Creepy - The Dark Matter, Inc.

Episode Date: June 30, 2025

The Dark Matter, Inc.***Written by: Lindsey Goddard and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Silence is Not Always Bliss***Written by: Marcus H. Noir and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***FixYou.Org***Written by: Matt Richardsen***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, grieving and desperate, a mother signs a contract with a mysterious company promising to erase emotional pain, but by the time she learns what dark

matter really means, it may be too late. Creepy Presents The Dark Matter Inc. Written by Lindsay Goddard and narrated by Alicia Eck. I stopped believing in God's divine plan when I brought a child into this world only to watch her die. Everything happens for a reason? What's the reason for that? She was beautiful. I know you can't take my word for it.

Every mother claims it. But Alana really was. Her eyes shone with intelligence. A perfect blend of blue and brown and green. Her hair, a coppery russet brown, with highlights of red and gold. Her innocent smile suggested she knew nothing of her own beauty. Any time I looked in the mirror at my own average face, I wondered how she was mine. Let her shine like the brightest star before she burns out, I would think.

They confirmed her diagnosis when she was five days old. Congenital heart disease. and with shaking hands, I signed the surgery papers. Surgery for my newborn. I couldn't bear it. But sometimes, life doesn't give you options. The operation was a success. At least that's what they told me.

But the deformities in Alana's heart were so extreme. We were back at the hospital in less than a year, and several times thereafter. She was seven years old when she died. Her father has never been a part of our lives, and my family lived miles away. I had no one to hold me, no one to share my grief. I stayed drunk most of the time, never really allowing myself to feel. I was on a drunken bender when I discovered the dark matter ink, or rather when it discovered me. I was sitting at an upscale bar, a ritzie place.

The counter was a black. granite that felt cool under my arms. Soft chandelier light reflected on its surface and illuminated dozens of bottles on the shelves. The bartender, a man in a silky purple dress shirt, nodded to the beat of a pop song. The man on the stool beside me smelled good, and I breathed deeply his cologne. I wore a navy blue spaghetti strap dress that hit me mid thigh, and my hair was in a bun. It had taken me the better part of an hour to secure. I felt lonely and sad, and I was hoping for some company.

I used to frequent the local dives, but I stopped going to them once the usual crowd had witnessed me embarrass myself a handful of times. I remember thinking the man beside me was handsome, though I don't know why. His face is a smiling blur now. I noticed he had no wedding ring as he pulled a card from his wallet, set it down, and slid it over to me. The Dark Matter Inc, it said in bold black letters. Underneath that was a slogan, Make the dark matter in your life disappear. At the bottom, a phone number.

I turned to ask the guy what it was for, but I realized he had slipped out on me, leaving only the smell of his cologne. I caught a glimpse of him near the door, but I wasn't about to chase him down. Grumbling a few curse words, I shoved the card in my purse. and ordered another shot of gray goose, and made my way home for the night, feeling a bit rejected.

I rolled fitfully back and forth in a tangle of covers that night, and awoke, drenched and sweat with no recollection of my nightmares. I felt certain I had them, though. I winced as I sat up. The pulse in my brain was a middle school marching band, off-tempo and loud as hell. I donned my teary-cloth robe and made my way to the kitchen. As I passed the living room, I stopped in my tracks and backpedaled, peering in. The VHS tapes and DVDs I kept in the hall closet were scattered on the floor. What in the hell? Sure, I was in the throes of a nasty hangover, but what was going on? Had I watched those videos and forgotten? Videos of Alana? Of her growing up? Hours and hours of hours of her life now piled on the living room floor. I was no stranger to blackouts,

but this was different. I remember it stumbling home, unzipping the navy blue dress and falling into bed. I felt lighthearted at the sight of those memories dumped out all over the floor. Are you sleepwalking now? I asked myself. That's a new one. I stumbled to the kitchen, down two glasses of water, and leaned against the counter, head bowed. The liquid sloshed uncomfortably in my stomach. I couldn't decide which scenario frightened me more. That I'd gotten the movies out myself and had no memory of it, or that I hadn't. I poured a drink from the open fifth of Jack Daniels, hand-shaking.

Bottle in hand, I headed to the living room. The videos were a mixture of VHS tapes and DVDs, the former being the early years of Alana's life, and the latter, the couple of years before she died. One of the DVDs had rattled loose from its case. The silver disc caught in the overhead light as I flipped it on. I picked up the DVD, popped it into the player, and took a seat on the coffee table. The screen flickered to life, revealing Alana standing in the bright summer sun.

Her hair, glossy with strands of red and gold, danced around her face as she held its shoebox tightly to her chest. Her hazel eyes were moist and bloodshone, conveying. her emotional struggle as she expressed her reluctance to let go. Oh, honey, sometimes if you love something, you have to. My voice consoled her on the audio. A lump formed in my throat as I remembered that day. Alana had been playing in the backyard and found a turtle. Before I knew it, she had named him, given him water, and built him a hut.

She had begged and begged to keep that turtle, but I said no. Our cluttered home was no place for a wild animal. In this video, we came to the park to set him free. Alana walked along a dirt path near the trees, carefully holding the shoebox. In the distance, a small pond shimmered in the sunlight. Her voice cracked as she expressed her concern,

wondering if he would be happy without her. I chuckled behind the camera. He'll be grateful for the time he got to speak, with you, honey, but we can't keep them. Alana bent down and placed the box on the ground, gently pulling the turtle from inside and setting him in the grass. With a sad sniff, she said her goodbye to Benny, her emotions evident as she watched him. Behind her, where the dirt path disappeared into a thicket of trees, a black cloud blossomed like spilled ink across the screen. I rubbed my eyes, blinked and drew closer to the TV. It swirled out of the forest, a dark fog rolling in,

casting everything it touched in shadow. It blocked out the pond and the picnic tables. It devoured the foliage, taking with it all the green. The darkness was a tidal wave, engulfing everything in its path. And Alana was in its path. I froze, sweating. But wait. None of this had happened. I was certain of that. I pulled my coffee table inches from the TV screen and sat even closer, unable to look away. The monstrous black cloud now blacked out most of the park's scenery. It pulsed with energy. It reached for Alana, closing in with sinister quickness. I couldn't breathe. I was beginning to wonder if Alana would ever notice. Then she turned her head, caught sight of it and screamed. My mouth went dry. I had to be dreaming. I remembered that day. This was not part of it. The darkness hesitated with Alana inches from its touch. She stopped screaming and turned to face me. She stood, cheeks wet, staring into the camera. The dark matter waited, hovering over her, ready to strike. In that moment of vulnerability,

She pleaded for me not to let her go. Then the shadowy cloud wrapped around her, pulled her into its nothingness. She wailed, but her plea was cut short. The screen was fully engulfed now. The darkness moved in strange ripples. The TV screen blinded me with its harsh blue glow as the video ended. I never went out that day, not even for a fresh bottle. I sat on my bed, thinking about what I did.

seen and looking at the business card from the night before. I turned it over in my fingers, feeling the smooth, glossy finish of the cardstock. I had put the DVDs and VHS tapes back in the closet where they belonged. I did not replay the video or watch another. The image of my daughter caught in that ominous fog sat like a lump of dry ice in my gut, cold and burning. I'd heard about alcoholic suffering from hallucinations. people who drink heavily, daily, and for long stretches of time.

You're finally losing it, I told myself. Stop drinking so much, and for Christ's sake, stop talking to random strangers at bars. I read the words, the dark matter ink. Make the dark matter in your life disappear. What the hell was that supposed to mean anyway? My curiosity morphed into a suspense that squeezed my insides. I'd read the phone number enough times to recite the digits by heart.

So I opened my phone and dialed. After two rings, a woman's voice answered, thanking me for calling the Dark Matter incorporated and asking how she could direct my call. Um, I'm not sure. Someone gave me a business card. I trailed off trying to think of what to say next. She responded that she would connect me to their coordinator. Okay, I said.

Teasy music came over the line. Coordinator, I thought. Coordinator of what? I nervously tapped my foot to the computer-generated melody. A deep voice, smooth as silk, greeted me, introducing himself as Donnie and asking how he could help me. Hi, Donnie. I'm not sure.

Someone gave me a business card. I'm trying to figure out why, and I was transferred to you. Donnie asked about the dark matter in my life. When I asked for clarification, he inquired about what plagues me. What makes me sad, angry, or darkens my days. I sighed, look, what do you do exactly? I'm just curious why someone gave me your card is all. Donnie explained that my dark matter was the reason for the card.

He described their business as one that eliminates such burdens, revealing that they could extract emotions like sadness, guilt, or rage, so that they could no longer bother me. What a crock of shit, I thought. I started to give some smart-ass response, but before the words could leave my mouth, I choked on them, as an image of Alana danced across my mind. I don't know why I scheduled an appointment.

I don't know why I didn't hang up and throw them. the card away. On the day of my free consultation, I almost turned back so many times. God, why didn't I turn back? I found the office easily with the address provided. It smelled like a hospital. The walls were radiant white. The stainless steel furnishings and light gray tiles were the only splashes of color. A clock on the wall aggressively ticked away the passing seconds. I sighed and shifted on the bench. The paper thin cushioned it little to pad the frame. My ass was asleep.

The receptionist slumped at her desk, eyes glazed over. She clicked her computer mouse in a mechanical rhythm. Her clothes were bland, like the rest of the room. Every now and then, her pearl-colored fingernails drifted across the keys, but never seemed to look at them or anything but the screen. The doors were the sturdy double-door variety often used in hospitals. Staring at them brought back the feeling of staring at doors just like that, waiting for news about my daughter.

I wondered what the building used to be before the Dark Matter Incorporated moved in. A small window on the doors offered a glimpse into the hall. No one had passed it, not since I'd been waiting. I hadn't passed anyone on my way in either. The whole place had an empty feeling. feeling that gnawed at my gut. A shadow floated across the window. I stiffened. The ceiling light flickered. Within seconds, the window pane turned black as pitch, contrasted so severely by the brightness of the door. The window soon resembled a black painting on a white wall. Then I saw her face.

Ilana, floating up and out of the obsidian fog. She looked at her. me from the other side of the glass. Her mouth moved, trying to tell me something. Ma'am? The voice made me jump. It was the receptionist, but I didn't look at her. I tried to read Alana's lips instead, to decipher what she was saying. Ma'am? Reluctantly, I turned. The woman in White forced a smile as she announced that Mr. Philcru would see me now. Her voice was monotone. Lacking any warmth. She pointed down the hallway to my left, illuminated by fluorescent lights. Her platinum hair hung flat around her face,

and her glassy eyes watched me with an expected gaze. Something inside me already knew Alana would be gone, but I turned back to the window on the door anyway. Now there was only an empty hallway on the other side. My heart ached. I stared at the glasses of willing her to reappear. That nagging, joyless voice repeated again, calling out to me and reiterating that Donnie was waiting for me. I spun around.

I heard you before. Look, if you can't stand your job, don't take it out on me. I hadn't meant to say it, and I suddenly felt awkward. The ticking clock marked the empty seconds between us. She leaned forward and whispered an apology, expressing how she had been chained to her desk. for far too long. A flicker of remorse sparked in her dull eyes, but it quickly faded. Leaning back in her chair, she forced her empty smile once more, and reiterated that Mr. Philcru would see me now. There was a bronze nameplate labeling his door at the end of the hall. The office was posh,

with stylish furnishings, maroon carpeting, and large paintings on the wall. He sat in a pinstripe suit with his fingers laced atop a mahogany desk. A pinky ring gleamed on his left hand. A golden Medusa lamp spotlighted his smile and cast deep shadows over his eyes. He motioned for me to take a seat. I took a seat in the oversized leather chair, feeling as if I might never escape its plush embrace. Donnie started to ask how I was doing today when I cut him off. What is this place? I cut him short. It was really, rude, but I didn't care. He nodded, acknowledging my directness. There was an ambiguous handsomeness about him, but his breath stank of odors I couldn't place. His dark eyes glittered

with hens of red under his arched eyebrows. He explained their business was to make people happy by extracting dark matter from their lives. I resisted a gasp as his implication dawned on me. My daughter! I started to say, but couldn't finish the sentence. His expressions shifted from a grin to seriousness as he inquired about my daughter. Deceased. I found myself able to speak now. But I would never erase her. I sighed, ready to leave.

I'd had enough. Whatever this was, hypnotherapy or some other gimmick, I wanted no further inclusion. He attempted to clarify, explaining that they didn't erase memory, but rather eliminated the brain's ability to generate emotional responses to them. Heartbreak, anger, and guilt could all be removed. I clenched and unclenched my jaw.

I wouldn't be erasing my daughter? I'd still remember her? I blushed, then quickly added, If I was crazy enough to go through with something like this, I mean. Donnie's smile returned. He placed his palms on the desk and lean for, forward. He emphasized that while I would erase the pain associated with those memories, and consequently the love, I would always know that I had loved her. He tapped his temple,

indicating that the memories would remain, but the emotional connection would be lost. Donnie relaxed in his wing-backed chair, allowing a moment of silence. And that's when it hit me, A word Donnie had lingered on. Guilt. Had I lived a single guilt-free day since Alana had been born? I searched inside myself for a yes, but came up empty-handed. I had never felt good enough, always struggling financially and emotionally, trying to get Alana the best medical care while surviving on box macaroni and hot dogs.

Raising her all alone, it caused me guilt too, because maybe if I'd been more responsible, responsible. Alana would have known the love of a father during her short flash of life. I asked Donnie. So, what is this procedure? Hypnosis or something? He shook his head, explaining that this was not hypnosis or anything similar. After a brief pause, as of searching for the right words, he explained that emotions have a certain weight. Though intangible, they can be transferred from one point to another. extracted through a process akin to osmosis and safely stored away from the mind. I chewed my bottom lip.

This was utter bullshit. Why then did it sound so reasonable to me? I drew shallow breaths, the air between us hot and pungent. I said, How much money does something like this cost? Thousands of dollars paid up front, right? He explained that the fee was 400 paid after, and only after, the procedure is deemed a success. There is a small amount of paperwork, of course, to ensure I'd hold up to my end of the agreement.

I sank further into the plushed leather armchair. Donnie's handsome, yet unnerving face, beseeched a decision. Can I say the paperwork? I asked. Later that night, the sky was the darkest I'd ever seen. seen it. The street lamps, which normally bathed my window with soft incandescence, hadn't come on. There was no moonlight, and the total darkness made me feel ill. So I pulled my curtains closed and tried to sleep. Despite the booze, I could not manage to slip away from my conscious thoughts. Every time I felt myself on the crest of a dream, and my body twitched with the first signs of slumber,

I heard the softly uttered word, Mommy, and it would jolt me awake. I wrapped my pillow around my ears, but the whispered word Mommy continued, like the ghost of a memory caught in a breeze, stirred up by my dreams. Finally, the tears came. I'd been holding them back, I knew, trying to make tomorrow's appointment without undergoing one last bout of sadness. I pulled the pillow over my face and cried into the mattress. When I was done, I opened my eyes and there she was, beside my bed.

You might imagine jumping for joy or reaching to embrace your dead child upon seeing them again. But I knew this couldn't be real. This was the alcohol, finally taking hold of my sanity. And that scared me more than anything. A black fog floated behind her. It shrouded everything in shadow. The window, the nightstand, the piles of laundry, all swallowed by the darkness. Her hair was a mess of wild strands. My heart softened and my muscles unclenched. I missed her terribly, though she was right there. She leaned in, and I could see the many colors of her eyes, as she begged me to be.

to go with her. Then, the blackness was all around us. It slid over me, warm and thick as it devoured me whole. Everything went numb. I blinked, but I couldn't see. An empty black void surrounded us. I reached for Alana and felt her there. I hugged her to my chest. She felt so real, I thought I might never let go. Then there was a blinding brightness as we looked at her. landed with a soft thud. I felt a cold tile floor in my skin. I continued to hold her, cowering on my knees as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light.

We were in a hallway with white walls. Though I'd never been to this section of the building, I knew where we were. The dark matter incorporated. Valana tugged free and got to her feet. In the distance I heard the steady murmur of human voices, punctuated by a yelping noise that repeated at odd intervals. Alana stared at me until I stood up.

Then she started down the hall, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure I followed. As we walked, the noise grew louder. It was a pained, desperate sound, like a man at the end of his rope, screaming and screaming over the ceaseless chatter of voices. We came to a door, and Alana looked at me. God, how I miss that face. I tried to push the door open, but I couldn't. She explained that we have to go through the door before taking a step forward and disappearing.

I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes. Energy rippled through me as I stepped through the door. I felt pens and needles, a jolt of electric shock. And then I was on the other side. On a dishevelled hospital bed, a man fought the restraint. that bound him by the wrist and ankles. He howled, screaming bloody murder as a group of six men at the head of the bed, held hands and chanted words I could not make out.

I stepped closer to Alana and wrapped my arm protectively around her. She assured me that they could not see us, and just to watch. Her little finger pointed, and I followed its direction to the foot of the bed, where Donnie Philcrue stood. He was tall, freakously tall. towering over everything in the room. His eyes glowed red, and his toothy grin showed no sign of remorse

as the bound man begged for him to stop. He had changed his mind. The man's voice was shrill and squeaky with panic. The chanting increased in volume and deepened in pitch, drowning out his cries for help. Whether this was intentional or part of the ritual, I couldn't tell. But soon the bound man went into convulsions. No one made a move to help him.

Instead, they continued to hold hands and chant. They all looked eerily the same, with clean-shaven faces and close-cropped hair, all wearing white scrubs. They were skinny to the point of emaciation. Glassy eyes rolled in their sockets. A spasm shot through the tortured man, whipping his head back. His throat convulsed as his breathing became panicked. His mouth opened wide, and a dark, streamy cloud rose from between his lips.

The dark matter swirled into the air, spiraled into an ebony vortex and formed a thinner stream that was funneled straight into the awaiting mouth of Donny Philcru. I gasped and looked at Alana. Instinctively, I felt the urge to cover her eyes. But no. She had brought me here, hadn't she? Perhaps for the first time, Alana knew more than I did. She explained solemnly that he stole feelings.

I nodded as my eyes were drawn back to the scene. The man was quiet now, drooling on the crumpled sheet, with a far-off look in his eyes. Donnie licked his lips with satisfaction. Then Alana asked me the question I now ask myself over and over again. Why did I sign? the papers. My throat tightened. I could hardly draw a breath as her question sank in. I was shaking. I didn't know, I said, why didn't you tell me before? Alana hung her head. Her face darkened.

She whispered that she can only visit when I led her. I nearly doubled over at the ache of it. She had been trying to warn me, and I'd been pushing her away. I reached for her, but she swatted at me and took off, disappearing back through the door. Alana, wait! I charged at the door, but this time I did not pass through it. Instead, I slammed into it, face first, and I woke in my bed, rubbing my nose against the pain. I made coffee in a daze and did not change out of my pajamas. I pulled a blanket around me and sat,

coffee mug shaking in my hands, staring at the contract I had signed. I missed my appointment at the Dark Matter Incorporated without phoning an excuse. What could I say? I was scared, and I grew even more frightened as I read the fine print. The client agrees to release their dark matter to the company.

If the client does not release their dark matter to the company, the client must otherwise result their time. debt. Otherwise how? My ink signature taunted me from beside the X. Donnie had signed at the bottom in thick, swooping letters that read, Abadon Philcru. I pursed my lips. Perhaps if I knew who I was dealing with, I could come up with a plan, reason with him. I googled his name with zero results. I sipped my coffee and tapped my feet. Then I searched for just the last name. Not. Finally, I typed in Abidon and gasped at the results, nearly dropping my phone. A place of destruction, the depths of hell, the realm of the dead.

A demon, a fallen one, an angel of the bottomless pit. My vertebrae felt like ice cubes. I studied the signature of Abidon Philcru on the contract, and before my eyes, the letters of his last name traded places on the paper. rearranging themselves. It now said, Abadon, Lucifer. Bang, bang, bang.

I wanced at the furious pounding on my door. Another knock sent the door flying off his hinges. It landed on the carpet, crushing my shoes and narrowly missing the couch. Donny Philcru, Abadon Lucifer, or whatever name he truly bore, appeared in the doorway.

his presence overwhelming. With a grin that stretched unnaturally wide, he delivered a chilling reminder. The appointment had been missed. He stepped inside and let his crew saunter pass in their crisp white uniforms. Their cold eyes looked through me, devoid of humanity. They stalled and turned in unison to look at Donnie, who said something in a brisk foreign tongue.

They then turned their icy sea. stairs to me. I tried to run, but they surrounded me in an instant. I threw my arms over my head and huddled on the couch, quaking in my pajamas. They grabbed my wrist and pinned them behind my back. They pushed me to the floor and forced me to kneel. My stomach sank and sweat poured from me as Donnie approached. His gigantic hand gripped the top of my head. His palm was blazing hot against my scalp. A grenade, a fiery heat exploded in my brain. I screamed, and to my own ears it sounded far off, distant. My blood turned to lava. I thought my skin would melt, and I'd be nothing more than muscle and bone. My apartment faded to black, and the last thing I saw

were Abidon Lucifer's merciless eyes. No traces of brown left in his crimson irises. And now? I am chained to this desk. Literally, there is a shackle around my ankle. The chain rattles if I move too much, so I'm told keep very still. I hate this colorless room and this dull desk. I hate this worthless job, confirming appointments and guiding clients to their doom. All the brown has faded from my hair. It is a lackluster blonde that, complements the bare white walls. My attire is simple. A pearl-colored blouse and matching skirt. Donnie is the only one who is allowed to wear color to feel alive in this place. Donnie, that's what he likes to be called.

I must never blow his cover by addressing him any other way. Clients come and go. They're so wrapped up in themselves, they never ask about me. Like you, for instance. Why don't you ask me something? I'm not allowed to tell you the truth, but I might drop a hint. Would you catch it? No.

You're too focused on your dark matter. That's why you're here, right? There's something in your past, a darkness, and you want to wash it squeaky clean. You want to forget your woes and start anew. Well, I'm sorry, but that's not how. how it works. The dark matter is a part of who you are. Hold on to it, whatever it is. If you let it go, you won't have a chance to regret it because you won't feel regret or anything at all.

Too bad I've only thought about saying these things to you, only imagined warning you aloud. I sit quietly, watching you shift uncomfortably on the bench. I think to myself, That was me when I was free. I don't care if God had a plan for me now. I only wish that Donnie didn't. He still hasn't taken my soul. I feel the misery of my existence, and he likes it that way. More dark matter for him to enjoy later.

He's building up my pain for future payoff. That's probably why he lets Alana hang around, just outside the hallway window. staring across the waiting room with her piercing hazel eyes. She's so near, yet so far away. I could have been a recruiter for the dark matter, you know, luring new clients, handing out business cards. At least then I'd get to leave this room.

But I could not bear the thought of spreading this evil. So here I sit, across from you. Lips sealed tighter than a vice grip. You fidget with your keys, wondering at this is a scam. How intuitive you are. It is a scam. Just not the kind you think. Then a message appears on my computer screen.

Send the next one in. I adjust my posture, force a smile, and say, Mr. Field Crew will see you now. For our second story this evening, obsessed with experiencing perfect silence, A man journeys to an Alaskan cabin said to consume all sound. What he finds there is not the peace he desires. Creepy presents. Silence is not always bliss.

Written by Marcus H. Noir and narrated by Owen McCune. In 2015, Microsoft built the world's quietest place on Earth, only to be surpassed by Orfield Laboratories in Minnesota. soda in 2021. One is reported to hear one's heartbeat, blood flow, eyes blinking, and even bones grinding. The silence is deafening. The longest someone has lasted in that environment was 45 minutes. I wondered if there was more, just beyond the threshold waiting to be discovered.

Through my father's connections, I procured time at the lab for a personal session. To the surprise of the staff and myself, I last lasted about an hour. I left wanting more. An idea was born and remained ingrained in my mind. What if someone listened for more than an hour? What would they hear or not hear? Being the child of a billionaire gives me the means, opportunities, and time to go on this personal quest. I became obsessed, attempting to find another place on earth, but quieter. When I tried to return for another session, I was stoned. The vibes I received were this was my parents doing, believing this was a waste of their money.

Not deterred, I visited many other locales like the cathedral-like underwater caves of Takbeha Sinote, with dripping water as the only frequent sound, and the so-called zone of silence in the Chihuahuan desert in Mexico. By the way, only blocks man-made signals, not the natural world. Both eliminated. My quest took me to one of the deepest caves in the world, named Varyovkina Cave, which is 2,212 meters deep. It takes three days to reach the surface. Unfortunately, the sounds of dripping and rushing water from the underground river just qualify it. Derelict mines, an underwater lab, and a research facility in Antarctica were visited, but they were much too noisy.

I even considered renting time at the International Space Station. The environment would be too loud with all the life support, cooling, and computer infrastructures. And besides, I could not easily BS my way to explaining the business opportunity for such an expense to my parents. For the others, I was able to BS, but I think they saw through it and chose to indulge me. After further research came the whispers and information from the obscure corners of the dark web. Many say it is a myth. Others warned to avoid this unholy sight. The last person who allegedly escaped went mad and butchered a group of children in a barbarous fashion, then commenced eating them.

Video footage was leaked onto the internet. The footage opens to a dimly lit corridor. Before rounding a corner, sounds of smacking, wet chewing, and slurping filled the air. What appeared next was something from a parent's worst nightmare. The light from the camera exposed mangled, mutilated, small limbs. with strips of skin and blood scattered throughout the floor, like it rained body parts. The sounds of people vomiting and moving,

causing squishy footsteps were heard in the background and off-screen as the person filming moved. The chorus of shock and tearful, Oh my God, is heard. The camera eventually showed a gaunt-nealing individual with stringy black hair, matted, covering most of the face, but revealing their closed eyes.

Tissue and blood-covered hands held a child's arm, and it gnawed at it like it was a turkey leg. The camera shook like the person recording became frightened, and the subject was covered in gore, making it difficult to determine the sex. The clothing stuck tight to the skin, like it was caught in a bloody downpour. Oblivious to the presence of the camera and people, the camera zoomed closer to the haunting face as the butcher took a big bite, exposing red-stained teeth with pieces of flesh stuck in between, then sucked as blood dribbled from the corners of the mouth showing delight. Drop the limb with a wet solid slap and reached for two flayed severed fingers to shove deep into their ears while screaming the silence demanded sacrifices.

The eyelids snapped open and crazily stared at the camera, unmoving. And the footage abruptly ended. numb and sick, I wondered if this could be my fate. I decided this was staged to discourage others. Not me. I thought I was smarter. A decision I will regret. This abandoned cabin is rumored to be somewhere in the heart of the vast and mysterious Alaska triangle

where inexplicable disappearances and unexplained phenomena linger in the icy, cold air of this very remote locale. Finding this cabin is impossible unless you follow specific instructions verbatim. You must be alone, be in the heart of the triangle during the winter solstice, and fight the urge for self-preservation in the face of ungodly horrors. Risking life and limbs in the frozen landscape does not guarantee finding this place. The murmurs say that exterior sounds do not penetrate this cabin, and nothing is heard from within this sacrilege. It's like the cabin itself is a black hole, but instead of absorbing light, it consumes sound.

Inside the cabin there are unspeakable horrors that words are not adequate to describe. But they're just rumors, and I remained undeterred to find my holy grail. Many doubted its existence, but most legends contain some truth. After two long years of searching and training, I'm ready. It's December 21st, and I'm in a rented transport helicopter, accompanied by two pilots and my assistant, Sam. Before and during the flight, he attempts to persuade me to abandon my, as he calls it, my suicidal wish. My response? I've come this far, too far to quit now.

He throws his hands up and shakes his head in frustration. Shortly after, one of the pilots alerts us through our headsets that we are approaching the pre-planned coordinates. She adds and emphasizes that there's a storm approaching, and help will not be available until well after, and this is my last chance to abort. She adds that there's no living soul or homesteader for about 50 miles in all directions. I'll be on my own. A thought crosses my mind that she and her co-pilot secretly snicker and a gregor and a that this rich kid is way out of their element, blowing tons of dough on some BS and tempting fate. Well, the hell with them. I will prove everyone wrong. We exchange glances and, with his beseeching

eyes, hoping the ominous news will change my mind. I have to admit, the news does work a little. A shiver races up my spine, and then a thought creeps into pushing down the rising doubt as I turn away. and look out the cabin window, then down at my equipment neatly packed on a sled and a backpack stored between us. Making a mental note of my inventory. The transponder, a sat phone, weapons for beasts, man, or something else, winter survival training, and pure determination. Look up and towards Sam.

Give a thumbs up, and simultaneously reply to my headset mic. Affirmative. moments later we touched down with a gentle bump in a clearing as my assistant slides the cabin door open as I retrieve my gloves. Glancing at the onboard digital thermometer above the open door, a cool negative 20 degrees Celsius. Cozy, I jocally thought. A rush of cold air touches my cheeks as the sound of the spinning blades

spills into the warm cabin. Swirling snow showers the exterior as the helicopter's blades force them all about. anxious and excited, I climb out and land in the snow and haze. My ankles disappear in the snow. I quickly shamble away from the mini-snowy maelstrom. I turn, and out of the blades downwash, I see my assistant quickly dumping my gear. After emptying the cabin, with the aid of the soft interior lighting, scan the gear, and after noting that everything's there, I look up at Sam and raise my gloved thumbs.

His face is hidden in shadow. He pauses and looks at me as if this will be the last time he sees me. Then he gives me a quick salute and signals the waiting pilots. I wave goodbye as I watch the helicopter's blades spin faster, and the chopper slowly rise. See you soon, I confidently thought. But wait, I could have sworn, while looking down, Sam makes the sign of the cross.

I continue to watch as it rises higher and moves forward until it is only blinking red and white dots in the twilight western sky, heading toward the underside of ominous stradocumulus clouds. Replacing the helicopter's noise is the calm and serenity of the Alaskan winter. Take a deep breath of the cold, fresh air and soak in the scenery. In the distance, over the silhouettes of rugged mountains, the eastern sky are clouds and the peaking sun. Nearby, disturbed white powder, and beyond that, fresh-packed snow

and towering snow-covered shadowy western and black spruce trees. The smell of the landscape engulfs me. Time to get going, I whisper, breaking my trance. Trudging toward my gear, quickly swipe away the snow from my backpack and sled. sneak a peek at my watch. It's 10.30, and the sun is rising over the lonely mountain outcrops. So that gives me about four hours and 45 minutes of sunlight. During that time, with luck, I must find the cabin or a spot to camp for the long night

and the incoming storm. I hoist my backpack and place it on my back, attach my sleds pulling cords around my belt, trekking poles in each hand, my long gun over my shoulder, and begin to trudge over the refrigerated tundra. While the sun is above the horizon, the sunlight reflects off the snow, causing me to squint. Lower my snow goggles to stop the snow blindness. While searching, I see occasional tracks of rabbits, foxes, and caribou. No sign of human activity.

My constant companions were the stillness, the occasional wispy blow of wind, labored breathing, and the crunching of my feet in the snow. Spiratically, a distant cry of native animal disturbs the tranquility. Walking, or more like tramping through the snow, pulling my sled, carrying the backpack, siphons a lot of energy. Cursing it myself for not wearing my snow shoes. Glant's at the time, it's only 12.15. My body feels like I traveled for hours.

No sign of the cabin, and more gray clouds engulf the sun. I will hike until the sun's sun's. completely covered, then hunker down. There's something in the distance. Squinting, but can't make heads or tails of it. Is it a structure? It distorts like looking from the bottom of a pond. Then white clouds of smoke rise high above it.

Can it be the cabin? My destination seems to tease me. The more I walk toward it, the more it moves away. annoyed and getting fatigued, thinking that at this rate and with the looming storm, I may have to test my camping and survival skills. Finally, as I reached the point of stopping, my prize remains stationary.

As I draw closer, my suspicions are correct. It is a cabin. There are no tracks from animals as if they're purposely avoiding the area. Also, all sounds are subdued, like someone lowering the volume with each step. The quietness allows me to feel my heart thumping. Drawn by the mystical aura, I cautiously approach,

my breath forming frosty clouds in the frigid air. Before me is an abandoned, neglected, crumbling log cabin in a state of melancholic deterioration, forgotten by time and man. Uncovered walls cracked and weather-worn, the run-down cabin sagged under the weight, abode roof, a testament of disuse. Large snow drifts along the walls, almost reaching the roof, exposing little of the exterior.

The roof was covered by a thick blanket of snow, with a lone stone-covered chimney standing in the center. Two washed-out, weathered wooden framed windows with cracked and missing panes flanked both sides of a bulky, matching wooden door. Hanging upright by a single rusty hinge, I marvel at how it defies gravity. The door looks ancient compared to the wind. windows, wondering when the last person passed through. Through some of the missing pains and the gap between the door and the frame, the interior is inky, dark, and uninviting. Swallow dryly and look harder into the darkness and find nothing. Feeling uneasy, I dropped the walking poles, retrieve my long gun, and cautiously approach. My attention returns to the entire cabin shaking my head.

Amazed, the cabin is still standing in its current condition. Unsure of entering, Mother Nature reminds me of the storm and sends an almost silent gust of wind to break my hesitation, followed by falling marble-sized flakes, and then another gust. I look up to see falling snow. The sun is completely covered and replaced by dark, gray, thick clouds. The storm has arrived. Look down on my temporary shelter, take a deep breath, slowly exhale, and advance to the snow-free doorway. A sense of dread fills me as I turn and push at the rusty brass doorknob and step over the entry. There's an eerie tranquility and as I raise my sunbeyser from my face and hold my gun with the other hand.

The atmosphere is heavy and engulfs me in a deafening silence. Quickly, I scan my new surroundings. The feeling of being watched washes over me. Bile flips in my stomach and my throat is tight and dry. My eyes dart all about. It's a large one-room dwelling, empty and immaculate like renovations were completed yesterday and ready for an open house. New wooden frames encircle the windows. The walls were made of thick logs, and the floor consisted of shiny wooden planks.

The interior is semi-lighted by a silent roaring fire in a stone-built fireplace in the center of the room, making the room warm and inviting. It is a stark contrast to the exterior. The scent of a roasting turkey fills the air, reminding me it's been a while since my last meal. My mouth unconsciously waters, and I feel my stomach growl, turning my head looking but could not discern the source. I walk further into the cabin until reaching the fireplace and feel the sleds slide across the floor. From the corner of my eye, the door silently, slowly, and effortless. shut as if pushed by an invisible hand.

I detached the pulling cords of my sled. Look up and see a sturdy triangle-shaped wooden ceiling. Look down and behind at the closed door, genuinely confused. Suddenly, an odor of burnt, decaying meat tickles my nose. I resist the urge to cover it and silently cough. Slowly, spin in place, gun-ready, startle while releasing a silent gasp, The light from the fireplace increases in brightness, allowing me to see the once empty walls, now have hanging ghastly furnishings.

Eyes whipping around, seeing instead of hanging trophies the native wildlife of moose, bear, or deer, there are immobile, flaccid, mummified heads of men and women of years past with bulging, clouded eyes, and mouths opened as if frozen in mid-scream. Their well-preserved pale skin almost glows Despite the increased illumination A mixture of fear, pain and sorrow plastered on their faces Notice the pristine head garments from the 80s, 50s, 20s, and 19th century And before adorning their heads as their eyes push forward

And fall away from their sockets By a thick, dark, sticky red substance Roll down the cheeks with the consistency of sap and slowly drop to the floor. Then all the heads, in unison, slowly turn toward me. Their empty sockets stare at me. My eyes widen in horror

and feel the hard thumping of my heart like someone using a pow-ow drum in my chest. My flight or fight instinct takes control. Without thinking, I choose flight and shift towards the door. As I finish that thought, the door silently flies open. The light of the fire exposes the raging storm. The snow silently blows almost horizontally, and I feel the veracity of the wind, snow blowing inward,

but not the dagger-like cold. Beyond the lit radius is blackness, like a moonless night. Something isn't right about the darkness. Suddenly, something stirs. squinting, forcing my eyes to focus. Slowly, a dark figure emerges and wobbly shambles to the door. Soon after, the light of the fire exposes what was coming. It's the person from the footage.

Barely clothed, wearing a sliver of clothing frozen to the body which is caked with frozen brown blood and gore. The leathery skin shows signs of decay with a clammy, dark grass. grayish tone. The frozen, stringy, matted hair stuck to the head and face stained with blood and gore, with its sunken, dead eyes, burrows into mine. Its mouth closed, but moving as if chewing. Small skeletal digits protrude from the ears. The nose, earlobes, and fingertips blacken. How did this thing find me? We're in the middle of nowhere. Whatever this is, it should be locked in hell as my mind races.

My feet rooted in place by fear and shock as I watch it shuffle to the door. My hands grip my weapon harder and scream for it to stop. My throat strains from the effort, but nothing comes from it as it continues its trek. Raise my gun, chamber around, the end shaking, aim, pull the trigger, and see the silent flash from the muzzle. Despite my shaking, the bullet hits it in the lower chest, and it continues its march as if nothing happened. Panicking, firing a series of additional shots until empty. The chest riddled with bullet holes like a fleshy version of Swiss cheese.

Bits of the skin from the face slide but quickly freeze in place, exposing grayish facial muscles and teeth. The wounds exposed gleaming bits of fat, torn tissues, broken white ribs, damaged organs dripping thick black substance and spilling intestines, falling like dark reddish spaghetti from a plate. The entrails drop onto the snow, leaving a trail and coating the snow with a black substance. Reaching from my sidearm, pull it from the holster, cock it, raise, when it reaches the doorway, stops and remains motionless.

Its unfocused eyes continue to glare at me. Before I can react, the door silently slammed shut. I stand in place, unsure what to do. After a long while, knowing, leaving is not an option, putting back my sidearm. Turn to the fireplace and observe a sturdy, vintage, wooden rocking chair, adorned with intricate details and decorative elements, like for a knitting grandmother, materializes. Next to the chair and in front of the fireplace, on the floor,

floor, an elongated, flat, full-spread, rubbery, hairless parchment of skin, missing paws and feet. The skin is not desiccated, it's smooth and has a sand-color appearance. My eyes wide in horror and heart-pounding, seeing the stretched limbs hammered to the wooden floor with rusty railroad spikes that, just looking at it, screamed tetanus shot. More skin stretched at each side of the body, nailed to the floor by carpenter's side. staples. Toward the front and attached to this rug is a head facing the fireplace. There's something familiar. I realize it's a bald human head. I'm not looking at an animal rug, but a human one. The head slowly rotates 180 degrees toward me like an owl. Phantom sounds of

cracking bones fill my mind. Somehow, I can see its eye sockets in the shepherds. The head begins to move side to side, and the speed increases until the movements are a blur. Fear consumes me. Suddenly, it stops and explodes, sending blood and viscera in all directions like an exploding grenade. The fragments of brain and skull avoid me. One thought burns in my mind. Escape! With the raging storm, darkness, and my waiting jailer, I realize my own.

The only option is to stay put. My heart sinks. Percipitously, something within me screams to look up and above the fireplace. A large, rectangular hole. Was that there before? I mouth, bewildered, and forgetting no sound can transmit. My eyes narrow, and the opening draws darker the longer I stare. It emits such malevolence from its depth and the darkness swallows the light from below. My chest tightens as shivers raced down my spine. I dragged the surprisingly heavy chair, feeling the dragging vibrate on the floor to a far corner of the room. I was not comfortable having my back exposed and wanting everything in front of me. I remove my backpack and gingerly sit, guns on my lap, while my eyes keep shifting from the hole to the door and back. Eventually, the sounds of my slow breathing, eyes blinking, blood coursing, bones grinding, and finally, the beating of my heart, fade.

Alarmed, I placed my index and third fingers on the side of my neck and firmly on the carotid artery. When I feel the steady, slow beats, relief washes over me. Keep it together, I chided myself. Notice the silence is deafening and eternal, so isolating, like being marooned on the moon with no way to communicate with Earth. I feel gusts of wind slamming against the exterior. The constant feeling of being watched and the constant flow of adrenaline pumping into my system is exhausting. But sleep is not an option. I check my watch. The display is dark.

I tap at it, hoping that this will resolve the issue. but nothing. Too frightened and too far from the sled to check the other devices. Sitting in intense silence for what feels like hours. My ears prick, waiting for something to happen. Then there is something extremely faint, like a sound from a very long distance. Shot up from my seat, hands tightly gripping the ends of the armrests.

Gradually, it increases progressively in volume. Hushed whispers. Then a chorus of pained groaned rises from everywhere. It pierces into my mind like a jackhammer. It's been so long since I heard anything. The sounds are painful. Cover my ears and close my eyes as unearthly whales reverberate. The sounds of men, women, and children shrieking, screaming in deep pain, penetrate.

Torture, anguish, and gratification join the cacophony. The sounds of hell itself seemed to echo from the very floor and walls of the cabin. The cabin, I realize, is a gateway to the underworld, a conduit through which hell reaches out. Inhumanly, thunderous, gravelly, wicked shrieks resonate, reminiscent of grinding metal above the hellish sounds. Then silence. My watch vibrates causing me to jump in my seat while dropping my hands and guns. without thinking, scramble to bring it to my mouth. Sam, Sam, thank God, it's you.

I breathlessly say before realizing I hear nothing. Deep sobbing and anguish echo from the watch, followed by a smiling, cold, guttural, demonic voice, hisses, this is what lies beyond the silence. The living was not meant to hear. This is a place God. I forgot, pausing between each sentence. I gulp, knowing there's more, and it's not good.

Changes to a mocking tone and it declares, You can leave if you can, or stay and be a part of my audience. Followed by a dark, insidious laugh. I notice menacing silhouettes appear on the walls as if to bear witness to what is to come. They seem to be menacingly moving toward me. This should not be possible. There's nothing in front of them to make the shadows. I push back in my seat.

Then they stop as if commanded. From above the fireplace, the sickly sound of tearing skin, making a wet ripping sound. I look upward. My blood runs cold as I see a large, dark, looming shape with haphazardly placed eight soulless glowing red eyes without pupils emerging, glaring at me. Movement from the door as I looked down at the creaking opening door. It stood there, staring with dead eyes, smiling, exposing fresh tissue in between its chattering, blood-stained. decayed teeth. For our final story this evening, grieving the loss of his father, a boy stumbles upon a

mysterious website offering promises that may be more than he's prepared for. Creepy Presents FixU.org Written by Matt Richardson. My father died in 1999. For years, I thought he might still be alive. The phenomenon is not that uncommon. A lot of young children struggle to understand the finality of death. How can a loved one be here one day and gone the next?

Maybe it was just the suddenness of it all that struck me the most. I convinced myself that Dad only went away for a while. He'd be back someday. Just not today. The priest who spoke at the service only amplified my misguided idea. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He shook my hand hard and held mom while she cried. He talked to the guests about my father's life.

He mentioned Dad's time in the military and how much he loved family and how much he loved basketball. Go Nix, right? That last bit got some muted applause. Then he ended it all with one final line. Someday we will all be reunited with Timothy. Amen. And that part stuck with me quite a bit. You see, in my exhausted adolescent mind,

something about those words made sense, just in all the wrong ways. The entire experience never felt real to me. Dad had promised to take me to Disney for my 10th birthday. He promised to take me to a bar on my 21st. We had plans. Dad would come back. He always did.

Who would walk my cousin down the aisle? Who would be there at my graduation? How could someone so crucial to my existence just disappear? How could everything just end? I told myself the priest had to be right. Dad was still around. We just needed to find the right way to see him again. In the weeks that followed, phone calls and visits from my extended family and friends started to

liquor out. My mom went back to work. My cousins flew back to Boston. Family routines evaporated. Holidays turned into a hassle. Most days was just me at home alone with a basketball on a brick wall. I started to like it that way. I read about death a lot on the internet. Some sites spoke of forbidden ways to bring back the dead. Others insisted they were always with us, but none of them give detailed instructions on how to see them or how to bring them back. I checked every avenue available to me at the time. Eventually, once after the funeral, I phoned the answer to my questions.

The community called itself fixu.org. And I can still remember the neon lettering, and corny graphics. The site had two tabs, incantations and contact us. I clicked the former and waited about 20 minutes for it to load on our tin can dial-up connection. Red text appeared. Fix You employs both technology and spellwork to enable communication between living souls

and the dead. All information is to be used with extreme caution. Please be the next page to see if you qualify for disclosure. I clicked past the warning without even hesitating. The following page showed a form requesting my name, agent address. I entered it all honestly and selected next. More loading. Finally, after it felt like an eternity, a green checkmark appeared.

Fix You requires a specific object for the charm. This object should have a specific connection to both the individual conducting the spell as well as the individual who has passed away. please locate it before continuing. I grabbed my basketball. Dad taught me the infamous family hook shot just two months prior. That had to be enough. I scrolled down the page.

Repeat the following word six times loud. Hold the object and spin it once for every repetition. I didn't recognize the language, and it felt weird chanting it out loud, but it's not like anybody was home to judge me. Serge Lizarum De Sire Lizarum. Surge Lizarum to Sire Lizarum. Serge Lizarum De Sire Lizarum. Surge Lizarum De Sire Lizarum.

Surge Lizarum De Sire Lizarum. Surge Lizarum de Sire Lizarum. Nothing happened. I searched for a non-existent next button. Frustration built up like a powder keg. Now what? I shouted at the empty room. I did your stupid thing.

Where's my dad? The website seemed to respond to my anger. Crazy as that sounds. I didn't click anything, but the page automatically refreshed. A cartoonish genie with a word bubble displayed on the screen. Tonight, you will dream about your loved one. Think about them in greener pastures. Hold the object close.

If the spell is done correctly and the individual would like to communicate, First contact will take place in your dreams. I followed the instructions and tucked myself into bed at 9 o'clock sharp. Excitement replaced frustration. I clutch the basketball even harder than ever before. I thought about all the best times with my father, at the park, at the mall, at the movies. Naturally, when I fell asleep that night, I did dream about him. I dreamed that dad lived in a cabin in the woods.

I visited on a dark rainy night, and he explained everything once we got out from under the weather. He and my mother had gotten into a fight, you see, and she didn't want him around anymore. He had to hide from the government, and nobody could know where he lived because he was a spy. Death never even became a topic of conversation. It felt too ridiculous to even suggest. Dad sat right in front of me, and I told him about school. Both the upcoming summer and everything that was going on in my life at the time. He smiled and listened.

He made me dinner. We ate. We drank. And then, as suddenly as a dream started, it ended. I woke up in a cold sweat and cried for an hour. The horrible, teasing, visceral effect of the whole situation haunted me. It all seemed so real. He laughed exactly the way I remembered.

He smiled the same way I remembered. I could still taste the roast beef from dinner. I could taste the alcohol. He never let me drink before then. He even mentioned that mom would be pissed if she found out. I wondered whether the website manufactured my dream. I wondered if they knew something I didn't. All of those wishes and dreams collapsed on the mind of a child

in ways that can't be totally quantified. If I was confused before, I didn't know what to call this part. But in my present recollection, it was clarity. We just needed a little more time. I rushed back to the old computer in my bedroom immediately after breakfast. I loaded up Fix.org and waited for the dial-out modem to connect. When it did, I nearly fell off my chair. You have completed level one of contact.

Meeting time confirmed. 2 o'clock Tuesday morning. May 5th, at your home. Please bring any cursed objects to ensure connection. I bit my lip through the whole weekend. In retrospect, I probably should have told my mother, but the story seemed too unbelievable. I knew she would take away the computer the second she heard it,

and that could not happen. She would expect me to live wondering whether there was a way to see my father again. That was unacceptable. What if the dream was real? What if he was outside waiting? The alarm woke me up at 1.45 on Tuesday morning. The added time gave me a window to change out of my PJs. Find warm clothes and slip outside to the back door. It was cold that night. Bits of white snow slipped down from the sky at a record-breaking pace. A blizzard had teed off a discussion of canceling school. That fact only added to my excitement. Maybe my dad would let me stay for the day. Maybe we could build something in the snow. I shivered in my father's boots while waiting on the front porch.

I hoped they still fit him, even if they didn't fit me because I thought he might need them for wherever he was going. So many questions flooded my mind. I made sure to write them all down. We would not be dreaming this time. Who knew when we could talk again? I wished for a tape recorder and wondered if the website would allow it. Maybe next time. I heard the squeal of shaky brakes and ice crumpled under tires at exactly two o'clock. The street sat about 20 feet in front of our house.

A flash of blue stuck out between hollowed trees and white waves of sleep. The van slowed down as it approached. and then it stopped. I looked around. I stared for a minute or two. Nobody seemed to move. Something about the situation started to feel odd. I considered my second thoughts and forcefully shove them aside.

A door to the van popped open. The quietness of the snowstorm seemed to add to that eerie feeling. A white light somewhere inside illuminated an empty and quiet cabin. I wondered whether Dad sat in the back or the front. I wanted to see him. More than anything else in the world. Was he driving? Was he in the passenger seat?

Where should I sit? I walked toward the car. The hill in front of my house was perfect for sledding and not much else. I slipped a couple times going down. On the second or third tumble, I heard another van door open, a shape approached from the side. I rushed to greet them. Suddenly, my mother's shrill voice pierced the night.

Matthew! Get back in the house! Now! Now! The next few moments were a shock for all parties involved. The white light turned off inside the van. The door slammed shut. The drivers slid down the street like a burglar leaving a crime scene at the sight of my mother flying out of the house and screaming like a banshee. I told my mother everything. She nearly fainted on the phone with the police.

You see, there was a story on the local news that night. I hadn't seen it, but she did. Two young boys were abducted in a neighboring town a week prior to her accident. The cops refused to release many details, but they did mention one. The kidnapper lured his victims online. 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 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 story's author.