dark than the rest, begin to move. It lumbered toward me, growing the closer it came.

Panic and fear battled within my chest. In the end, panic won out. I turned tail and sprinted for the stairwell. The feeling of a presence behind me never left the whole time that my feet pounded the tile underfoot. An eerie feeling of potential victory coursed through my chest as I gripped the cold metal of the stairwell's guardrail. Overhad light from the second floor shone in a bright rectangle against the darkness.

I sprinted up the steps two at a time, not daring to look back. Before I knew it, I burst out of the darkness and into the light at the upstairs hallway. I rushed toward my door, pausing to fish my keys out of soggy pockets. The entire time that it was struggling to pull the metal out of the soaked denim, I could not help constantly glancing at the stairwell entrance, expecting that at any moment something would brush out and moll me. At last, I pulled out the key, allowing myself a small laugh of triumph. The feeling lasted until I inserted the key into the lock. That was when my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. The door was unlocked.

A hundred thoughts ran through my mind as I attempted to contend with this new reality. There was absolutely no way that I had left the door unlocked. I never did. Translike, I pushed the door open with a shaky hand. Darkness greeted me. I stood at the threshold, willing away the feeling that there was something inside. I entered, allowing the door to shut behind me, veiling me in darkness. With a clammy hand, I flipped a switch on the wall and gasped as the pale fluorescent light illuminated what was hidden.

All the blankets and sheets had been stripped off the bottom bunk. The bare plastic-covered mattress was all that remained. My eyes rose slowly and saw that my sheets had been relocated to the top bunk. Under the gray blanket that had warmed me on so many nights was a large, human-sized lump. Long, black, greasy hair flowed over the white pillow like a disease. My eyes widened. I opened my mouth to shout just as the blankets and sheets flew off the bed and swirled in the air, accompanied by a blood-curdling scream.

Everything occurred within a moment. Right as the inhuman scream echoed through Ross Hall. The remaining fluorescent tube overhead exploded and shattered glass onto the crown of my head. a brief moment, like a calm before a storm. The room was pitch black. The electrical wiring in the fixture burst into flames. That was when I finally screamed. The lights of the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room shone brightly.

Once again, my parents had overdone it. Buying the largest tree they could find from the most prestigious grower in the area. The thought of a tree with a perfect pedigree made me chuckled to myself. One of the first genuine laughs I'd had since the incident. I looked out the large bay window at the snowy landscape and sipped hot cocoa. To this day, my parents have never asked me directly about the incident. I was grateful for that. There was absolutely no desire within me to talk about it.

Only a month had passed since Thanksgiving break, and it felt too fresh. Blurry images of me stumbling through the dark room and flinging myself into the hallway flashed in my mind. For a moment, I almost swore I could feel flames looking at my back once again. The last thing I remember before collapsing was that decrepit hallway filled to the ceiling with smoke. I shuddered and took another sip. The aftermath had not been pleasant either. Upon waking up the next day, confused and screaming in a hospital. I was made aware that the school and local police had immediately put me under investigation for arson.

Apparently, having the firefighters find me passed out in front of my room, the source of the fire, only roused everyone's suspicions. But I kept the story straight. I walked into the room, flicked the light on, and the fixture burst into flames. After all, one bulb had been faulty already. Of course, I saw no reason to mention what I'd seen inside. After rounds of investigation and all too thorough interviews, the university chalked the whole accident up to faulty wiring.

Nothing remained for Ross Hall but a burnt-out shell of its former self. Demolition was already underway. When students returned in January, only a bare plot of land and a chain-link fence would be there to greet him. For my part, I had no intention of returning. My transfer application to a community college closer to home had already been approved. After everything that had happened, I was almost ready to chalk up the strange experiences to hallucinations. I'd been in an old building alone and under a massive amount of stress. Perhaps I'd fabricated these false memories in my mind to avoid having to deal with the very real fact that I had almost burned to death.

but there was one thing that could not be easily explained away. During the initial sweep of my dorm room by the police, investigators had come upon a hair sample near the bunk that didn't match that of either me or my roommate. It was a strand of long black hair. A simple thing that keeps me awake at night, thinking of Ross Hall. Next, a guard at a room.

restricted sector breaks protocol to rescue her ex-lover from monstrous creatures, but the survivor she finds isn't what she expects. From writer I.M. Otero and narrated by Heather Thomas, creepy presents. Checkpoint 9. There used to be a town beyond the fence, a place where thousands of people lived, grew up, and died. What happened to it wasn't in the news. There were no reports, no press releases. Nothing. They even took its name. The whole 900 square miles is now called the Lambda sector. Everything I know was second or third hand from some other guards, the Revers, or the scientists they send in every once in a while. They weren't supposed to say anything. That was part of orientation. There is no shop talk. That was one of the big rules they hammered into

you on your first days. Then to reinforce it, there are signs all over the guard post. Everything is confidential. If you see something, you put it in the logbook you hand in at the end of your shift. You don't ask questions of those coming or going. You never enter the sector under any circumstances without a permit. You don't let anyone in without proper paperwork, permits and identification. Then, weirdly, the inverse. You don't let anyone out without proper identification. I thought this one was strange.

If they go in with it, wouldn't they have it on the way out? You would have to be pretty stupid to lose it in there. Then, of course, the biggest rule. After dark, no one goes in or out. Under any circumstances. If they approach the fence, I was to shoot to kill. I had no issues in following these rules.

Usually there was nothing to worry about. No one tried to get in illegally, at least not here, and no one tried to leave illegally. All reavers I encountered had permits. Now if those permits were counterfeit, I had no way of knowing. Most didn't come back out, though. Being a reaver was dangerous. They went in and mapped the sector, and retrieves samples from inside.

Often, these reavers knew more about the sector than the scientists dedicated to its study, so they were the ones to guide folks inside. It was a poorly kept secret that many of the reavers went in illegally. There is a whole black market around the sector, and the things inside. Most of it is samples, and the strange anomalous materials.

I never stepped foot in there, and never planned to. What stories I heard were frightening. Even the grass in there had been known to kill people. So I spent my days staring down an empty road that led into a town that didn't exist anymore. Sometimes things moved in the trees, and I heard strange sounds. Like voices on the wind, the gentle sound of chimes. Or even once, a ghostly light hovered between the trees before vanishing into the night. a reaver known as Immortal Joe, because he had been going into the sector for years and was still alive, approached the checkpoint.

We had a bit of history. He was a good man, and even though we didn't work out together, I considered him a close friend. We shared niceties, talking about things that had nothing to do with the sector or work. We kept it light as I checked his permit, and I almost wanted to find an issue to keep him from going. It was only a matter of time before he never came back. Revers don't retire, or die of natural causes. Unfortunately, his permit looked good, and I let him through, opening the gate. He walked down the road with his rifle, pistol, an empty backpack, and his gas mask.

When we hooked up a while back, I tried to keep him from going into the sector, but I could see the wanderlust in his eyes. Like all Revers, he wasn't a relationship guy. He didn't like being tied down and having people worry about him. Said that if you were worried out there, that someone would miss him, he might make a mistake. He couldn't afford that and needed his mind clear. He didn't get the name immortal by making mistakes and having his mind elsewhere. All the best Revers had nicknames, sticky fingers, the sloth,

Beagle Bob, Diego, No Gun, Eight Fingers Fred, and Gilbert the Gimp. I watched him through my scope until he disappeared around the bend and into the trees. I thought little of this. He always came back, usually after a few days, which always made things more complicated. I wasn't sure why, but if a team or Reaver was gone for more than a day, they had to get picked up, evaluated, and quarantined. Later, after an uneventful afternoon staring out at the field and woods ahead of me, I received a phone call. My relief, Sanjay, called in for the day, so I had to work a double.

This wasn't a big deal. Overtime was always nice to have. The worst part was the night, though. Daytime, the woods beyond the fence looked like the woods behind me. At night it was different. The trees swayed in a wind that wasn't present. Even when the moon was full, it always seemed darker. Things always seemed to move within the trees too,

or along the fence further down out of my sight. I would hear it rattle, as if someone tried to climb it, only to find the razor wire at the top and drop. When the sunset turned the sky red, then purple, and eventually fading to black, I thought nothing of the fact Immortal Joe didn't come back. I didn't expect to see him for at least another day. So I watched, riding everything I saw into the log.

9.15 p.m. saw a pack of dogs or coyotes chase deer through the field. 9.37 p.m. A blue flame appeared in the woods, only to fade a few minutes later. 9.55 p.m. heard barking in the woods followed by an animal scream. I think it was an animal. 10.35 p.m. Violin music is playing from the woods. I don't recognize the song, but it's definitely a song.

10.38 p.m. Violin music is moving. 10.43 p.m. Violin music becomes frantic and discordant before stopping completely. 11.01 p.m. What looks like car headlights come up the road, before splitting and going in opposite directions, before going dark.

11 p.m. to 1 a.m. Nothing to report. There was one more hour left in my shift, and nothing happened for a while. At least when strangeness was happening, it gave me something to write. Then I heard a voice. It called my name,

and the sound of it gave. me chills. I wrote, 1.05 a.m. I heard a.m. I heard a voice called from beyond the fence. No precise location. The name kept coming, and the voice sounded familiar. I glanced through my scope and clicked it into night vision. A person was running to the fence and frantically shouting. I put their head in my scope's crosshairs. I flicked off the safety, chambered around, and let out a slow breath, ready to squeeze the trigger. I was about to kill someone.

It felt so wrong, but I knew I had to do it. I had to. Then I recognized the coat they were wearing. It was immortal Joe. My chest heaved and my finger didn't move. I didn't want to be the one to put Joe down. He stopped and turned around, raising his rifle at something behind him. I scanned through my scope and saw nothing at.

at first. He turned on his rifle's flashlight, sending a cutting beam of white LED light into the dark. Things moved around him, trying to stay away from the beam of light. A canine-shaped shadow circled him, and I had to do something. I would not let this man die right in front of me. I squeezed the trigger and the dog, or coyote, or whatever it was, crumpled. Joe fired a couple of rounds, and I saw other shapes fall. Scanning, searching for more, I spotted one, and it charged him, and I put my crosshairs on it, as its head opened up like a flower. I felt my pulse jump, but my finger didn't. I pulled the trigger, and it fell, sliding to his feet. He turned to shoot at something else. I did the same. I killed six of the animals before one leapt

at him, and I made a shot, killing the dog creature, but Joe fell too. Feeling my stomach sink, I knew I had to have grazed him. I searched before reacting, and it looked like all the creatures were dead. I put the scope back on Joe and watched him wrap his leg before struggling to stand. He fell over and lay on the ground for a while. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. I wanted him to make it to the fence and, Then what?

Let him in? That was completely against the rules, and I couldn't do that. Maybe he could wait there till morning, and then the entire crew would show up to take care of him. No, I couldn't do that either. I couldn't trust the next guy not to kill him, like he technically should do, like I am supposed to.

I looked at the log and decided this one could stay with me. Joe called out to me for some help. I couldn't let him die out there, so I put a new clip in my rifle and disconnected the alarm sensor that kept track of when the gate opened. Then I manually pulled open the gate just enough for me to squeeze through

and ran out to him, scanning the horizon with my rifle. I felt sick to my stomach. I shouldn't be doing this. It was stupid, risky, and I could lose my job. Or worse. Let something out. Then I felt it. All the Reavers talked about the veil, the invisible, permeable barrier between the sector and our world. There is a shift, a change in the

air, sound, and even the way things smell. Some call it a wrongness, as if the uncanny valley were a tangible place in the world. I heard about it for years, and I thought they were exaggerating. But really, they undersold it. It was like running into a painting. Everything looks like it was an imitation, not the original. A slight strangeness to it. The air felt different in my lungs. The smell of the night air was sour,

and the stars were brighter and unfamiliar, making the dark spaces between them blacker for their brightness. I nearly fell over from the sensation, like getting off a spinning carnival ride onto solid land. I took it all in and then remembered what I was doing after Joe groaned. I cursed as I realized how far out he was. Through the scope in the guard tower, it didn't look this far,

and I wondered if distance worked differently in the sector. Joe was too close to the woods. Anything could hide underneath that canopy hidden in the dark woods. I swept the wood line with my scope, but the night vision wouldn't turn on. Another thing I had forgotten. Complex electronics didn't like to work within the sector. It wouldn't help anyway.

The trees were so close together that it was impossible to see more than a few feet into the woods. Anything could be out there. I got closer, now moving slower, remembering what some Reaver said about the sector. They said to always move slowly and keep quiet. no matter where you are, there are eyes on you. It's better to appear harmless than a possible threat.

Going at this slower pace made the walk that much more dreadful. All I could hear was my breath, the faint sound of peepers, and the soft groans of Joe. I tried to use my peripheral as much as possible to scan the surroundings, not to be too quick and draw attention. All the horror stories came back to me with, step, the monsters that could tear people apart in seconds, the plants that ate people, and the strange voices that came from abandoned homes. I heard sounds nearly every time I did a night shift, but it was different hearing them from the other side of the fence. Now it was strangely quiet.

The trees swayed in a wind that wasn't there, and the peepers had gone silent. My finger hovered over the trigger of my rifle, and I tried to remember if I had replaced the clip. In my rush, Joe rolled over and shouted my name, and I raised a finger to shush him. Something moved in the trees on the edge of my vision. I froze mid-step, hands still in front of my face. The movement stopped or moved out of my peripheral. I turned my head slowly, like the minute hand on a clock. I count the seconds in my head.

Five, four, three, two, one, turn, five, four, and so on, till I had a good view around me. Everything was still, except for the sway of the trees. I took a step, paused, and then took another. Joe had wrapped his leg with a bandage but was still groaning with pain and effort. I whispered, I'm coming, just hang on. He gave a thumbs up but tried rewrapping his leg.

I was about a hundred feet away from him and walked a bit faster. After I scanned the surrounding area and saw no movement, I felt safer. I thought we should be safe enough to get out of here at a reasonable speed. Otherwise, Joe might bleed out before we even got halfway back. I walked at a brisk pace and kneeled next to him. a Joe to look at his wound. He still had his mask on, and I could hear him panting underneath. Did you wrap it well enough that we can make it back to the checkpoint before I try to

stitch you up? I asked him, noticing that the bandages hadn't bled through. He nodded. Think you can walk? You can put your weight on me and we can limp together, I said and stood up, offering my hand. At this moment I worried. The repercussions of my actions could be far-reaching. Sure, there were some checkpoint guards that let Revers in and out at night for a bribe.

Everyone knew it. Still, though, I never had. Never even thought about it. Or prepared for it. What would I do with Joe? I had relief coming in less than an hour, and what were they going to do? Would I be able to hide him until I could leave, and then drive him to the hospital? or wait until morning and then drive him?

But the paperwork. What if? Joe the immortal stood up, breaking my train of thought. He got up without grabbing my hand, standing as if he was completely uninjured. I cocked my head, confused, like a dog hearing an interesting word. But how? I began to ask, but he pulled out his pistol and shot me in the leg. It was like a flash of lightning.

My mind couldn't comprehend what had happened until the pain soared up my body. I crumpled to the ground and screamed until Joe put his hand over my mouth. His icy stare met mine and raised the pistol to where his mouth would be, like a finger to lips and made a shushing noise. He grabbed my rifle and moved it away from me before coming back and staring. I couldn't help but notice his eyes were wrong, and it made little sense until he took off the hood and gas mask. It took me longer than it should have to realize.

I recognized the person looking back at me, the long dark hair, the soft brown eyes, and the smile that I hated. I was looking at myself, a copy of me, but it was off just slightly. The arch of the brow was too steep, The nose too straight and the eyes slightly too far apart. As this knock-off version of me

inspected the person they were supposed to be mimicking, I saw their features change. The nose bent, the eyebrows changed, and the eyes narrowed. I felt my stomach lurch and squirm in horror. Now, take off your clothes, the copy of me said in exactly my voice. Then winced and said, But not the pants. She held the gun on me the entire time, and I watched the bone structure of her body shift as she saw more of mine.

I handed over the clothes, and she tossed hers, Joe's, at me. I put the morn without her asking. It was dreadfully cold out. She dressed, took off the bandage on her perfectly fine leg, and started walking towards the checkpoint. She set down Joe's pistol and rifle before retrieving mine and continued the walk. Hey, stop! You can't go in there! I shouted. She turned back to me and smiled. No, but you can. Then she ran, making random loud noises. I felt my heart jump and more blood leak from my leg. I took off my belt and tightened it as much as I was.

I physically could above the wound. Then something caught my eye. Dark shapes moved through the woods and into the fields towards my copy. I cursed and dragged myself towards the guns she had left behind. I prayed that they get her, that they would rip her apart and... Then what? I stopped thinking about that and focused on Joe's guns she left behind. Why would she do that?

To blend in. I thought. I wouldn't have Joe's gun. So why would she? I had to focus and breathe through the pain and get the guns. I ignored the dark shapes as they charged my copy. Ten feet away, though it felt like a mile. I pulled myself, my leg numb and heavy. I heard the gate close and I felt a pang of dread. What if she shoots me, like I was supposed to do to her? Six feet, the shapes by the gate yipped and howled until they noticed me. I saw the glint in their eyes, reflecting off the two bright starlight. Three feet. Shit, almost there. They started running towards me, and I was almost to the guns. The shapes that turned out to be coyotes came towards me. I closed the distance,

and with one forceful push, I reached the pistol. My hand wrapped around the grip. I raised it and shot towards the coyotes charging me. One's face opened up, revealing a mouth that looked like it belonged to a lamprey in the center of a mass of tentacles. The other fell over, squirming from the bullet in its side. I tried to aim, but my vision was getting blurry. I fired three rounds, and it skittered off, yelping and howling. How much time did that buy me, I wondered, as I rolled onto my back and sat up.

I pulled Joe's rifle towards me until I saw the magazine was empty. I set it down, then looked at the pistol's magazine. Three bullets left. Well, fuck, I said out loud. I looked up at the unfamiliar stars and wondered why the hell I didn't just stay in the guard tower. More of them answered the yelping of the injured creature. He called his friends. If only I could do the same.

I looked back at the now-closed gate and could see the silhouette of my copy looking out at me from the lit-up tower. I thought about trying to shoot her, or it, but I knew the range on these pistols. There was no way I could hit her, even if I were in tip-top shape. The howls came closer,

and I wondered if I should save myself from the pain. I held the pistol in my shaking hand, as the periphery of my vision got cloudy. This way I wouldn't know what I had released into the world. I wouldn't know if I inadvertently caused our extinction, or who knows what else. What did the copy want? Where did it come from?

The howls were so close that they were deafening. I was trying to figure out a plan, a way to solve this. Nothing came to me, though. I was fucked. There were three shots left, and I knew what I had to do. It would only take one. When the next shift arrived at checkpoint nine, everything seemed normal. The only aberration was that a legend had died in the night.

They knew this because it was in the logbook. 1.10 a.m. Joe the immortal emerged from the woods with dogs behind him. He held them off briefly. 1.15 a.m. The dogs returned, and I felt obligated to help. I fired nine bullets, killing several dogs. 122 a.m.

During my reload, Joe the Immortal was attacked, and perished from his wounds from the dog attack. 1.25 a.m. The animals dragged Joe the immortal's corpse into the woods. 125 to 2 a.m. Nothing to report. And finally, a lonely cemetery worker confronts an intruder digging a grave beside his mothers and his priest's plots, only to discover the new headstone he hasn't seen before. From writer A.T. Dusk, then narrated by Cole Burkart, creepy presents, one grave digger to many.

My name's Angelo. Or at least that's what it says on my Burkart. certificate, but let's be honest, nobody's ever called me that. Not since my mother passed, God rest her soul. To everyone else, I'm just the grave digger. And you know what? I can't complain. Titles are for people who've done something important with their lives. Me, I dig holes. I bury the dead. If there's a job simpler than that, I haven't heard of it. Not that. I'm complaining. Truth be told, I've never been much good at anything else. Well, except smoking.

I'm damn good at smoking. I got the job, thanks to my mother. She was friends with Father Luciano, the beloved priest who practically ran our little town. A good priest, if you asked me. The kind who actually cared about people. Anyway, mom begged him to give me work. She said I was going nowhere fast and she wasn't wrong. The woman loved me, but she didn't sugarcoat things.

There were rumors, of course. Small town people always have something nasty to say. Begging ain't all she did on her knees, they'd whisper, but those people didn't know my mother. She worked her fingers to the bone to keep us afloat. She was a good woman and I'd knock anyone's teeth out for saying otherwise. So, there I was. 17, fresh out options.

School had booted me for a long list of offenses, failing grades, talking back, and a couple of fights I don't care to remember. The military academy wouldn't take me either. Turns out, asthma's not a great look for a soldier. Not that I'd have made it in the army anyway. Me, scrubbing toilets and taking orders? Yeah, right.

But Father Luciano, saw something in me. Or maybe he just felt sorry for my mother. Either way, he handed me a shovel and showed me the ropes. Dig the hole, he said. Fill the hole. Sounds easy, right? And it was, at first,

but nobody tells you about the winter frost that turns the ground to stone, or the summer rain that fills the draves with mud. Nobody tells you that some graves, the older ones, come with roots as thick as your arm, or worms the size of pencils. Father Luciano left out other parts of the job, too, cleaning the church, tending the flower beds, guarding the cemetery at night.

He was sneaky like that, but I learned, slowly but surely. Took me a while to get the hang of it, but I managed before Luciano's patience ran out. I'd arrest him. When it came time to dig his grave, I did a damn fine job. Neat, deep, just the right width. Same for my mother's grave. They're buried side by side now. Close friends in life, close friends in death.

I cried like a baby while I worked, but the job was perfect. After they were gone, the cemetery became my world. The cypress trees, the crumbling heads. stones, the gravel paths, all of it was mine. I'd sit on the church steps with a cigarette in my hand or lie between the graves staring up at the sky. Was I happy? I don't think I was capable of that, but I was calm, peaceful like the dead. The dead became my friends, not in a ghost story way, No voices, no visions, nothing spooky like that. But I'd talk to them.

They're headstones, anyway. Figured they might like the company. God knows I did. Most of them, I'd never even met, but I felt like I knew them. You can learn a lot from a photograph on a grave, you know. And, man, did I fall in love? Not real love, nothing creepy, but you'd be surprised how many beautiful young women are buried in cemeteries.

Maybe it's the photos. Families always picked the best ones. Or maybe it's just me, living in my little bubble. Whatever it was, they felt like old friends after a while. The priests who came after Father Luciano didn't mind me much, except for one little guy, Father Tom, or maybe Tim, who hated my smoking. You'll drop dead one day, he said. heart attack, lung cancer, take your pick.

The important thing, I'd tell him, is that I keep digging graves, father. I had my routine. Wake up at dusk, fry some eggs and bacon, sip just enough coffee to shake the cobwebs loose. Mom always said too much coffee was bad for you. Then I'd grab my shovel and check the bulletin board for notes from the priest. That's how things went, day in and day out. Until the night, I met the intruder. It started like any other evening.

I'd had my breakfast, lit a cigarette, checked the bulletin board for the priest's notes. It was the usual stuff. New burial scheduled for tomorrow. Lot 19C. dated today. I didn't think much of it. Just grabbed my shovel, or... to. It wasn't there. Now, I'll tell you, I've been a grave digger long enough to know that losing your shovel is like losing a part of yourself.

You don't just misplace it. It's always either in the shed, leaning against a wall, or by the flower beds. But it was gone. Who the hell steals a grave digger's shovel? I searched high and low. Behind the church, under the old oak tree by the water spigot, in the tool shed where I keep all my equipment, nothing. I even checked the furthest corners of the cemetery near the more remote lots where the weeds grow tall and thick. But there was no shovel to be found. And while I was looking, that strange, unsettling feeling crept into my gut. The kind of feeling you get when you're walking through a dark house, and you swear you hear someone else's footsteps, even though you're sure you're alone. That's when I heard it. The scrape of a shovel against dirt.

Faint, at first, like someone was digging in the distance, trying to hide the sound. But it was unmistakable. The rhythmic. scrape of metal on soil, and it was coming from lot 19C. I followed the sound, my heart thudding in my chest. The air had gone cooler, and the wind had picked up rustling the cypress leaves in that way that makes everything feel just a little

bit off. It wasn't long before I saw him. The entree. The entree. He was a big man, taller than me by a head, broad-shouldered, with a long beard and ponytail. He wore work clothes, the kind you'd see on a construction site, faded and stained with dirt. But what got my attention wasn't his clothes. It was what he was doing. He was digging in my cemetery. Not just any grave either. He was digging my grave, right in the spot where my mother and father Luciano were buried. Hey! I shouted, anger rising in me like hot blood.

What the hell do you think you're doing? The man didn't even flinch. He just kept digging, his shovel biting into the earth with slow. deliberate precision. Hey! I shouted again. That's my shovel and this is my cemetery. Nothing. Not a word, not a glance. He just kept on digging.

I couldn't take it anymore. I stormed up to him furious, my hands shaking with the weight of my anger. Are you deaf or just stupid? I shouted, shoving him hard in the shoulder. That's my plot, you bastard. My mother's buried here. My priest is buried here.

Now get the hell out of here before I make you regret it. For the first time, the man looked up. His eyes were wide, almost crazed, like he'd just seen a ghost. And then he muttered something under his breath, some kind of a prayer or maybe a curse. I couldn't make it out. I grabbed the shovel from his hands, raising it like I was going to strike him. Leave! Now!

The sight of me holding the shovel seemed to snap him out of his days. He screamed, this high, wild scream, and ran like a bat out of hell. His feet kicked up the dirt and the leave. and he vanished into the night like a shadow swallowed by darkness. I stood there, shaking with adrenaline. My breath was ragged, my heart hammering in my chest. But then I looked down at the headstone he'd knocked over. It was lying flat on the ground, broken at the base.

I crouched down, my hands still trembling, and struck a match to read the inscription. And that's when the blood drained from my face. Angelo D. Dio, I stared at the name for what felt like an eternity. My name. Carved into a new headstone, freshly polished, the letters gleaming in the flickering light of the match. I stood there, frozen, as the wind picked up around me, carrying the whispers of the dead with it.

And in that moment, I knew this wasn't just any grave. It was mine. So what? I dug. 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 Shera-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.