Creepy - The Bone Walker From the Abyss

Episode Date: May 26, 2025

The Bone Walker From the Abyss***Written by: A.J. Skerry***Seaside Getaway***Written by: Debbie Paterson and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***To Write a Perfect Cookbook***Written by: Austen Lee and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***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 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. For our first story this evening, when a blue whale carcass sinks into the abyss, igniting a feast on the ocean floor, it also wakes something else. The Bone Walker rises and traverses the depths and land, leaving destruction and madness in its wake.

Creepy presents The Bone Walker from the Abyss. written by AJ Scary The rough deep water waves of a sullen Atlantic spanned forever Matched by the overcast above Alone and dismal Anailing blue whale drowned Battle scars infested every inch of skin Crisscrossing and sprinkle speckling

The harpoons exceeded the bites of orcas And the parasites as krill outnumbered fish in the water A ladder-like row of scars along the back marked where the bite of a propeller had blended into the blubber long ago. Much more recently, a chunk of dorsal fin was blown off, inviting the infection that rotted exposed flesh and hastened death. For over 4,000 meters, this anchor of flesh and bone fell. Starting from the sunlight zone, where the sea met the sky, and, was at its most visible. The water column described the volume of water from surface to seafloor and is divided into layers.

Particles from the continuous marine snowfall. The detritus formed mainly by micro-organic ocean life, waste matter and sediments, swirled around like gusts of actual snowflakes. Shoals of tuna and mackerel dispersed in all directions, suffering from old wounds of its own. An elder Luth had a near miss, dodging the sinking whale in the nick of time. Entering the twilight zone, darkness entombed the whale in waters where only one percent of daylight reached. The shoals of tuna and mackerel were gone. So too were the Luths and other scarcer sights near the surface.

The last traces of sunshine water died in the dark, little pinpricks of flashing lights. light flitted about, bright and vibrant yet dim enough to keep their owners obscured. Some darted about, others drifted along. If the movements of the stars were observable, then this would be the night sky. Most lights came in blues or greens, but every now and then the whale passed a set of red or yellow. Many scattered as it barged through the water. occasional lunges smacked into the whale, ripping away chunks of flesh or striking the would-be biter dead on impact.

Perhaps once or twice, something massive lurked nearby, cloaked in the invisibility of the dark. And as expected, the marine snow was still there, still sinking, and still consumed. Soon, the starry night sky of bioluminescence, became sparser and sparser, as conditions grew more extreme for the snowing whale had crossed over into the midnight zone. That night sky withdrew into a cosmic void, lit only by the few galaxies lost inside its otherwise pitch-black emptiness. Those lights became sedentary.

Sneaking assassins waited just behind ever so patiently. Chirascuro, where art is completely worthless. At long last, the whale rumbled into the seafloor of the abyssal zone, sending up invisible plumes of sediment. The seafloor was an oozing mixture of dissolved shells, silicas, clays, and other marine snow particles that survived consumption. A fitting final resting place for a whale on the far side of their world sealed away from the horrors of man. Any creature in the space the whale now occupied would have been crushed, so much for that to happen after millennia evolving specifically to live with an entire ocean bearing down on them. For once, the harshness had eased up a little that day.

Carcasses from above meant food and a whale fall meant a feast. Congregating from across the plain, ravenous sea life moved in. First came the swifter swimming scavengers, getting to work stripping her to the bone in total blindness. The powerfulest jaws tore into the skin and shredded the blubber beneath. Smaller scavengers braved the gaps between, risking their lives for a chance at the juiciest viscera. Others settled for pecking at the eyes and tongue. Some were so bloodlusted they turned on their fellows and made frenzied chum out of each other. Months passed. The first wave of scavengers had long since moved on, having consumed

the bulk of the blubber, musculature, and more accessible organs. Their replacements were slow going, or too fearful to cross their predecessors. Every single one was hungry and desperate as meals were few and far between. From scavengers to colonists, the second wave swum. The second wave swum. crawled, scuttled, and wormed their way inside the carcass. A feast in the dark. Nearby, something small and crab-like it appeared, rising from the ooze of the seafloor as a zombie would claw out from the grave with dirty knobbly fingers ready to grab and kill. Of course, nothing could see it in darkness. That did not stop this thing from being there. It existed. and it probably should not have.

Yet still, it did anyway. Slowly but surely, the thing arose further, becoming long and narrow, like black coral growing in a time lapse. It was a limb, but not a recognizable limb, not a fin, not a pincer, and definitely not a tentacle. It was nothing that any of the scavengers had ever seen

before. Well, seeing wasn't something that happened in the abyssal zone either. Like all limbs, this one soon came to an end rooted in the sea floor. Rather than let the current gently push it around, the limb remained frozen in one shape, locked still, who would not budge against the ocean might, refusing to interact with such forces. Then, without really, reason. The limb awoke from its dormancy and lethargically moved in ways unlike any scavenger. Folding itself in two several times, the top end flexed and curled like no crab ever would. From the ooze emerged more of whatever was attached to the bottom. A head, more limbs, a body. The bone walker blended in seamlessly with the pitch black water.

a shadow where shadows cannot be. Endless. Endless. Endless. Earth. In expressionless gaze going into the Northeast distance. Silent and still. Coincidentally, Northeast happened to be where the whale fall site was located only feet away,

where scavengers fed unaware of the newcomer. Unmoving from its spot. The bone walkers scoured the whale fall without regard or concern for space and darkness, telesthetic perceiving without sensing. Plenty was found. Blue whale and second stage whale fall, expected sightings. Compressed and elongated, snub-nosed-eosyel pouts were the most typical-looking fauna present, but were in their own right, far from typical fish.

Around the vertebrae were strange, blind, flat-back lobsters somewhere between squat lobster and prawn. Porcupine crabs chewed away inside the skull. So many tightly packed in together that their eerily long spines stabbed into each other. Spindly-legged sea spiders stepped between crabs, although with little luck reaching any meat. Two different species of Dumbo octopus

drifted around the site, grabbing it floating scraps with their arms or pouncing on crustaceans from above. Then there were the sea cucumbers. So many littered the whale carcass, ever abundant down here. Changeable dreams, pink tumors, gummy squirrels, what was a problem were the sharks. Though long gone, they shed plenty of teeth on the sea-floor. floor with bones left chipped and scratched. Judging by the two smaller near-skeletonized carcasses, a couple of sharks died in the first pickings of the feasting frenzy. Cat sharks spaced on their teeth alone, no bottom-feeding shark of the midnight zone, nor any shark for that matter would descend this far, not even after whale fall.

It was not biologically possible for the sharks above to be in these waters, Yet here, sharks had been. Hunt it. The Bonewalker had witnessed enough for its route lay in the wild black yonder beyond the carcass. Setting out on a trek across the seafloor, it took the first steps with shadowed intent, precise, and efficient. Like the unmoving limb before, no current could affect its gate, neither oppose nor aid. No trail scarred the ooze. No distance or obstacle once broke the line of sight.

Nor did the head adjust its angle. Straightforward. The immediate path was the whale fall and its community of feeding scavengers. Trampling over a fin, the bone walker did not care for them. Through unknown interactions between Bone Walker and reality, bone cracked and crumbled beneath. whereas the ooze had remained unmarred. In several quick steps the bonewalker left a trail of crushed bone through the fin,

crossed a patch of ooze and raised the skull, with no sign of stopping. The spines of porcupine crabs snapped underfoot rather easily, and their shells were pulverized. Spooped by this unyielding thing among them, eel pouts and octopi fled, Without remorse, the Bonewalker headed northeast. The abyssal plains stretched onwards, relatively level, but bestrooned with hills breaking up the ooze scape of this deluge underworld. Relatively level, but be strewn with hills

breaking up the ooze scape of this deluged underworld. In an immense gap between the bases of a plateau and a bank, the slightest of inclines gradually took the bonewalk, into shallower waters. The climb into the midnight zone introduced an underwater trough colossal enough to fit entire islands within. Carbonate mounds and deep water coral

colonies covered the trough seafloor. Tufts of leaking suns, zigzagging mothers of eyed pores, thousand variable channels. Among the rocks and corals resided deep-sea brittle worms, Bivalves, sponges, sea-lilies and sea squirts, and serpent stars, seven-armed occupy and burrowing in enemies, more porcupine crabs and snub-nosed eel pouts. Female flabby whalefish with gaping mouths

and scaleless red skin perceived as total blackness to the other fish they preyed on. With jaws fused shot after reaching maturity, the males did not eat, sustained only by their energy-packed livers. The corals extended onto the southward bank, and to the far north were sand boils. Many fish. Not all or most, but a fair number nonetheless, swam erratically. Occasionally, a fish swam too hard right into the rocks, becoming motionless, sinking to the sea floor and leaking red tears. Others close their gills, drowning voluntarily. Seven armed occupy quivered,

their arms aching and twisting out of control. The aftermath of visitations within the brain. The bone walker did not need a trep in a fissus skull to know the insides were blackened by disease. Dark outside, dark inside. where the sickly fish were at their densest lay the wreck of a U-boat submarine eastwards of the Bone Walkers never stopping one-direction route going northeast. Blasted open and snapped in two. The leaking U-boat was encircled by a dead zone of ash and gray.

The Bonewalker tasted cancer in the waters, from the first of the human world wars, a lot of those ahead. Never mind, never more, move on. Soon the coral-strewn seafloor transitioned into dusty white rock formations. It strode into a cold seep, where a supply of natural gases leaked through the seafloor, creating mud volcanoes and brine pools. At the far side some kilometers away, the accumulated mass of sediment that was the continental rise surged on into the above, The Bonewalker persisted, heading to that mass without slowdown or deviation. Natural gases invited more communities to form, the most prominent feature of the area.

The brine pools were depressions in the seafloor formed from and filled with salt-white clouds antithetical to their aerial counterparts. Some brine pools were crossed in a single step. Others took several, dozens, or even hundreds. Great bubbles billowed upwards. Trails of salted ooze carried in their wake slowly fell back down. Frequently the bone walker would pass through bubbles and sediment clouds, then emerge as sudden as death in winter fog. The salinity and lack of oxygen within the brine pools were fatal to sea life besides certain bacteria.

A ring of shellfish and tubeworms surrounded every pool, feeding on chemicals produced from microbic biofilms. But as opposed to the cities of vibrant life that populated the whale fall and the corals, the dead dwelt inside. Each one homed a corp city of fish, crustaceans, and bivalves veiled beneath the murk, and to the bonewalker, none of that mattered. Again, weird forces between limb and seafloor crushed all caught between, Shell became dust and flesh became sludge.

A young dagger tooth of the pharaoh snipped at the dwindling marine snow above one brine pool, silver and darting. It did not know that sudden death sat so close. It did not know that if it followed that particularly large speck of snow, it would die. Then it died. Frail flesh caught upon the passing bone walker's body. and fell apart to join a corpse city. Some brine pools were not right. Rims flayed on the otherwise shallow depths caverned into titanic vintages made to fit,

a little too wrong for the bonewalkers' liking. Perception flexed, a tug within the soul mind to explore, fathoms and fathoms, and down there, more wrong. Miasmic gunk pooled, flesh-blood like sweat. Corp cities gone. Shed. Dead. Move on.

The Bonewalker stepped onto the continental rise, leaving behind the trough and its border of brine pools for an ascent over sedimentary deposits. In due course, the Midnight Zone's darkest steps gave way to its livelier, starrier upper volumes of ocean cosmos. Abundant and diverse, the lanternfish dominated. and biolet black drops, scurrying and scintillating. Their millions fed the scaleless black dragonfish, nightmares swimming out of the dark. The comb jellies, hatchetfish, hammer jaws, slime heads, and many angle mouths.

Long as a whale, but no wider than a pebble, was a giant's ifonophore. A transparent colony of thousands of hydrozoans, shining, snaking, and trailing tentacles. cannibalistic long-nosed lancet fish, the gelatinous pallid sculptans, the all-seeing spookfish and their transparent domed skulls and barrel-shaped eyes, and the kin of those misplaced cat sharks. Giant isopods milled around, anywhere from eight to fifty times the size of their land-bound with Laos cousins. A change in gradient marked the transition into the continental slope, where the climb turned steep sharply. Without complaint, the Bonewalker acclimated. Midnight would soon become twilight.

Rumbles overhead. A machine drew nearer to the cold and dimmest blue, rendered into cold ruin and faded from midnight. Metal and mad. The endless dined tonight. The prow of a storm-shadowed battleship plowed through the water where once was a king of herrings. Piddle. Piddle. for it was a majestic creature, whose kind were viewed as monstrous sea serpents by humans that foretold natural disasters. All around, fish were overwhelmed in sensation and rattled into action. No noise, no sight, no motion known to them, just impulse that told them to swim. The bonewalker did not tremble, did not hesitate, did not react. More came.

First a trickle, then a flurry, then a blizzard of debris and dead. Smashed and mangled by the winds and waves and currents alike, pushed and pulled into each other. Now the depths took over, bones and all. Deep within a section of the battleship were men, trapped inside and bereft of water to drown sorrows in. Shrieking prayers pleaded deliverance to silent gods. Gunfire as bullets killed in mercy.

Better hurry up before the spark and the fuel to... Too late. Boom. If evolution permitted them to withstand the environmental changes, then certain deep-sea denizens made nightly feeding migrations to shallower waters. Moonbeams shimmered upon their stinging scales, where these fish were to the abyss, what astronauts were to the cosmos. But this hellfire was no moonbeam,

flickering and thunderous. Those denizens turned to explorers were blessed and cursed with the light and heat and sound utterly alien to the senses. The incandescence was momentary, snuffed out almost immediately while the explosion roared to life and heralded doom, raw and untamed. Superheated water burned, blind, death, and addled. Survivors went on to live with a memory burnt into their simple brains. free of their usual fleetingness. The fleeting fleet? No one saw in its briefness,

but the radiance of the explosion also illuminated the climbing Bonewalker. A shadow puppet silhouetted in the flare of an enraged sun, lit in lore. Revealed in that one instant, the Bonewalker disappeared back into the murk. Nothing would stop it, not fire, Not light, not the battleship stern, headed straight for it. The Bonewalker feared a lot better in the resulting collision. All several thousand tons of the broken bow came to a sudden cease in its descent. In fact, for a short moment, the bow ascended, held perpendicular in the water by that still climbing gap into non-existence.

Alas, Gravity and strong ocean currents tilted the bow just enough to lose balance and recontinue its descent. Indifferent to the clash, the Bonewalker continued. All the less, all was lost.

The slope leveled out into a gradual gradient of the continental shelf. A short stroll further forwards in the Bonewalker almost crossed into the sunlight zone. Before it on the seafloor, the corpse of a sailor drifted idly in the current, water-logged and somewhat charred with a face already bloodied.

Separated from his fleet to nourish a couple dozen eel-like Atlantic haguefish that writhed inside flesh as surface worms did in earthen graves. Each step went deeper into the sunshine waters, and the bonewalkers soon loomed over the bloated corpse. At last, sunlight bestowed the fauna the clarity of sight to see the prowling shape in their world of blue. A skull, four limbs and a torso that formed a humanoid skeleton of ultra-blackest bone. Black because the mortal brain, whether fish or human, cannot comprehend non-existence. An anomaly in descent with existence itself, for no light could touch it.

tasteless, scentless, soundless, touchless, weightless. Nature would not grace a creature that did not live and did not die. Physics and chemistry, it did not matter to non-matter, a black hole of nothing that went into nothing. Nearest were the scavenging haguefish, yet they were eyeless and continued to feed in ironic ignorance. Wandering over to the corpse's head, a purple-brown haguefish latched its jawless maw onto a gash in the cheek, a kiss that became a violent tonguing to reach the flesh inside.

Damage after damage, lingering skin across the face lost its hold and slipped off. A death mask came loose. The skull face beneath was a mirror of off-white bone. And to the bone walker, that was the vilest. of slander, a slander that went back millions of years before the first hominids walked, a fluke, or by the providence of a cosmic malice that was never known. Either way, the human skeleton was an abhorrent recreation stolen over generations of convergent evolution. The black perceived nothing was no more, now marrow and mineral

with gone in as a whisper lives, an antagonistic or, Theora surrounded the bone walker, polluting the waters as did the U-boat with poison, noxious and terminal. The walk would continue unbroken, indifference gone, lost to wrath and revulsion. Crabbs and corals, sands and shells, snow still fell. The bone walkers strode on, onto a kelp forest, out of a reef, past basalt banks and through basins of black stone. Not far now. Shipwreck after shipwreck, debris field after debris field, home to ominous cracks and gaps. In their shadows lurked the ghosts of the drowned,

sailor bones scattered, buried, and devoured as they belonged. Nearly there. Other Leviathans, basking sharks and black-brown bootlace worms, curled and nodded, but with a stretch that rivaled the giant Siphonophore in length. Closer. Above were dolphins and whales that straddled the surface border between worlds. Herring, mackerel, saith, skate, stop. The bone walker halted, frozen mid-stride.

Then, a 90-degree heel-turned. and right words. Ever so slowly, he lowered its foot, pressing against the sand without indentation. Shoot it. Don't spook it. In its perfect balance unconcerned with the flowing current, the bone walker let itself tilt backwards

on the balls of its heels ever so slightly until facing towards a surface at a wide angle. Arms and legs spread for maximal dispersal. The starfish would crink. if they could. A beam of energy shot out from the Bonewalker, fashioned by its skeleton outline to carry the visage afar. Except energy did not do justice.

For it was unlight and thunderfire and blue blaze and star rays and mutant winds from the great red storm. It was rage and hatred and spite and resentment and desperation. It was joy and love and mercy and peace and calm and longing. It was birth, death, everything in between and everything before and after. It was truth. The skeletal beams sliced through the waters like a cookie cutter sharpened for skin, fast and direct. Hit.

As sudden as it stopped, the Bonewalker returned to its walk like now, Nothing had happened, though it was headed southwards. Salmon, halibut, a pawn of Orca's mauled a great white shark, confirmed it. Pass scurries into the causeway, into the air, gloom-gray clouds paved over the mid-morning sun. Beyond the cliffs of the coast, gray dune hills, wet bogs and pastoral plains embroidered at the Emerald Isle, a haven for seabirds, yet none flew in the causeway today. They knew better than that. Lapt at by the gray-green tide, the top of the Bone Walker's skull gently breached the surface.

A mist of spray and autumn frigidness submerged the low-tide foreshore between sea and earth, not that the bonewalker needed the cover. Once the rocks were in arm's reach, it hunched into a crawl, more out of habit than anything else. Falanges grasped onto basalt and pulled the rest of that ultra-black sand. skeleton onto the not quite as black shore. The bonewalker crept from rock to rock. Round boulders and outcrops scabbed into the earth. Sometimes, a hand or a foot penetrated the peaceful stillness of a rock pool,

sending shore crabs scuttling into their rock crevices, seaweed, lumbets, periwinkles, moss-like bryozoan colonies. Much of the basalt rock was polygonal columns formed by long-cooled lava, that split like drying mud, sides of four, five, six, seven, or even eight. Blacks, dark grays, and reds. Bordered with sea and grassy cliffs on either side, an uneven road of stepping stones displaced into rises and pits. Either convex or concave, the latter basin into still puddles,

remnants of an ancient volcanic plateau from Thulean times. Unique, yet not exclusive. The Bone Walker was not the first to enter the causeway. Humans crowded around what they perceived as a beached whale choked to death on one massive squid whose arms still hung out from the mouth. Soldiers had formed a perimeter around it, keeping civilians back. Their commanders spoke with a scholar. Vendors sold overpriced meals, four very few had fed. Children played and pestered for none knew the difference.

A cleric struck his dog pining for morning bread, stray and skeletal. New arrivals continuously descended a cliff path into the causeway, eager and curious, heedless and headless. But strange rocks and humans hardly worth the effort to acknowledge did not interest this scene at all, Bonewalker. Its prey was lain across the basalt. A throne of pillars squashed beneath the head at rest. With misplaced excitement, voices spoke of this giant returning to its causeway home. The torso certainly belonged to a sperm whale once. Flesh unharmed despite recent wounding, decorated in patches a litany of marine matter.

Fish scales, crustacean spines, and assorted furs. What space remained was occupied with every kind of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a lot of, abyssal maw from the oldest sharks to the toothiest anglers, gaping and gnashing. From circular demon whale biters, over long goblin sharks, cloaked vampire squids, trapped jodd sand-strikers, even the great bulbous yawn of a megamouth over the belly, where once four fins emerged from the pectorals and tail were the spun-out, thread-like bodies of the worms, The serpentine and all other things perceived long, now entangled and mangled in the slaying, fused mouth to mouth with the whale.

A colossal squid served as the head, its arms equipped with swilling hooks spayed across the pillars, jerking back and forth as if playthings of a galvanism-obsessed toddler. All held together by that same gloomy gunk that dripped and icked out of every joint in orifice. us, uncolored in this light, a skin flare and trophy wearer. Niagara to the Sidro Sea's terrible thing within a thalassic Frankenstein's grotesquery, wounded and near dead, though still very much alive. The bone walker stepped out from the marine mist before the on-looking crowd, stopping only once within range of those squid arms.

It trod on one, casual and unapologetic. No one acknowledged the Bonewalker's presence, a ghost to all except the giant, who drooled a great gob of gunk out from a hollowed-out eye socket, splattering the pillars below and spite in the feet of its slayer, too. Its dying urge, the giant hummed a cold and crackling note without breath, like relic radiation murmuring through a planet of the dead, a note that shattered that veil within the human psyche, that veil that coddles and comforts them from the truths of existence, that lies to them, that tells them of a whale choked on squid, and that there is no skeleton that blots out the light,

the air, space-time, and all else attributed to their god, beloved in name only. Now the crowd perceived them, the giant and the bonewalker. Neither need do more. As for once, these humans saw themselves as the little blips that they really were, unworthy of society and hardly a species. Their protagonist syndrome cured. Spiritual ecstasy switched on like a light bulb as the pupils dilated, expanded into black holes, encircled by bloodshot vessels. Senses submerged and brains unraveled, screams in waking dreams.

The brawl that followed bloody the basalt red, a dark red that flowed and flowed. The causeway had not known such violence since its molten birth, when fire flesh cooled, fractured, forged, so, so long ago. The first disembowlments and bone excisions were the children and the elders, outnumbered and overwhelmed by parents and offspring, pulled apart and torn open. not ready to die yet. Bodies broken but bolstered, re-invigorated by the gift in howls of maniacal awe. Limbs lost and lives lived on. Clothing ripped away, replaced with blood as an all-covering body paint. Sea air suffocated in the stink.

Tears of a sincere joy like no other. It would be a compliment to call them animals. The madness had its purpose, though. Flesh collected by hand, balled up and kneaded into lumps with the wettest schlacks. Exposed bones wrenched out and snapped off, whichever worked best. What already scattered under the intense violence was picked up like pebbles. When a human could carry no more, they looked up from clawing the rocks beneath and approached the gift givers. Marched, lurched, skipped, slogged, crawled, rised.

Blood sweat and toil to the giant and the bone walker. Nobody walked. To the giant, the humans offered the gift of flesh in return for the gift of truth. A good few fell as battered legs finally gave in. No different to them than prostration. They were climbed upon and crushed as the rest reached for the nearest orifices of the once-a-wale. More and more meat for the maws so frantic to show gratitude. more than one human slashed open their wrists on the sharp, sharp, shark teeth lining their chosen hole.

Others lost fingers to the beaks of arm-encircled holes that were once cephalopods. Once deposited, and if not yet crippled to the point of immobility, then the humans hobbled back into the killing floor to refill their fractured arms. The giant horked up another spurt of gunk. To the Bonewalker, the humans offered the gift of bones in return for the gift of truth. They longed to stuff between ribs and into the skull. For shame. The Bonewalker rose, just out of reach, just out of touch, into the air.

So rose the screams and the howls and the tears, fueled by psychophantic indignation. hands drop bones to grasp at air aghast the wretched humans began to dogpile throwing themselves onto each other with ever-increasing disregard body upon body upon body man woman and whatever was left of the children into the air screaming all the way the bone walker persisted evading those fingers broken and lively it did not flee or fight, only float just outside their range to tease them. Soon, the leaning tower of humans was tall as the supine giant. Unstable from peak to base, it did not balance well. Up top, the cleric made one last lunge at the bonewalker, mist plummeted, and brought the rest tumbling down. Nobody came out unharmed, slipping on blood or muscles failing.

many below had already suffocated, if not killed outright when their heads dashed against the basalt. The fallen were left paralyzed by their injuries and would succumb by day's end. The bone walker drifted back down to solid ground. For once, some commonality was met with the giant. They laughed, or at least that was what they appeared to be doing in their own harrowing ways. The giant whispered another ear in their own. note, fainter than before, yet just as detached. The Bonewalker switched between grinding those teeth and clenching its jaws, though no sound was made.

With a sharp crack, the note ended. Arms and maws flexed one more time than ceased movement. The assimilated conglomeration shriveled as the colorless gunk dissolved. The giant was dead. The Bonewalker laughed no more. The hunt complete. It stood still for a moment, basking in the destruction of its enemy, before returning to the shoreline's very edge. The morning mist had lifted,

uncloaking where the flowing tie jostled against polygonal basalt and outcrops of shapeless gray-black. The Bonewalker sat down cross-legged, just perceiving the causeway's ambiance. The blabbers and jabbers of the dying pattered out. The reeking scent of fresh food was enough for the seabirds to overcome their apprehension and return to their haven, cackling and calling. They pecked on guts and gore like fish to whalefall, eyes and tongues first to go.

As above, so below. Later in the day, the tide would rise. When that time came, the bonewalker would be. the bone walker would let the waters carry it back into the endless, endless, endless. Down into and under the abyssalus. But then, the bonewalker looked upwards, eyeless sockets content to gaze upon those epithral heavens, the new endless, the true endless.

For our second story this evening, A nostalgic trip to Blackpool spirals into a waking nightmare as a visitor is stalked by an entity with specific tastes. Creepy presents. Seaside Get Away. Written by Debbie Patterson and narrated by Rissa Montanez. You booked the trip on a whim after seeing an advert for Blackpool's Pleasure Beach. It's been years since you thought of it.

Vague childhood memories of roller coasters. rides and time spent on the piers. You used to go yearly in the summer, then for a day trip in the autumn, until something happened. You were never sure what, only that your mother canceled any further trips and never spoke of it. As always, there are more than plenty of bus companies to choose from, and you're booked for the next weekend. Despite the oddity of your mother's behavior, excitement fills you. The Pleasure Beach, the Peers, Blackpool Tower, and its ballroom. You're too early for the illuminations, however, that's fine.

It's a few days away. Something you've needed. Finally, the weekend arrives. You want to get going. To spend time there and make the most of your days off. You stare out the window of the taxi. almost bouncing in your seat with anticipation. The driver pays you a perfunctory glance from the mirror and shakes his head.

He's not particularly chatty, barely making small talk the entire way. You arrive at the pickup point early. The sun lightens the sky to a pale blue. Dark gray clouds move behind a large red brick church in front of you. The pavement is orange from streetlights. Cars trickle onto the road on their convenience. mute to work. People begin to appear. Some in suits, others with suitcases, your fellow passengers. The last stars blink out of sight. Pink patches of sky disappear. A cold breeze

stings your cheeks while you watch the traffic, listening for that familiar rumble of the bus. But then, its reflection appears before it rounds the corner. It is warm when you step onto the bus, a heater blasting from the roof and on the floor. You booked a seat near the front. You always preferred that. Fellow passengers, tired and subdued, all pile onto the bus and take their seats. With that, you are off. The coach pulls out onto the street outside a Britannia hotel.

A hotel chain the bus company uses, one you've never been, overly fond of. They're basic. Breakfast and dinner provided. Usually the upper floors where you've stayed are in dire need of redecoration. However, you don't plan to spend much time in the hotel. You grab your bag thanking the driver, and then you wait in line at the reception desk. Behind you, people congregate around the chairs. Door swing open and closed. The lift doors, ding. People are chattering all around you. The carpet feels hard under your feet,

and the smell of cheap air freshener catches in your throat. A black shape weaves into your vision from the corner of your eye. It darts between people before it heads for the staircase and disappears. With it goes all the heat from the foyer, your breath now coming out in soft little. clouds. Your room is on the third floor and it is cold and quiet. It's a far cry from some of the hotels you've stayed in. You arrive at your room, dump your bag, and switch the kettle on. As usual, all the basics are provided for. A kettle, some cups, instant coffee, and some tea bags. You head

for the bathroom and the kettle switches off. You go back. You go back. You go back. You go. Back, check, then switch it back on. Off, it clicks again. You sigh. You then check the time. There's still a couple of hours before dinner is served. You grab your jacket and head back out. And you almost don't notice the black shadowy figures standing at the foot of your bed.

Your walk along the promenade brings back memories. Buses drive up and down the road, music from the archie, Cades Blair while you catch the scent of fresh donuts. The big wheel at the far end with the pier spins at leisurely pace while Britney Spears belts out toxic from somewhere unseen. The beach spans for miles, still covered in people. Children build sandcastles. Dog walkers take their pet to the sea, laughing as he or she bounds around. There are still a few sunbaters, and an autotographer with a tripod. The tower looms above, as do the signs for the Sealife Center and Madame Toussaint's.

Across the road, giant signs for the arcades light up, flickering and flashing. As a child, you thought this looked like Las Vegas with all the pictures you'd seen on TV of casinos. Street corner sellers yell over the top of the noise, holding up light sticks, flowers, and all manner of light-up nonsense. As a silly indulgence, you purchase a spinning unicorn that plays the lone ranger theme. You remember you begged your mum for something from the street cellars. However, she refused and dragged you onwards. A group of men parade down the street.

One dressed in a dog onesie, the rest wearing all manner of gaudy clothing, with leopard print, zebra stripes, and the like. One thing that hasn't changed. Blackpool remains the go-to location for stag nights and hen parties, as indicated by raucous laughter from a pub nearby. You check the time. Dinner is soon. You start walking back to the hotel,

staying on the promenade side to avoid most of the crowds. Sun sparkles over the sea, creating a blinding white view. Water comes in with the tide. People stand at tram stops. Children asking a multitude of, of questions about where they're going. Horses canter. Others stand by the side of the road with their Cinderella-style carriages. They snort and shake their heads. One looks your way, then nays loudly. It dances from one hoof to the other, to the point it becomes hard to

control. The driver climbs into the seat and guides it further down the road. When you go back to the hotel, you're in time for dinner. You are herded in like cattle along with the rest of the people from your coach and sat at a communal table that reminds you of a school lunchroom. It is loud and suffocating. People are too close. There is not enough space to shift in the uncomfortable seats. The food is placed before you in large trays at the back wall and smells of nothing.

It's beige and the vegetables look as if they come out of a tin holding none of the texture or smell. of freshness. The chips wilt sadly when you scoop a handful and you pick out the least dubious looking chicken breast. You poke at it with your fork, eating as much as you're able before you escape to your room without dessert. After a little time spent freshening up, you head back out. You returned to the hotel several hours later. Your wallet significantly lighter. You tried to win a cuddly tiger from one of the games. You've found. You've found a little bit. You failed and spent the time at the Penny Falls machines, winning enough tickets for two key rings and a packet of sweets. You've already looped them onto your house keys. You head to your room,

fighting with the lock. It won't turn no matter how many times you try, and as you are about to report it to reception, it clicks open. You close the door, turn, and suddenly cry out when there's a person's shaped figure in the darkness. You hit the light, only to find that it was your own reflection. From the ground floor music plays, the bass line reverberating. Someone is singing, sweet Caroline. Then everyone is singing, sweet Caroline. You lie down on the bed.

The mattress is hard. The duvet thin. And the pillows are lumpy. The walls are paper thin. and you can hear every conversation next door. They speak of their plans, where they'll go, and whether their dog misses them. At least they're not drunk or rowdy.

How many times have you been unfortunate enough to listen to arguments? You settle into bed, trying in vain to make it somewhat comfortable. In the early hours of the morning, something moves. It sounds like feet shuffling across the carpet. You keep your eyes shut, sure that you're in that hazy state of not quite awake.

A faint smell of burning fills your nose, as well as rotten eggs. A particularly hard lump on the mattress chases away sleep. Light seeps out from underneath the bathroom door before it switches off. The door swings open. You reach across to the lamp on the bed. side table. Something knocks inside the cupboard facing the bathroom. You dash from your bed fearing someone has broken in.

Your stomach goes cold. Something of a pit growing, as if a swarm of insects began to crawl up your spine. You check the door to your room, finding it still locked. You switched the light on, throw the cupboard open, and pull out the spare blankets and pillows. You're only satisfied when you're faced with empty shelves. The bathroom door creaks behind you, light spilling out. There's a shadow at the door, towering above you, and you whirl around with a shout. In the next room, someone batters the wall, yelling for you to be quiet, but there's nothing there.

pile the blankets back in, grabbing an extra pillow before you trail back to bed. You think about leaving the lamp on, but decide against it. You close your eyes, then heave a sigh. Seconds hardly pass before the duvet is tugged from the bottom of the bed. You pull it up only for it to be yanked out of your grip in one swift movement. Something brushes your leg. You kick and collide with something solid and slick and smooth. A hand grips your ankle, holding it in place. It doesn't feel human, fingers too thin and too long. You barely have time to process before a sharp teeth sink into your flesh.

You cry out, frantically pulling to free yourself. You look down and see a pale face. one with sharp bloody teeth and impossibly long fingers, illuminated by streetlights outside. It cocks its head to one side and stares at you, eyes glowing. Its breath is heavy, wheezing, with a rotten smell, stronger than before. You tried to scramble away as the thing tightens its grip. its jaw opens wider and wider until it takes your foot into the chasm

that has become its mouth. You scream and kick and you don't stop until security and staff enter the room. Despite being moved to a different room, you do not sleep. You don't sleep because of the shadow under the door with the impossibly long fingers. It's another three days before the coach leaves to go home.

Despite the stinging pain, neither the receptionist nor security could see the wound when you tried to tell them what happened. You tried a pharmacy, picking up a roll of linen bandage to tape it yourself. You'll have to wait till you're home before you can see a doctor. You decide to catch the first tram on a gorgeous morning with a bright blue sky, wispy white clouds and miles of empty beach.

overhead small planes buzz across the sky their reflections in the pools of water on the sand a tram trundles up the track and halts at your stop there is a smell of popcorn candy floss until they're all overpowered by fried onions the coaster rumbles through the air accompanied by screams vibrations shudder through your shoes children pull their parents towards rides, others stand at game stalls trying to win an oversized cuddly toy. Despite being away from the hotel, you still look over your shoulder. You expect to see the shadow or smell the rotten eggs or feel that smooth skin grip you. You almost walk past an attraction. Tucked away in a secluded corner of the Pleasure Beach, among stalls and games, is an exhibition you've never seen before and don't remember it ever being there as a child. On holiday, you had a layout committed to memory, and you know you would remember this.

UFOs and other oddities proclaims the sign above, Come and see our alien. Lights surround letters up and down either side of the tractor beam at the unfortunate cow pictured. Blacked out windows let nothing inside. A gray alien is painted on the other window. You peer through the window to ensure it's open. Wind chimes jingle when you open the door, though the smell of dust rushes towards you.

It is stale in both appearance and decor. Inflatable neon aliens hang above your head, while a fan buzz is attempting to fight against an overwhelmingly clammy temperature. Spaced out shelves hold Sherbert UFOs, cuddly aliens, model kits, badges and boxes of glow sticks. At the cash desk, a girl flicks through a magazine, completely disinterested in your presence. You clear your throat.

The cashier glances up, then points to the machine next to a door. It's covered in silver holographic paper, and the most modern thing in the whole shop. The lock clicks open, as does the door. The hallways dimly lit and entirely claustrophobic. Blue lights discolor the walls covered with posters and crudely drawn gray aliens. Posters sport images of scenes from films, as well as ex-files, I want to believe. There is an odd underlying smell.

Underneath the mold, dust, and staleness, there's burning, as if a family barbecue has just ended before you walked in. Well-trodden chewing gum and stains marred the thin carpet. You breathe through your mouth to avoid the smell, but only succeed in getting dust caught in the back of your throat. Through your coughing fit, you hear a faint pattering of feet. They're quick, dashing ahead of you. You check the floor, expecting to see frayed carpets or some sign of mice or rats. You push through another curtain made of cheap tinsel foil.

This room is at least better lit and covers the other oddities part of the advertisement outside. The smell, however, is back. It's stronger this time, and it mixes with the dust and mold stench that has doggedly followed you the entire way. On the walls are various urban legends and mythical creatures. It's like a primary school class project.

Scribble drawings add to this impression. A sign ahead points to their alien. More rectangular information sheets are pinned to the wall, detailing where and how they found it. It's a clever marketing ploy. You'll give it that much. Decorations hang from the ceiling. The floor now bare floorboards.

Your footsteps echo. You smell burning and tasted in the air. Above, our stick-on strip lights of multiple colors. Smudged fingerprints. and strangely, scratches, are seen dug into the wood. Finally, you arrive at their alien. It lives behind a glass window, its head drooped and unresponsive. You knock on the glass as the lights blink on.

You are then greeted by large reflective eyes that slowly open. It raises its head, and in all too real manner wiggles its fingers to greet you. It stands up. It's a terrifying height. It hunches its shoulders just to fit. It takes a step forward, then another, before it presses its hand against the glass. Smoothly, the gray skin darkens to black. Its face brightens to white, as if it had just donned the mask. Its eyes shrink and you stumble away. falling over your own feet when it has become the thing from the hotel. You stumble to your feet and run for the door behind you.

Unfortunately, it is locked. Glass smashes, then footsteps echo, nail scrape the wood, and the thing blows out a whistling breath. It lets out a high-pitched chuckle. Good day. It draws. Its voice of varying pitches. How kind of you to visit.

It chuckles again. Ha ha ha ha. You were so very tasty. The footsteps stop. The thing is at the end of the hall. Its head tilted, eyes glowing in the darkness. It grins at you. Then leaps upward with surprising agility.

You take your chances and sprint back the way you came, past the now-destrored case that house this thing. Above you, it skitters across the ceiling. It laughs again, high-pitched, yet sounds as if it's gargling stones. A door catches your eye when you're nearing a dead end. You try it, finding it open before you slam it shut and block it with an empty shelf. It seems to be a staff area or a warehouse backroom. The thing slams its hand and body against the blocked door.

The banging echoes toward you, along with the burning smell. Light peters in from an arrow window nearby. You push the empty boxes and crates underneath it, piling them on top of each other. The shelves rattle against the wall, metal hitting brick with a ringing sound. Heavy footsteps thud toward you. They're exaggerated, made on purpose. I'm so looking forward to devouring your intestines, the thing says, with a grin.

You hit the window, though it barely makes no difference. It is sealed shut, and no amount of hitting it will hope to smash the glass. The footsteps advance, and there's a sharp pain in your calf muscle. The demon has sunk its teeth into your leg. It wraps its hands around your waist, yanking you backwards. You're now helpless, defenseless. It lets go of your leg, then brandishes its claws, swiping them across your abdomen.

Blood streams down your leg and you cough, feeling blood drip down the side of your mouth. Delicious. It says, still smiling. The smile is too toothy, too long. It is the smile of a predator having caught its quarry. You are now holding your own guts in your own hands.

It lifts your head and holds your face between its hands. The blood's sticky against your cheeks. You're the first offering I've had in such a long, time. The smile widens even further than before. I'm going to enjoy you. It's drawn hinges, moving closer and closer to your head. You are now looking at the inside of its mouth, just before its teeth clamped down on your skull. For our final story this evening, A culinary artist obsessed with perfection prepares her final recipe. Creepy presents to write a perfect cookbook, written by Austin Lee and narrated by Michelle Kane.

The heat from the bubbling vat curls around you, thick and suffocating. Beads of sweat dapple your brow, pooling at your temples. You watch me. I crush mustard seeds with a touch. dark stone mortar and pestle, the rhythmic grinding filling the kitchen with a nutty, pungent aroma. The spice steams your nose, sharp and earthy, as I work the seeds into a fine, rich brown powder. Your nostrils flare at the scent of crushed mustard, a reaction you likely don't even notice yourself. My father, I say my voice a lull. He taught me the love of flavor

and how passion drives you to chase unattainable perfection. Have you ever used true peppercorn grown by your own hand in hydroponics? It matters. You do not speak. You only watch. Eyes blank. Breath, shallow. My kitchen is a spotless circular space.

The air hums, not just from machinery, but from something deeper. a frequency that trembles through the silvery steel compartments and seamless cooking surfaces. I grind peppercorns into the mustard powder, the scent deepening, thickening in the air. The kitchen hums with the perfume of labor. The glaze has only begun and already the promise of a perfect sauce lingers. He had this idea, I continue, to travel the globe, to experience. every flavor, every recipe, every taste, to craft the perfect cookbook, one that captures the full breadth of human cuisine. I pause, glancing at you. Have you ever eaten a penguin in Antarctica?

You stay silent. I have? Taste like alligator or chicken. Funny story. When I was young, I tried alligator, before I ever ate chicken. So to me, chicken tastes like alligator. I laugh, a low chuckle that rolls through the kitchen like steam. I unlock and fold down a compartment filled with various jars and pull out a jar of pink ground rocks. You recognize Himalayan salt. I used to be terrible at cooking.

I explain as I pull out the pink mineral. But my father was a patient one. He'd always ask what I learned when recipes went wrong. I crunched the fine crystals in my hands, sprinkle them into the mix, and a faint cloud of spiced dust puffs into the air. My error nearly always pointed to cutting corners, using subpar ingredients, and lacking patience.

As you can see, or smell, I have learned. I remember the first time I tried to make a glaze. Too much salt, too little acid. It hardened into something closer to glue than sauce. My father scraped the mess off his plate and asked, What did you learn? Not this is awful, not you've failed. Just a quiet question.

I hated him for that. hated how he never just told me what to do. But I see it now. He passed on that hunger for perfection. I lift the large mixing bowl and let you take a with. Your throat tightens. Your mouth waters involuntarily. You're salivating, I note with a smile.

These salts are pure. Store-bought ones are untrustworthy, you know. Hard to validate their origins. Easier to harvest it myself when I'm passing through the right places. The air is different in every region. The minerals soak it in. The temperature, the moisture composition, the sense. You can taste a land through its salt if you know how.

Back home, we had nothing like it. You shift ever so slightly. The restraints creaking, but say nothing. Ah, a shame. I turn, open the refrigerator, and pull out a thick bladder filled with dark, sticky liquid. Maple, fresh from northern Minnesota. It's not Canadian, but it's close enough, I laugh. Some might disapprove, but there's a sugar bush out there that has little security and an old man with poor eyesight. I never knew trees could be sweet until I came here. We had four. Dense, towering, silent, but nothing that bled such richness.

This world drips with flavor in ways you don't even notice. You don't answer. Of course, mum's the word. I unscrew the silvery cap and pour the liquid into the mixing bowl. The sweetness collides with the spices, a cloying contrast that curls in the air. Half the bladder empties before I stop. We're going to need a lot of sauce, I sigh. Guess I'll have to return to Minnesota if this recipe works out.

From the cabinet, I retrieved two glass jars. One filled with the clear liquid, the other something darker. I uncork the first, and a sharp, pungent scent stings the air before dissolving into the mixture. The second has a faintly fishy smell. I swirl it gently before pouring. Your arms tingle. from lack of blood as they're held firmly above your head. Traveling with one's father, discovering every flavor, every technique.

What a gift! I stir the wooden spoon thick with syrup and spice. I loved him. He showed me so much. The dark liquid folds into the mixture, deepening the color into something almost black. It's a maple glaze, if you haven't guessed. My eyes wander up and down your body. We need a generous amount.

I reach into the drawer, fingers curling around the wooden handle of a brush. My grip tightens. Did you know food poisoning can kill? It's rare, but my father was a rare soul. Not everyone packs up their adolescent to chase the essence of taste. A true chef. I miss him so much. I turn opening a sleek metal drawer, retrieving the brush.

My father was an artist. You may scoff at the idea of a cookbook as art, but I assure you, he took it seriously. I am but a practitioner of the craft, but he was a grand master. When I held his hand, his skin had turned a deep, unnatural green. I squeezed him through my sobs as he struggled to speak.

He looked at me, fighting for every word. I dipped the brush into the glaze. Finish the book. Find the greatest recipes, he whispered. There is so much deliciousness to share here. I wipe a tear away with the back of my free hand. Those were his last words to me. Slowly, methodically, I stroke the thick syrup along your bare skin.

You hang from the ceiling hook, swaying gently with each brushstroke. Your breathing is shallow, weak. Your breath hitches as the thick syrup coats your skin. A soft sound escapes your lips. Half a whimper, half a swallowed sob. It's the first noise you've made. I tilt my head. Oh, you can still make noise.

I was beginning to think you'd given up. Beside us, the massive tub of water begins to churn. Finally, just in time, I smile, running another coat of glaze over your limp body. You know the saying, never watch water boil. You stir, your bonds tightening as you shift, but there's no strength left, no fight. Fine. Listen. I press the brush into your ribs, smearing syrup across your skin. The boiling will hurt, but you'll suffocate before you can truly suffer. The vacuum will take your consciousness quickly, and it will be worth it. Every perfect dish is. I step back to admire my work,

watching the glaze settle into the fine lines of your flesh. Back home, flavors are simpler. subtle. We spent generations perfecting balance harmony. But here everything is wild, sharp, sweet and sour, savory, heat

and cold. Umami, as your kind would call it. It is intoxicating. I stroke the brush across your shoulder, my touch almost reverent. And so are you. You shudder, your wrists flexing weakly against the restraints.

Interesting factoid. Suvide means under vacuum. It's French, you know. I twirl one of my hands in the air, and without oxygen, the flavors seal in. Oh, but don't worry. I'll only boil you for five minutes, maybe ten. I poke at your arm.

The process makes the meat stay ever so tender. You've never had anything. as succulent as a proper suvide. I retrieve a massive plastic bag, thick and clear, shaped almost like a sleeping bag. Time to go in. Please understand this is the best way to cook long pork, as you call it. Human juices mixed beautifully with the glaze, creating one of the most exquisite flavors I've encountered. Your body jerks feebly, like a fish, rise.

on a line. The plastic slips up over your head. It'll be over soon, and you will be delicious. That is my promise. My people waste nothing. I attach the vacuum nozzle to the top of the bag and switch it on. The air hisses away. The plastic shrinking, sealing you tight. Your chest heaves, your lungs burning. The bag compresses against your skin, forcing out your final muffled screen. The perfect dish, I murmur, lifting you toward the vat. Perhaps the final recipe. Water rages below, steam curling upward like grasping fingers. The plastic clings tighter, stiffening from the sudden shift in temperature. The pressure around you changes, a crushing weight against your chest. Your body twitches involuntarily. Some final useless protest.

You hear nothing but the dull roar of boiling water, a distant hum through the vacuum-sealed cocoon. I smile, my four pale yellow arms steepled together. I wonder if your texture will be as delicate as I hope. The bag tightens further, pressing into your ribs like an exoskeleton. Your lung strain, your final breath held hostage in plastic. Below the water waits. Heat seeps through the plastic, licking at your skin, curling into every crease and hollow. The glaze thickens, caramelizing against your flesh, its sweetness locking in the richness beneath.

Your muscles slacken, surrendering to the heat, fibers unraveling into something soft, something supple. You are becoming. Earth will be the greatest of foody destinations. My people waste nothing. You plunge into the boiling water, your scream swallowed by the bubbling depths. 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 common share-a-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.