Creepy - The Darkness

Episode Date: June 23, 2025

The Darkness***Written by: Joseph Yenkavitch***My little brother came back last night. But he drowned three years ago.***Written by: Informal_Ratio4108 and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***The Pier***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***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.

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And for our listeners in and around Kansas City, our own Michelle Kane and Danielle Hewitt will be representing the creepy podcast at Cryptocon Kansas City from June 27th to 29th. So please, stop by, talk horror, share your favorite episodes, or cursed objects, and celebrate all things creepy. They'll be at the con all weekend and very much would like to see you there.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas 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 man's car gets caught in the mud near an isolated town, he quickly starts to feel like taking shelter from the storm was a mistake. Creepy Presents

The Darkness Written by Joseph Yonkevay. Rain, fog, and night made the drive through the mountainous, forced the countryside, and ordeal I hadn't planned on. When I left the city, I expected to be in another state by evening. Not that I had any destination in mind, just a getaway, a mind-cleansing trip. Hell, I wasn't even sure when I'd be back. That was on the back burner right now. My immediate concern was finding a place to stay.

I never saw a light, another car, or a driveway for the past hour. I had wondered if I'd taken a wrong turn 20 miles back, and the reality of it was now obvious. The road had narrowed and the rain had increased, if that was possible. The windshield wipers worked furiously as I leaned into the steering wheel hoping to get a glimpse of a sign, anything to point me somewhere. If I had taken a wrong turn, so be it. But when the car tires grumbled over the rocks and unevenness of a dirt road, that had enough.

I stopped, banged the steering wheel once and tried to turn around. Spinning tires and mud at the edge of the road ended that attempt. The car was longer than the road was wide. I decided to keep going, hoping this was just a patch of road they were working on. Half a mile further along, wipers barely keeping up with the rain. The road came to an end. No signs had indicated it was a dead end. When I hit the brakes, the car slid along the mud veering close to the edge of the road.

I had to put the car in reverse and gently hit the accelerator. The tires spun and the car fish tailed a bit before backing up. I opened the door and peered out to see how much room I had getting drenched in the process. Same problem. And I think the road was even narrower. I wasn't going anywhere. Sitting in the car all night didn't appeal to me, but I couldn't remember the last time I saw a town

or any semblance of civilization. All I could do was wait till the rain stopped and head off. Maybe the mud would harden, and I'd be able to squeeze the car around. I slumped in the seat. Rain pounded the roof. I was pissed. The wind rose shaking trees around me.

The rain slanted onto the side window In the headlights Nature seemed to be gyrating every which way But then I saw something As the trees swayed I thought I saw a light At first I figured it was my headlights balancing off rainwater

But when I turned them off the light remained Must be a hermit living out here I figured But couldn't have cared less I zipped up my jacket and put on a hat. The wind snatched it as soon as I stepped outside. It spun across the muddy road and into the trees. Pulling the jacket over my head, I trudged towards the light.

I hadn't gone far before the trees thinned and I stood at the edge of a meadow. At the far end I saw more lights and could discern the outlines of a few homes. As I raced across the wet, knee-high grass, more houses came into view. A village didn't make much sense out here, but there was. I felt better than I did ten minutes ago. A gunshot rang out. Mud spurred it ten feet from me. I dropped into the soaking grass, also managing to find a puddle. Scared and pissed, I lifted my head enough to scan the area. I didn't see anyone but was reluctant to rise. Instead, I called. I called, called out, I'm friendly, I yelled, don't shoot.

I rose a bit further. Nothing moved ahead of me. I began to stand. A raspy voice told me to go away, ending it with a more subdued, please. I just need help. My phone has zero bars. I'll be gone in no time. That got me nowhere.

And the voice reiterated that I couldn't stay here. here, only this time in a harsher tone, but still with a touch of reluctance. I stood, my hands up. A shout whizzed through the grass to my left, but I held my ground. Don't ask me why, but I started moving toward the village. Maybe it was the inkling of regret in the man's voice that gave me courage. Maybe I was sick of being wet. All I knew was that these people needed to help me. Someone holding a gun stepped in front of a lighted window. I stopped, but the figure raised an arm indicating I should come forward. When I got closer, I could see there were others, men and women, mostly clinging to each other. They were dressed far more appropriately than me

for the rain. But the clothes were quite out of date. None had a friendly expression. A few you were nervously glancing as though I had an entourage with me. Rain pelted down. For a moment, we stared at each other. I grew impatient, angry, and threw all my arms, and a, if you're going to shoot me, do it, but I'm not going to stand out here forever, sort of way. I closed my eyes and felt water streaming down my face.

I heard a click, waited for the shot. Nothing. I opened my eyes and the man with a gun and lowered it and hung at his side. I guess he'd flick the safety. Now what? I wondered. A woman stepped forward. Her face was grim, but I could detect resignation.

Her voice confirmed it. Softly, she apologized for the shooting and said I could stay, but not to go against their wishes. I couldn't imagine what. what wishes there could be to keep someone dry for the night. I nodded. She stepped back into the crowd. A man motioned for me to follow him, which I dooffully did, although my anger still simmered.

We passed the small graveyard with just a few small chipped gravestones. I tried to read the names and dates, but only caught one. It simply said Horace Builder in a single date over half a century. ago. There was one lonely flower, the rest weedy. None of the other gravestones have been kept up. The man saw me scrutinizing them, but said nothing. As we walked, I asked why they built a town out here miles from nowhere and how they supported

themselves. No answer. I gave him my name, Henry, thinking it might help break the ice. He remained silent until. we'd move past the graveyard. Chester, he finally said, as though speaking to himself. I assume the other questions

have been eradicated from consideration. But the way he trudged onward stiffly, hands clenched, head bowed, told me nothing had really been settled about me being here. We reached a small house. One floor put together from whatever nature provided.

Rectangles of light from inside fell on a few flower beds, but nothing resembling a lawn. Turning around, I could see most of the houses fit the same description. Nunn stood out as being owned by someone important. Chester opened the front door. I guess no locks needed out here, and we entered a small hallway. Candles burned in an adjacent room into which Chester guided me. He pointed at a rustic chair.

The windows weren't curtained, and as I sat down I could see the crowd had followed us. I imagined what they were discussing, and it didn't make me feel any more relaxed. He certainly weren't talking about how comfortable I was, most likely more about what to do with me. Chester stared down at me, water dripping from his nose and chin. In an unemotional tone, he said I understood I wanted answers, to which I gave a face. that said, do you think? Which he ignored. He proceeded to let me know I could stay until my car was ready. Already a few men headed off in that direction. But he made it even plainer that I must be gone by noon tomorrow. Why? I asked. What happens after that? He turned, but not before the word

arrival slipped out and he tensed, quickly reminding me that I must be gone in the morning, if not sooner. Feet soaked, wet pants clammy against my skin. I felt happy enough to be out of the rain, but that one word registered. Just her left the room, opened the front door, said something, and I could see the crowd dispersing. I felt some relief that I wasn't going to be dragged away and who knew what. When you returned, I hazarded request asking if I might have a cup of coffee. That seemed to make him less sullen, and they went into what I assumed was a kitchen. I remained seated, glancing about the room. Early pioneer. A few pictures of people, limp flowers and wooden holders and odd sculptures, rough wooden walls and plank floors.

Contemporary, the place wasn't. A large parchment over the fireplace drew my attention, and when I went over, saw the writing on it was indecipherable. almost near eastern? When Chester returned with my coffee, black, no cream, I asked about it. He glanced over and simply said it was a contract. His head shook. I didn't pursue it. Chester answered and knocked the door and came back into the room.

Seemed my car couldn't be ready for me to leave tonight, although men would stick with it and get ready as soon as possible. I said, why not wait? until it stopped raining, but Chester let me know they needed to make sure it was ready by morning. I sip my coffee, which didn't taste anything like I'd get at Duncan's, thinking about the word, a rival. I stared closely at the parchment looking for anything I'd understand. Signatures filled the bottom, one being Chester's. In the middle, a particularly bold scribble. The whole thing wasn't framed, just hung there in place with a nail. I reached out to touch it, but Chester stopped me

with a yell. I pulled my hand away, taken aback by his tone. Chester came up to me with the best smile he could put on and said it was very fragile. I thought, why not in case it in glass or something, but didn't say anything. Chester kept talking, but kept his eye on the parchment as he He strenuously told me that I must respect what the people here ask of me. Like what? I asked. He told me to just be ready to leave when your car is ready and accept our hospitality. But please don't pry into our lives. I had never intended to.

But he didn't exactly make the whole incident feel like an everyday occurrence. I nodded and he seemed to take that at face value. But now there was a mystery. about the place I couldn't shake. I asked about his slip of the tongue earlier. Right away, I could tell he knew he'd piqued my interest more than he should have. No answer. He patted my shoulder and mentioned I could use a good meal and maybe something stronger than coffee.

He was right on that last part. He offered me a beer, although I'd have preferred scotch. I said, sure. Glancing out the window under the night, I told myself, where the hell was. would you get scotch around here anyway? And where is here? I'd lost all my bearings. I asked Chester that question.

He handed me the mug of beer, simply said it's where he and his friends want to live. You can't imagine the number of doors they needed to open it when you hear that answer. I tried one. You have no contact with anyone? Chester nodded. Then another. Don't people wander out here?

I mean, I ended up here. You let me know not many came. A sternness in his voice obviously directed at me. When I asked about getting food and life's necessities, he simply said they live off the land. I could see where this was going, and that it was nowhere. One more question about doctors got the same non-answer. Well, my reply going back to the window, eyeing what I could see at the cemetery.

Doesn't look like many folks die around here. When I saw it was quite a while ago. Chester went back to the kitchen, and I could tell it was the end of my questioning. When I looked back outside, I noticed the rain had stopped. Clouds are broken, exposing a sliver of moon. I held the Chester that I was going outside. He rushed out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel,

telling me not to stray too far, and he'd make something to eat. eat. I stepped out the front door, feeling the cold, clean breeze from the storm's passing. The moon had broken completely from the clouds. The windows in the other dozen or so houses were lit dimly. No electricity here. I could hear voices, but didn't see anyone. I wondered what animal made up the meal Chester was preparing. Behind me, I heard the scraping of feet on the pebbly ground. A woman came out of the dark and into the faint window light. She was attractive in a plain sort of way, and probably close to middle-aged.

Now I thought of it, most of the people I'd seen were about the same age, at least by appearance. I'd put Chester in the same category. She gave something a bit shy of a smile. I gave a pleasantry, and before she could leave, asked her, Tell me, how long have you lived here? The woman slowed her gate, startled, and I could see her mind trying to put together an answer, which she didn't give. With a dour face, she kept walking,

although her head gave a half turn my way. I waited until she was well ahead before heading in the same direction. Passing the next house, I glanced inside, inching a bit closer than might seem proper. People moved about, but I didn't see them, just shadows. I wanted to look closer, but as I decided against it, I caught a glimpse of the fireplace.

It didn't take long to realize what was above it. Same parchment, same size, the whole thing held up by a nail. Opposite the house was the cemetery. I stepped through the wet grass and found just two of the grave markers besides forest builders. In the moonlight, I saw that the dates on the air, were even further in the past than his. One was nearly a century and a half ago, and the other

about 25 years earlier. Counting builders meant no one had died here in half a century. I figured some may have left and died and others were lost somehow, but it still seemed odd. Someone stepped up behind me. I turned rather abruptly and came face to face with a heavyset man supporting a beard. He looked at the graves and back at me. Seems to be some longevity around here, I said. He answered by asking me why I was wandering around outside. Storm's gone, I said, and there has a nice brisk feel to it. He just eyed me and ran a hand over his beard. At first he appeared nervous, somewhat annoyed at being with me. Then his face. He was a face. He showing a struggle with himself, softened as though something deeper inside him came to the surface.

He invited me into his home. I agreed and followed him into a house furthest from Chester's. Inside he introduced me to his wife, the woman I'd met moments earlier. She glanced at her husband before offering her hand and pointing to a chair. I sat down as the man left the room and came back with a beer. Neither asked where I had come from, just offer pleasantries, hoping I was comfortable. The woman suddenly became agitated, grasping her husband's shoulder, and with pleading in her voice, said would I please promise to leave the village the next morning or sooner, if possible.

Her husband stiffened and squeezed her arm, muttering her name, Agnes, with subdued anger. Agnes managed a fragile smile, and with clipped nods, left the room. The man watched her leave, instantly dismissing his wife's outburst, turned to me asking how I like the beer, adding it was all homegrown. Obviously, I thought, people certainly want me to leave, I said, the man raising an eyebrow in a yes. Chester said something about an arrival. The man's eyebrows knitted together, and I got a general reply. I really didn't understand because nothing added up, especially the expressions of his wife and the others

and Chester's Keeji attitude. Nothing good that I could think of would leave people so withdrawn, almost hostile. Who knew what strange ideas they had? Hell out here you could do what you wanted and no one would ever know. My gaze fell on the fireplace and the parchment above it. I asked about it, mentioning Chester's. Just the way he stared at it longer than necessary told me it held some significance. And I began figuring it had something to do with my having to leave.

His face held the same regret Chester's did. As I rose and began to leave, Agnes emerged from the back room and immediately clutched her husband's arm like someone keeping him from going away. She'd been crying and looked extremely tired. I thanked them both and left. I wandered a little longer, peeking into houses to see if they had parchments. Deeper into the village, I came upon the source of the voices I'd heard, a small crowd in front of what appeared to be a tavern. The people eyed me, but no one called out or invited me over.

Walking up to the front door of the tavern, I heard one person say coldly, he should just be gotten rid of. A man patted a hand in the air for her to quiet, and even that person spoke loud enough when he said, please be patient. The woman, though, couldn't be restrained and broke out of the crowd rushing over to me, shouting, please go, that they're sorry, but just go.

I started to ask why, but she rushed back to her friends, and they moved away. I will! I yelled after them. Believe me, I will. I entered the tavern, occupied by a man behind a counter and a woman at a table. She ate something that didn't look appetizing. I wondered if Chester was cooking up the same thing. A few candles at the room that looked a lot like Chester's place. The woman, her hand round a beer, looked over at me and offered that I sit down. This small act of friendliness

seemed strange. Like the others, she appeared middle-aged and surprisingly well-fed from country living. The clothes spun from God knows what, didn't distract from her attractiveness. I pulled out a chair and sat. The bartender, or whatever he was, placed a beer in front of me. I didn't have the heart to say I'd had enough of this brew. I lifted the thick, amateur-made glass toward the woman and said, Don't worry, I intend to leave. First smile from anyone, but it faded quickly. I'm Henry, I added and waited. She thought for a moment, looking down at her meal and said,

Marion, Mirren, Builder. I lowered my glass a bit hard onto the table. Builder? I said, turning my head in the direction of the cemetery. Marian nodded. Great-grandparent? I asked. Her head shook slightly side to side as she lifted her fork full of

of food, barely eating half of it. Must be a coincidence, I said. Marion remained quiet, staring at the half-eaten forkful of meat. Then her head snapped my way. Her eyes narrowed, directly on mine as she said, I couldn't remain here, and the same refrain of I really must go. I know that. Believe me, I answered.

Just get that car mine ready. Never saw a place so unfriendly. Her head spun my way, and she corrected me, letting slip a quiet, just scared. Not of me, I asked. She pushed her dish away and glanced at the bartender who looked concerned, maybe puzzled, like he wasn't sure what he heard. He did look like he was ready to rush over. Something to do with an arrival?

I asked. Mirian's shoulders slumped, eyes down, and again softly the words, It's so hard, issued softly. I asked why, but she stiffened, turning away, obviously angry at herself. Curiosity, concern, irritation all boiled inside me. I slid my glass away and leaned toward her, but she pulled away, repeating I had to go. Before she rose, her chair scraping on the, floor and fled the room. The bartender watched her leave, giving me a look I'd rather not have

from anyone. I followed her outside. The street was empty. Returning to Chessvis place, I went inside to find him setting a small table and getting ready a little food onto plates. He glanced at me, and I'm sure saw my concern. He didn't ask anything, and I sat down. All the while we ate whatever it was. was, Chester had a hard time holding back his nervousness. He kept looking at me as though he had something to say, his face alternating between sternness and sympathy. When we finished, he pointed to a couch and said I should rest until morning. When he returned, after taking the plates, he abruptly blew out the candles

and left me in the dark room, wondering if I could sleep or would I be expecting something else? The lack of any modern noise lulled me to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, later than I would have expected, I heard talking outside the window. Peking out, I saw a large portion of the village's population milling around. Rubbing an unshaven face, I went outside where all eyes turned to me. I saw Marion standing in the back, watching with a sad look on her face. A man with long, stringy hair said that it looked like my car might not be ready.

His jaw clenched as he said it. A few women dabbed at their eyes. Chester came up behind me and grabbed my arm. When I tried to pull away, his grip tightened. Those in the crowd looked at each other, then at the sky, and now I could see both rage and sympathy boiling up. Even Marion turned her head away, as though not wanting to see something. Just as I was ready to lash out at Chester to break free,

voices rose in the field. I looked to see men running towards us. Their arms were waving and one had a grin on his face. When he reached us, he blurted out that the car had been freed. He looked at me and said I was able to go. Faces around me noticeably brightened. On one level, I was happy to hear this, but the actions of this crowd made me despise every one of them.

I had no doubt as to what was about to happen. I couldn't wait to visit the nearest police station. What the hell were these people to threaten me like this for no reason at all? Contemptuously, I looked at Marion, Chester, Agnes, her husband, the lady that yelled at me near the tavern, and even the bartender. Only Marion had anything resembling a compassionate look, although gradually the other faces lost some of their mob appearance. In a way, they seemed as scared as I was a few minutes ago, many glancing at the sky. Without a goodbye, I headed out over the field and entered the woods at the far end. Inside the trees, I glanced back and saw everyone still watching me.

I checked my watch and saw we were approaching noon. My car was pointed back up the road. Obviously, they'd managed to lift the rear end and move it. I had to give them credit. They were determined. I got in, turned the ignition on, and put the car in gear. Slowly, tires spinning once or twice, I made my way up to narrow road and over a crest before stopping, after going another quarter mile. I sat there, my hands tight on the wheel thinking back on the villagers.

I pictured their angry faces. But my anger began to soften as I considered how trapped they clearly were in whatever it was that bothered them. Enough it seemed to do me harm. I turned off the engine. Looking around, I could see no one followed me to be sure I'd left. I got out and headed back toward the village, staying in the woods. Nearing the clearing, I got down on my stomach and peered across the meadow. The villages were still masked together, only now I could see each pair or individual held their parchment.

They all stood facing the direction of low-mobile. mountains, your parchments held higher, flapping in the wind. Suddenly, a small patch of darkness, blacker than I'd ever remembered, appeared at the far side of the meadow. Nothing substantial like a cloud, more like night, but one with no starlight or moonlight or the flimsy light of the universe, just the erasure of night. The villagers stood without. moving, clutching each other, but always holding their parchments high. Off to my right, the trees ran closer to the village, so I moved cautiously until I could get a better glimpse of everyone. They faced away from me, toward the darkness that had reached the edge of the village, hovering

above the rooftops. One person stepped forward, and I recognized Agnes' husband. He had to break away from her grip as he approached the darkness, holding the parchment head of him in two hands. sheet stretched like something protective. Behind him I heard sobbing while everyone wave parchments like steadying wands. I heard him speak. His words were defiant. Fluttering leaves sometimes made it hard to hear, but I heard enough to understand.

He raised his voice. Speaking of a time when they had created a covenant with this darkness, something unholy to satisfy a long and for revenge, destroying those that had crushed their lives. Hatred, however, blinded them as to the price. Too late they tried to renege, pleaded, called on God. But the bond had been set. His voice became hollow as he repeated.

They had wanted it to stop. The other villagers nodded as though this realization should have absolved them. The darkness swirled, advanced, and retreated. The villagers fell back, and I knew they wouldn't be released from their damning contract. They had made a bargain, and were being kept to it by a force they couldn't destroy. What I couldn't understand was why they were here, and not in the deepest regions of hell already. Hignis' husband stepped forward and again waived the parchment, and I heard an answer to my question I couldn't believe.

They've been given a stay through some loophole in the words of this unholy contract. An eternal stay, it seemed, not dying as it turned out. Time they hoped that prayers would bring on an intervention. The darkness roiled. Agnes's husband's voice faltered, as he said they understood that in the victorious wording there was also embedded conditions that put them in this prison of sorts, with death into the arms of darkness the only escape. With a rising voice he made it clear they could never leave this place

nor allow anyone else to dwell here whenever the darkness returned and that they had abided by this. Others now spoke up, some raising fists, yelling that they kept their part of the bargain, as in past decades even when it meant violence, murder. I now understood why they all seem the same aim. age. From when this pact was made, I also had an inkling of what happened to some like me who ventured here at the wrong time and wouldn't leave. While rustling trees drowned out other

words spoken, a wave of dizziness struck me, and I lost the desire to run. Nothing happened for a moment. The darkness remained, obscuring most of the village. Agnes's husband returned to the crowd. Everyone stood silent. I assumed waiting for the darkness to leave. But it didn't. Instead, a voice, deep, thundered. I swear I sensed amusement in it. It said that only those in this covenant should be here.

If broken, one of the villagers must return to it forever. Only a few so far, it said, but eventually all would return fulfilling the contract. Agnes' husband stepped forward and, waving the parchment, said there was no one else. I gasped or made some kind of noise that managed to travel across the short expanse of meadow to the ears of the villagers. It turned in my direction.

Was that an amused chuckle from the darkness? And I heard voices. So many saying, no. please no and the crowd started moving in my direction but it stopped when I stepped from the trees the sobbing rose and I saw men and women pulling each other to themselves I understood all too well and wanted to flee but knew it was too late for that I could only stand immobile and watch people's faces so full of fear that I cried out to forgive me but those same faces told me My words were meaningless now.

They turned to the darkness as it began moving. Slowly the blackness coiled over them. As it did, they became lifeless, frozen in fear. Until none could be seen, the darkness remained briefly. Everything became quiet as though the world had become dead. Then the blackness began moving, dissipating, until all became light again. A scream rose, shattering the silence. It struck me as though I had uttered it.

The crowd pulled back, everyone still holding each other. Except for one person. Agnes stood alone. Her hands against her head, her screams and sobs and tears, pain I could feel. The crowd encircled her as she spun around searching for her husband no longer there. And from the crowd, Mary and I. emerged, staring at me. The hatred I saw I could never forget. I waited for what happened to me, but nothing did. Everyone moved back to the bodiless graves and stood there. I stumbled

into the forest until I reached my car. No one followed or made me stay. They wouldn't. I'd forever be someone who didn't belong, causing another person to be sucked into the darkness. Turning the ignition, I drove slowly at first, determined to do all I could to be sure no one ever came to this place, but that thought quickly faded because I knew that would be the exact thing that would bring everyone here. There really was no way out for the guilt I felt in the pain of a secret to keep. I just had to continue in a little hell all of my own. For our second story this evening, grief can be a terrible thing, especially when it's happening to a child.

But there are worse things to endure than grief, as one young boy soon finds out. Creepy Presents My Little Brother came back last night, but he drowned three years ago. Written by Informal Ratio 4108, and narrated by Quarther. Kohl-Percard. Three years ago, my little brother, Ethan, drowned at summer camp. He was eight. It was nighttime, and he'd snuck away with some other boys to see the lake under the stars. They said he slipped on the dock.

By the time they found him, it was too late. I was 13. I didn't go on that trip. I was home playing video games. I remember getting the phone call, hearing my mom's scream and my dad's voice cracking for the first time. We buried Ethan with his favorite photo, the one of him and me standing by the lake, grinning like idiots. We haven't spoken about him since. His room stayed locked.

Sometimes I thought I heard things from inside, soft thuds, creches, whispers. but I chopped it up to grief and silence. My parents stopped smiling. My mom started taking sleeping pills. My dad just stopped talking altogether. Last night, at 312 a.m., I heard tapping on my bedroom window. We live on the second floor. At first, I thought it was the wind.

But the tapping didn't stop. It was rhythmic, slow, careful. I turned over annoyed, then froze. Outside my window in the moonlight stood Ethan. His face was pale, his lips were blue. His hair dripped water down his cheeks. He wore the same Spider-Man pajamas he used to sleep. been, soaked through and clinging to his tiny body.

He didn't look older. He looked exactly the same as the day we buried him. He didn't speak. He didn't smile. He just stared and tapped on the glass with one finger over and over. I screamed. My parents ran in and flipped the lights. Ethan was gone.

The window was closed, locked from the inside. They told me it was a nightmare. But I know what I saw. This morning, the carpet near my window was wet. There were small footprints. The kind Ethan used to leave when he ran barefoot after swimming. My window lock was undone. And on the floor,

was the photo we buried with him. It was torn down the middle, soaked, and smelled like lake water. I tried to show my parents, but the footprints dried, and the photo vanished. I thought I was losing my mind until just now. It's 312 again. The tapping is back. But this time, the window is already open. I don't know what to do anymore.

I don't want to believe it, but it's impossible to ignore. My heart races in my chest as I sit up in bed, my hands trembling. The tapping continues slow and deliberate, just like before. It's maddening. the way it echoes in the dead of night. I get up, my feet moving instinctively towards the window, though every part of me is screaming to stay away. I reach for the handle and hesitate.

I don't want to open it. I don't want to see him again, but I know I have no choice. With a shaky breath, I pull the window open. The cold air rushes in, and for a moment, I wonder if this is real. Maybe I'm still dreaming. Maybe I'm just imagining all of this. But then I hear it.

The sound of tiny wet footsteps on the ground below. Soft like the padding of bare feet against the grass. I lean out the window, trying to make sense of what's happening, my heart pounding in my ears. There he is. Ethan. He's standing on the lawn. His little face still pale, his clothes soaked through. His Spider-Man pajamas cling to his small frame, the fabric heavy with water. His hair hangs in wet strands around his face, and his eyes are wide, unblinking,

staring up at me. The tapping continues. his finger hitting the window with that same slow rhythm. I swallow hard, my throat tight. Ethan, the word comes out as a whisper, choked with emotion. I don't know what to say. How did I ever explain this? How did I tell anyone that my little brother is standing in front of me

after being gone for three years. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He just keeps staring at me, tapping. Each tap seems to echo louder, like it's pounding into my skull. I take a step back, suddenly overwhelmed with fear and sadness. Please, my voice cracks.

Please, Ethan, don't do this. Come inside. You're staring me. For a moment, I think he might leave. His head tilts slightly like he's considering my words. But then he reaches up with both hands and places them against the glass. I gasp feeling the cold from his touch seeping through the window even though it's closed. He presses harder as of trying to reach me, as if he's begging me to understand something I can't.

The silence stretches on, and the air feels thick with something I can't describe, something dark and suffocating. Then, without warning, the image of Ethan starts to blur. His form flickers like a malfunctioning TV screen. For a split second, I see something else, something darker. A shadow stretching out from him, swirling around his feet, crawling up his legs. And then, just as suddenly as it started, the tapping stops. I blink, and in that moment, moment, Ethan is gone.

My heart stops. I rush to the window, pushing it open further, but there's nothing. No wet footprints, no sign of him at all. Only the cold and empty night. I pull the window shut and turn to face my room, my hands shaking uncontrollably. What is happening to me? What is going on with Ethan? and why won't my parents believe me?

I glance at my clock. It's 3.12 again. This time, the room feels different, like the air is heavier. My eyes wander to the corner of my room where the dresser is. That's when I notice it. The photo, the one we buried with him. It's lying on the floor in front of me. It's soaked.

But this time, the photo is different. It's not the same one. It's a new one. A picture of me and Ethan standing by the lake, smiling. But this time, I'm holding his hand, and he's staring directly at the camera. His eyes wide with a strange, unsettling intensity. I'm not imagining this. I know I'm not. I try to move, but I feel a sharp cold on the back of my neck, like fingers brushing against my skin. I turn around. There's a handprint on my bedroom door. It's wet and it's small. Broken soul, abandoned by love and humanity, walks a lonely pier, only to find out that he isn't

really alone, and that his family is waiting for him. Creepy presents The Pier, written by known of consequence and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. A stretch is far out over the water. farther than any I've ever seen before. As my feet leave the solid reliability of land, they walk over the creaking planks. Though I feel solid under my feet, it bends with the weight of me,

like it does for anyone. There's an uneasiness to my movements as the entire structure shifts ever so slightly. the waves, even though they are small. Press into the pillars of the foundation and shift me just the tiniest bit. It is just enough to notice. The sun has long since set beyond the horizon, and the clouds cover the sky. If the moon has any light to give the world, only the tops of the top.

the clouds will know it. That's just fine. I don't need light to see. There's nothing out here. The water has a reflection of my soul, stretching on into nothing, left abandoned from more favorable locations. After all, that's all I have to give the world. Nothing. Every so often one of the pillars rises higher than the railing on either side of me,

towering over my walking form. A lamp, similar to the ones you see along streets and roads, hangs high above. But only every third one is lit. Perhaps, if they were all lit like they should be, Fishermen would populate the pier as they were meant to, just as well. If they were here, I might not be. The lamps give off a yellow glow that shines on the wooden water, but reveals nothing of what lies beneath, in the light of the sun.

The water would be clear enough to see only feet down anyway. But I've often wondered what it's like underneath. Is it really like this show in the movies and TV? Is an aquarium an accurate depiction of what's down there? Or is it a pretty lie they want to tell the world? I used to want to believe the lies. But that time has passed. There are no other people on the pier at this hour as I walk over the planks.

The wind blows strongly in my face as I make my slow way to the end. No one around to see how it catches my wavy hair or blows open my long coat. For a moment, I wonder how it must look from another's perspective, but the only word that comes to mind is tragic. It's a word I associate with myself quite a lot. The eerie yellow light bathes me in an unfavorable color before I return to darkness. It's all the same to me now. Tebid air washes over my body, humid and salty.

This sensation of atmosphere was never one I cared for. But now, it makes me think of home. For so long that was an alien concept to me. I didn't like it that way, but I'd grown accustomed to it. At least it was familiar. But now everything seems alien, even the feel of my own skin. If only this was a bad dream that I could wake up from. But it is reality.

And that is always the worst fate. Dreams can it for as long as I can remember. All I ever wanted was to find someone to love. Someone to belong to. To make a life with. I spent my whole life searching for that. But always came up short. I never gave up on it.

More like it gave up on me. I suppose that's how I found myself here. Walking to the end of a pier at night, all alone. The water spills over itself in waves. The only noise I can hear amidst the wind. Even the creaking of the boards under my feet is drowned out by it. There's a peace in this atmosphere that I wouldn't have picked up on before.

It was all doom and gloom before. Fear of a life spent in pursuit of the unobtainable. I know countless others that are. far more fortunate than me in this regard. Those who have had better luck with love. Why couldn't fate have chosen me to smile upon? Was it too much to ask for? As a bright-eyed youth with my life ahead of me,

I'd been optimistic in my pursuit. I went into every situation with open arms. It hopes for tomorrow, only to be shrouded in darkness and depression. Endless excuses and inadequate reasons for the evenings cut short. For second encounters to be denied. Awkward silences that stretched on between us. We tried to find something to talk about.

And sometimes we won. But never for very long. Yes, my interests may not have aligned with many others. But I'd been willing to try new things and put my own on the back burner. It seemed like I was the only one willing to do such a thing. A fresh gusts of wind hits me in the face, bringing up a light spray of salty moisture with it. In the distance of my mind, a memory comes to me from the dark. I have taken great pains to push it that far away.

But it comes so easily. It makes the efforts seem pointless. How could I ever possibly forget? The time I came closest to reaching that unobtainable goal. It's been a handful of years. But the memory still cuts like broken glass. Shredding my sanity like ribbons to confetti. We'd gone to an aquarium for our first date.

A unique experience, I hope, hadn't been a duplicate of earlier attempts by others. The marvel of walking under the water, watching fish swim in the tank around and above us. It was a thing of beauty, unpredictable in its simplicity. Each section was exceptional in their own way, featuring new and exciting traits. but at the same time they were very similar. Then there was that shark that managed to come out of nowhere, startling both of us as it glided past. We'd clung on to each other well beyond its passing.

Holding the moment for as long as possible, I can still feel that warm body against me if I concentrate hard enough, but I don't. The memory is too painful to hold. on to for long. We eventually moved on to other tanks and displays. More marvels of underwater life. I'd found the large squid to be surprisingly fascinating.

But the sentiment was not shared. One of the workers had tossed a corked bottle into the tank with a single fish inside. The tentacles felt around the bottle, discovered the cork and pulled it free. The fish inside wasn't to last very long, but we moved on to the interactive area before we saw what happened. I hadn't known there was such a thing as a touch tank, believing such things were only for children's sues and land-dwelling creatures. Fish's pets always seemed like a strange concept to me because, as the name suggests, you're supposed to pet, a pet. It never occurred to me that you could touch a fish. But then again, I didn't think anyone would want to touch a fish either.

Petting a dog or a cat is supposed to be comforting. The fur's smooth and soft. Fish scales in the cold water doesn't sound very appealing. But to each their own. I'm growing more accustomed to it myself these days. as our fingers brushed over the slick surfaces of the underwater creatures. It was not a pleasant note to my taste buds, and the smell of that touch tank only reminded me of that,

bringing our hands out of the water. When the larger creatures came up toward the surface in front of us, and a splash of water hit us both. With wings as large as it had, we probably should have been hit with more of the salt water. That had been the first of so many outings. So many, I don't think I could count them all. We'd done so many different things.

Taken journeys around the city that neither of us knew existed until we looked. Dance clubs, karaoke bars, even an antique shop with some truly creepy items for sale. We hadn't bought anything from there, but had put hands on a number of trinkets. There was even an honest-to-god monkey's paw, of all things. I thought those only existed in novelty sections of parts stores around Halloween and looked so real. I refused to touch it, afraid it would move in my hand. If I said anything with the words, I wish.

I suppose it was inside even then. The ticking time bomb we couldn't. possibly have known about. One of our dates we'd even gone to an occult shop and seen a psychic. But Madame Claudia had said nothing about it in our reading. Her parting words to me said quietly enough that I only heard, where that happiness and acceptance were in my future. I'd taken that to mean the one I was with, and the future was then. Damn that cursed woman for giving me hope. It wasn't until we started staying in and enjoying a home I hoped would be ours one day that it reared its ugly head.

Mood swings. At first, that would sometimes turn violent. But that quickly dissipated. There were fits of hysteria and paranoia that found me on the outside of locked doors, desperately trying to coax my entry. Sometimes I was convincing enough. Then it progressed to fevers and delirium, hallucinations that led to more violence.

But too often the damage was self-inflicted. All too soon, the person I knew and loved was slipping away. Gone beyond tides of comprehension and understanding. to a place I couldn't reach. Keeping the troubles behind closed doors wasn't an option after the falling incident. The stairs leading up to the third floor apartment were metal and concrete,

doing a lot of damage to flesh and bone when the fainting spell hit without warning. Soon. That beautiful soul was trapped inside the still form of a body slowly decaying without use, unable to move or even know I was at the bedside. Two months I'd visited until one day, a nurse denied my entry. Saying the family was saying their last goodbyes,

I was not permitted to join. The funeral had been on a bright Tuesday in spring. None of the friends or family knew who I was. No condolences were given my way. In all my time in the hospital, not once did I see a single one of them visit. Not until the last day when they decided to pull the plug. I stood like a lone statue next to the grave, as they all went to stuff their faces inside of the reception hall.

How disgusting! Like hungry little piglets with insatiable hunger. Had any of them even cared? Surely none like I did. It would be years later till I took up my pursuit again. But it hadn't been my idea. Proof that therapy isn't the help everyone hopes it is. I suppose I did compare all potential companions to the one I'd lost, like grieving people do.

But I hadn't done it out loud. Those thoughts were always kept inside. caged up like a wild animal until I could release them in private. Had they picked up on this somehow? Are people capable of being that perceptive? I wouldn't have thought so. But then my therapist gave me an odd prescription. One that had not been a pill to swallow,

but sort of an emotional scrub. She opened my eyes to the pain coming off me like a stink. and showed me how to cleanse myself. Dr. Elder didn't claim that the pain would go away completely, but she showed me how to make peace with it. She was really quite good, only taking six months to get through to me. My stubbornness was no match for her will,

and I eventually came to what she was trying to get me to do. I was happier for it, though the scars of my emotional pain ran deep. It got me to the point where I continued my pursuit for love and acceptance. Perhaps I should be cursing her instead of singing her praises. As time goes on, I find my mind changing as much as my body is, becoming something more accepting of this reality. It was a first date that started this change.

A date I'd greatly anticipate. The restaurant I'd chosen was very elegant, pricier than I'd prefer. But the person I was to be with was worth the expense. At least, that's what I told myself when I made the reservation. I'd gotten there early to ensure we got our table and ordered a $300 bottle of wine. It was supposed to be quite lovely. a delight to the palate. And good luck for first dates.

Sadly, the effort was for nothing. As I should have known, it would be, why would someone like that go on a date with someone like me? I asked myself this question in a dozen different ways as I drank from that expensive bottle. After an hour at the table alone, the bottle was empty and my waiter took pity on me. An entire bottle in an empty stomach was not a good thing.

He brought over an appetizer on the house. I began to wonder if this was a tactic to get me to stay longer. Perhaps the waitstaff had a bet to see how long it would take me to give up and go home. Cruelty of people has long since stopped surprising me. For the briefest of moments The wind dies down long enough for me to hear the other sounds in the night The creaking of wood underfoot returns to my ears The splash of water under the pier

Of rumbling coming from my belly It has only gotten louder as the days stretch on Nearly 14 since that fucking night My skin has grown clammy skin has grown clamors, Sammy, and slick, graying like decay. But I am not so fortunate in that. It isn't the gray of death, but of an unwelcome change or transformation. Tease my saddened heart and to accompany the alcohol in my stomach.

The waiter had brought me in one of the restaurant's most popular appetizers. Shrimp toast. I didn't think the burden on my soul could be eased or influence With something so pedestrian And by that I mean food in general But this was far from pedestrian The moment that first morsel touched my tongue My taste buds

Flooded my mind with something I hadn't felt Since well before the funeral It tasted of happiness, of divinity, showered on a poor, lonely soul to alleviate an unending sorrow. It brought light to an otherwise dark world. And I had to have more. It wasn't just the toast I would soon discover. There was the shrimp cocktail, the scampy skewer, garlic roasted, tempura battered and many more variations.

It needed no sauce, nothing extra to complement the flavors. The taste was perfect in every incarnation the kitchen could turn out. And I tried them all. How could such perfection exist in this cruel world? And I only now found out. Why would the world keep this treasure from me? me. Cool indeed I thought, but the cruelty was me finding out at all. Or is it? My mind changes again. I was too consumed with a sensation to realize it was too good to be true. My mind was high in the clouds,

soaring so far away that I didn't notice the subtle changes already taking home. Like those little piglets at the funeral. I stuffed my face until my body could hold no more. My credit card screamed at the bill, but my ears were buzzing with too much happiness to hear it. I tried other places in the following days, but none compared, not even close. I was willing to pay a king's ransom for even a single sensation as what I got that first time, Each and every bite was like heaven, and I did not want to come back to Earth. I returned to the restaurant again and again. Not until my card was declined at the gas station did I realize the state I was in.

My bank canceled my carts. My accounts were all overdrawn, and I am maxed to the hilt on avenues of credit. soon they will come to reclaim my car to take my house from me and everything else I possess that is worth anything you know what I say you are welcome to it I have no need for such things anymore

with the graying of my now slick skin and the waviness of my hair that no longer resembles hair I am not long for this world For that matter This world is not long At all It will all change very soon

Just like I am It will change Or it will perish That is the way of such things I continue to walk atop the planks But my shoes no longer feel right on my feet They are too tight at the sides, too short on the end, and the arch support that used to get me through long days on my feet now caused discomfort. I kick them off as the toes men together get longer.

They are meant more for the water than they are the land now. My hands follow suit, but not exactly the same. Flippers, they are not, but strong, ropey arms with suckers along the underside. I do not know if the bone is still there, or has turned to hard muscle. But my arms move like snakes now. No, not arms. They are newly formed tentacles. If a squid were trying to be a human,

Would it look like me? The wind blows again, catching the coat so strongly that threatens to fly off my shoulders. They were never brought my muscles small and stringy. But now they take on a bulk I'd never been capable of before. Increasing in size so much that the stitching of my coat tears and falls from my shoulders. Catching in the wind only to clutch on to the railie and stay there. I wonder, will it still be there in the morning?

Will someone find it and wonder what transpired to bring it to such a state? More likely, it'll blow away or be thrown into the trash. No one caring how it came to be so damaged. The belt at my waist grows tighter, and I rip. at the leather. Snapping it with such ease it might have well been made of tissue. My pants fall to the planks as my transformation nears completion. No, not transformation.

My ascendancy. I am not losing my humanity. I am shedding it like clothes, tearing it off me like this cotton shirt on my torso. I now know all my pain. The suffering I've had to endure for so many years is because humanity deemed it so. Mankind did that to me,

and I'm sloughing it off me, like an old skin. This new race, the better race, will put an end to such suffering. All I have to do, is embrace what is happening to my mind and body and will be made free finally reaching the end of the pier I breathe deeply of the air and say a final goodbye to my humanity the air is full of pollution and impurities the old ways that will soon be made extinct the swirled was never kind to me and I will relish in

watching it drown. There will be unity in the new world, and I will belong like never before. The bitterness inside that slowly leaches away scoffs, remarking that it figures it would take to the end of the world for me to finally belong. Such thoughts will soon be a distant nightmare without looking back to the land behind me. I leap over the edge and splash into the water. Funny. I never learned to swim.

But I can glide through the water like I was born to do it. As I move with the current, figures come to me from the depths. They move like I move and look like I look. One calls out to me in a sing-song kind of way. It welcomes me home. and I respond in kind. I didn't know I could sing. And it sounds so happy.

Madam Claudia had been right all along. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.