Creepy - The Day I Became One with the Plants & Knock Knock

Episode Date: February 27, 2025

The Day I Became One with the Plants***Written by: Michelle Koubek and Narrated by Danielle Hewitt***Knock Knock***Written by: AM Symes and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***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. The Day I Became One with the Plants, written by Michelle Kobach, and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. Molamir belonged to the plants.

It's how it always was. So while we attempted to claim ownership over its jungles, its forests, and its marshland, it never really was ours. That's why the council deferred to protecting the ecosystem before any humanitarian causes. Our leader knew that we had to keep the vegetation appeased. If not, they would eradicate us. Although, no one would admit that they feared the trees. And so, there were not many warnings about what I did.

No one told me that if I wasn't ready, the vines would strangle me, that they would constrict around my limbs. so I couldn't move. If I had known, I am certain I would not have asked them to plant me. But I was just a woman in a plant's world. Who cared if I had insufficient information? I'd lived for 85 years, and all of my family were long gone. Their bodies rested in the grains of soil around Molamere,

fertilizing the pink blooms and the yellow needles prominent to the countryside. Here especially, there was the greatest density of my genealogical line as I was planted in a family plot. It was an elm that I was inserted into, one I'd walked by many times throughout my life. Growing up, I'd referred to it jokingly as teeter because of how it favored its left side when the wind was strong. It's not so funny now that we're becoming one. A burrow had been carved out for my legs, reaching my waist. But my upper body was free to flail around as much as I wished. At least, it had been, up until the vines wrapped around me too.

Now my torso and my right arm were tethered to the bark of the tree. As I said, there was no way I could have known. No one warned me that this could happen if you were not ready to be planted. Still, I was angry with myself. It's not like I was oblivious to the reality of the trees. I had seen them mar many companions for no more than carving two names in a heart on their rough skin. You see, it was considered a public service on Molamere

to plant yourself in an elm or a white-specled spruce when you turned 80, providing nutrients to the struggling giants that silently controlled our fragile society. I had passed that milestone years before, and never thought I would volunteer to become a tree person like my mother did. Yet here I was. Branches like fingers, which tickled her a few yards away. I thought it would remediate the regret and the guilt that I had recently sprouted in me in regard to my life. It's not that I was rotten.

I didn't see myself so poorly. But I did feel like there was a hollowness to my existence. Sure, I had watered the shy dragon tips in my mother's front yard twice daily until I reached adulthood. But what had I really done? I thought planting myself could give my life the purpose I was missing. And then there were those proclamations about how humans were now second-rate citizens. It was announced a few months ago. The plants were officially better than me.

But of course, that's not why I'm. I volunteered. Everyone knew that people were inferior before it was put into law. I'm just saying, that's something else that happened before I ended up in this tree. The vines hung from the branches above me, and criss-crossed over my body like a net. I wiggled as they tightened in response to the doubt I hadn't expected to have. They produced pink lines on my skin, a checkerboard in a game that I sensed I was destined to lose.

I thought I was ready for this union between human and tree. I was wrong. A pellet of doubt, so small you could barely count it as a pellet, had been growing since I was planted an hour ago. And the vines knew this. It was a silly thought. One I would never say out loud. And it may not even be what the tree sensed.

It's not like I really. no longer wanted to become one with the tree. The vines tightened again, cutting off circulation in my arm. Fine. Maybe there's some truth in the idea that I wanted to live. There was not much I could do, however, because the vines were many, and I was not strong enough to break through them. When I pulled at the green tendrils with my free arm, they squeezed me harder like a lemon. When I tried to cut into them with my nails, their flesh was stony. There was nothing I could do. But that was how it always was on Molymere.

Why did it matter what I was feeling? I felt the oxygen, struggling to reach my lungs from the vine's embrace on my chest, and shivered as a twig inserted itself into a vein on my right arm. It was cold as my blood was extracted, and sap-referenced. replaced it, making the air smell saccharine. Soon, rivers of gold would create the illusions that my body shimmered in the sunlight. It wouldn't be me anymore, though. It would just be teeter, the elm that I was nourishing.

I tugged again at the vines holding me against the tree, and gasped as the vine-like serpent coiled itself around my left wrist, nailing it to the rough bark behind me. I was completely immobile. There was no way to fight. I looked over at the elm that held my mother. Her head and arms hung over the sides of her pocket in the tree. And unlike me, no vines constrained her. She had not gone into the tree with uncertainty,

because she had known that her time had run out when she made her decision. Sometimes I was jealous of people like her. Molimerians that had the illness of the land determine their fate. She never had to wonder if she was choosing the right path, because it was paved for her when her skin became littered with ugly spots like seeds. A consequence of the rot that took most of Molimerian lives. There had never been a moment in my life, where I had that kind of confidence,

where I knew what I was doing should be done. And so, helpless and angry, I wept. At first I thought the tears fell for myself, but as more of them waterfalled, I understood that they were for my mother. It must have been hard for her to raise a daughter like me, a leaf in the breeze that could never put down roots, a molemerean that, I'll admit it now,

hated the plants that controlled us more than anything. Was she worried for me, when she agreed to be planted? Was she afraid of how I would survive? I cried, thinking that I might have stolen those final days from her, because she was afraid for me. Then I recalled the 30 years that had transpired without her, roaming from town to town searching for work indoors,

away from the green wilderness. She was right to be concerned. I'd never known peace in all that time. The vines around my waist cracked, and I looked down, knowing that I did not have much time left. It was too late now for me to change my mind. I was going to become one with this tree. The ruler that had been restricting me my whole life would be getting all of me in the end. I just couldn't stop imagining what humans could be, somewhere else, where they were in charge.

The saccharine of my saliva told me I was completely full of sap. My eyes were too tacky to open anymore, and I lost consciousness. I saw the world that I had been dreaming of since I learned human rights were second to plants. It was as beautiful as I thought it would be, and in it, no one was frightened of the trees. If only Molamir could have been like that. Creepy presents, Knock, knock, written by A.M. Sims, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. Constance slipped through the opening in the cemetery gate, careful not to touch it.

The gate was almost as old as the oldest tenant, Mr. Henry Bemis, buried in 1891, and therefore a creek like nobody's business. Constance managed to sneak all the way across town. She'd be double-dogged if she was going to get caught by some creaky gate that woke up the caretaker. She crossed the dark lawn, stepping around the headstones that shimmered in the full moon's light. She'd been caught, no doubt, if she'd brought a flashlight. So she'd waited five days after the funeral, waited for the full moon, all so she could visit her son's grave without a light. Gregory had been nine, just a baby. He'd gone to bed healthy as a horse and just didn't wake up that next day.

Constance had prayed and screamed and pounded his chest, but he stayed in that eternal sleep. Doc was called, so was the priest. They'd asked what happened. Gregory was a good boy, but had been full of spit and vinegar the day before. But that was his usual demeanor. He was a good boy, though. Constance insisted on this. Gregory was a good boy.

But the doc said his heart was stone cold and his breath was stolen. So he called the undertaker while Father Wilson said some prayers. Constance shook her head, shew in the memories from her mind and continued up the little hill. At the top, she veered left to the old apple tree, and that's where she found her son. The fresh dirt was still piled high above the grass. not enough time or weather to trample it down.

She hoped against all hope that this would make it much easier to dig. She pulled the shovel from her bag, fiddling with the handle as she eyed the mound of dirt in front of her, realizing she'd been a bit optimistic about digging with a measly hand-shull. Digging four feet wide and six feet down would put her on the brink of the grave herself, and that defeat the whole purpose of her venture out that night. but the caretaker shed was just down the hill. As Constance made her way,

she asked for any nearby angles to allow her the small blessing of an unlocked shed. When she got to the structure and found it not only unlocked, but the doors opened and a spade leaning against the front wall, she did a sign of the cross before nabbing it and rushing back up the hill. Lord give me strength and give me back Ma Gregory. She placed the tip of the spade into the dirt and stomped down the metal head. Sink in the shovel in deep.

Constance dug for ten minutes or two hours. She wasn't sure. She was a fickle woman by her own accord, and it was hard work digging. Her Gregory was a good boy, but he could be a bit of a miscreant when he wanted to be. He dug quite a hole in their yard a few months back, claiming Father Wilson told him, wealth lied right beneath his feet and he was digging up the wealth. Constance was feeling particularly generous that day,

and instead of scolding that boy, she told him she'd help him dig. He'd shown her how to do it efficiently. They spent an entire afternoon getting filthy as animals, but laugh until their sides hurt. She wapped a tear away, leaving a streak of wet dirt on her cheeks, then dug her shovel into the dirt once more,

breaking away yet another layer that separated Gregory from her. That's it. No more crying now. After her son didn't wake up, Constance pleaded with Mother Mary for a miracle. He was still warm, so he could come back. She'd heard stories of men sitting upright in their caskets as the priest threw the first handful of dirt on the lid, jumping out as if they'd just taken a long nap. Her own granddaddy'd been dead by his doctor's reckoning for a whole day before he opened his eyes and sat up,

demanding someone give him a shot of whiskey. She knew this would happen with her, Gregory. There'd been a mix-up, and death got the address wrong. That was it. She stayed by Gregory's casket every day, lifting the lid every so often just to make sure he didn't wake up and get scared. after two days she stopped asking Mary for a miracle and went on to pester St. Michael with her pleas. Constance couldn't quite remember what it was you were supposed to pray to St. Michael for.

She figured if he wasn't the right saint to ask for a resurrection, he'd just pass along her messages to whomever was responsible. As her arm shook and the pads of her fingers blistered, Constance tried not to pray for strength so as to not take away any prayers, from finding her Gregory awake. She tore some fabric from her shirt and wrapped it around her hands and then continued to dig.

I'm coming. You hold your horses, because Mama's coming. When Father Wilson prided her off the casket so the undertaker could wheel Gregory out of the town to the cemetery, Constance prayed directly to her Lord. No more fuss and no more middlemen.

She went directly to the source and demanded God save her Gregory. He was nine. He had years to live. So many more years than her. Constance knew it wasn't right to question her maker. But she also knew it wasn't right for a baby to just not wake up. There'd been a mistake. But she'd forgive and forget as long as Gregory woke up. And that's what she prayed for.

She prayed over and over as she kept digging the shovel deeper and deeper, working her way into the guts of the hill, down a few inches at a time. The headstone was now above her, her eyes level with the crab grass. She could feel things crawling over her feet. Once she felt something slither through her hair, she simply flung it away and continued to dig. Minutes or hours, she had to be done before the same. son came up. If she got caught now, they'd lock her up as aloney and she'd never save her Gregory.

She pictured him in his best Sunday suit, fast asleep, peacefully, soon waking to a dark confined space. He'd be so scared. Gregory never liked the dark. He always told her something was watching him. So no, she had to dig faster and harder. She needed her son back. Her own pain would just have to wait. Constance gave a stretch of her back and looked to the sky, then realized the moon had slid across the black trees farther than she'd expected. She'd slapped her hands together, wince and at the bolt of pain it caused.

She was in no mood to argue with her finicky nerves. Constance just dug faster, blisters on blisters crawling through her hands, and soon bleeding onto the shovel. She had to get Gregory out. She dug and dug and dug, not stopping again to rest or breathe or listen as critters stole across the cemetery.

Fiori fueled her. She'd been good. Gregory'd been good. They'd prayed. They'd live sensibly. They'd enjoyed nature and kept the fire of faith burning even through last summer's tornadoes.

And all for what? But. Damn it. You give him back. You give him back! Before long, Constance struck wood. The shovel reverberated back up her bones and it made her yell out in pain. She threw the shovel out of the hole, then dropped to her knees and scoop dirt until she could find the cross carved into the wood.

She moved around so that she was standing on the bottom part of the lid, so that she was standing on the bottom part of the lid, so that she wasn't blocking Gregory's head. She prayed, prayed harder than she'd ever prayed before, but all was silent. No breathing, no shuffling, no wimpers of fright from inside the coffin. She could hear nothing but her own labored breaths bouncing off the damp dirt surrounding her. She held her breath, but still nothing.

Gregory? You hear me? Nothing. Just her breath fogging in the humid nights chill. Her body was numb except for her heart. It bled. She could feel her blood seeping from her heart as it drummed behind the cage of her chest. But still, nothing stirred, nothing called out for Mama.

Fun! I got no choice. It was then that a shadow up. appeared above the grave. You've been after me for years. After my soul. The shadow squatted and plucked a flower from the wreath laying across Gregory's headstone. You give him back to me. You hear? The shadow stood and after dropping a flower into the hole, just nodded once. Constance picked up the flower and held it to her cheek. Then, Yes, today, Satan. A moment later, a soft knock-knock came from inside the casket.

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