Creepy - The Deepest Part of the Ocean is Not Empty

Episode Date: August 10, 2026

The Deepest Part of the Ocean is Not Empty***Written by: Jesse Clark***Goth Hath Given You One Face***Written by: LB Waltz and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***A Happy Ghost***Written by: Shazrad and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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 simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, everyone.

Please take a moment with me to welcome and thank new patrons, Stuart Finlay, Jelly Fleury, Jerry Sandoval, and Noah Sand. And an added special thank you to our five-year-or-more patrons. Stoner Vamp 3, Anthony Maulino, Gregory A. Giorgio, Halcat Kelly, Romy Chestnut, Petra Phillips, Padra Godine,

Evan, Aaron Kisen, Blue Goddess, and Mateo Fried. All patrons get their shoutouts and early commercial free access to all episodes. Other reward tiers also include weekly bonus episodes and logo merch. To see how you can support the show and get rewarded for it, please check out patreon.com slash creepypod. Also, a quick note for the writers out there. We do still have some spots left for the 31 days of horror. We're still going through submissions, but if you want to get in on our annual October event,

please get your stories in ASAP. And if you've never submitted to us and want to submit, please check out our guidelines at creepypaw.com slash submissions. Don't delay. Once we're full, we're full. However, please remember that submissions are always open for both our live episodes and Patreon bonus episodes. We just have limited spots for October.

If you have a story out there that you'd like to submit for consideration, we pay for all accepted stories. You keep all rights to the story. We just ask for a small exclusivity period. and the right to narrate the story. We've had hundreds and hundreds, if not over a thousand writers, get their stories narrated over the years, and we would love it if you were among them.

Okay, let's get to this week's stories. First up, a veteran deep sea explorer pilots an experimental submersible into a newly discovered abyss beneath the Pacific, where each mile of descent reveals that humanity has vastly underestimated what waits in the deepest parts of the ocean. from writer Jesse Clark, Creepy presents,

The deepest part of the ocean is not empty. It took 12 hours for the Tuscany to sail from the U.S. basic quaduline atoll to a remote patch of the Pacific, about 50 miles east of Wedja in the Marshall Islands. As soon as we dropped anchor, I climbed into the boldly go and started getting ready for the big dive. After two weeks of training, I could practically run the startup sequence blindfolded.

The master power switch activated the instruments. I checked the oxygen levels, the calms, the lighting, and the camera systems, and the pressure equalization. Then I set the ballast system to neutral buoyancy and tested the thrusters, which made the small one-man submersible, highly maneuverable, in three-dimensional space. After the final go-no-go, the A-frame lifted boldly go off the deck of the mother's ship and dropped her into the gentle swell. Then she slipped gracefully beneath the waves.

The first part of every dive is beautiful. It's full of life in the sunny area just under the surface, especially near the reefs and water that's maybe deep enough to reach your knees. Boldly go dove past schools of fish swimming through a sunbeam and crabs that scampered among the colorful plants on the rocks, which I always thought looked a bit like Christmas ornaments. I could have stayed there for hours, but I had somewhere to be. Soon all life and color were behind me. The water turned navy, then midnight blue. Down, down, down I went into endless, empty twilight. The ocean has its silent caves, deep, deep, quiet, and alone.

Though there be fury on the waves, beneath them, there is none. In 1872, the Corvette HMS Challenger began the Challenger expedition. It was the greatest undersea exploration ever attempted at the time. It made 492 deep soundings in three years and discovered the Mariana Trench, recording a maximum depth of 26,850 feet below the surface. That record was broken 27 years later, the nearby Nerodeep, discovered in 1899, measuring 31,693 feet. Another 30 years passed before a nearby nearby. depression in the seabed was found 32,197 feet below the surface. A new record. And then,

in 1951, HMS Challenger 2 found the Challenger deep at the southern end of the Mariana trench. It was 35,760 feet down. We believed that record would never be broken. We were wrong. I kept my eye in the depth gauge as boldly go descended. 500 feet down, 700, 1,000, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1,000, state building. I kept going. 2,500 feet, 3,000, 3,300. This was the bath's pledging zone, the deep ocean. Beyond this point, sunlight cannot penetrate.

No sunlight means no foresight. photosynthesis, which means no plants, which means no marine herbivores, which means no predators, which means no life. It was just boldly going me, descending alone into the eternal, lonely dark. 3,800 feet, 4,4,400. In April 2022, NOAA detected a strange sound originating from the ocean floor, near the Wojahatoll. At first they dismissed it as a malfunctioning hydrophone, but this sound repeated. Then the U.S. Navy detected it, then Scripps, then Jamstack and Yokosuka. Every research team that tried to triangulate the origin of the sound independently determined

that it was coming from a region of the seafloor that wasn't on existing bathometric maps. There was only one possible conclusion. The Challenger Deep was no longer the deepest part of the ocean. There was something else there, something massive. In June 2023, the Oceanic Survey Project, OSP, was formed to investigate. We called the new hole the maw. It was a dumb placeholder, but it stuck and grew on everyone at the OSP. We sent several robots down to the Ma to map it out, but none of them survived the journey.

Those machines were built to survive the deepest parts of the ocean that we knew about at the time they were built. But this was different. The water pressure crushed them like soda cans before they ever got close. I thought about that as boldly go began to creak and groan. 4,700 feet, 4,800, 5,000. Water pressure is measured in atmospheres. One atmosphere is the amount of pressure you endure by standing outside. Literally the weight of all the gas between the ground and the edge of space, pressing down

on you. It sounds like a lot, but you never even think about it when you're walking across the street for a cup of coffee. But here in the ocean, a new atmosphere is added with every 30 feet of depth. At the edge of the bath Pledge of zone, the pressure can reach 400 atmospheres. Picture a school bus sitting on your thumb. And then it keeps going. I imagine tiny hairline cracks forming on the outer layers of boldly goes hull, chipping away to reinforce synthetic foam little by little layer by layer, then a little more, until the cracks spited across the craft, carving further and deeper with each passing minute. There would be no indication that the craft was falling apart until it was too late. At these depths, I'd be happily drifting along,

and then it would implode so fast that I'd simply cease to exist. All in my own. a fraction of a fraction of a blink of an eye before my brain could register what happened. I suppose that was better than slowly being squeezed alive or waiting to drown. But the idea that every breath might be my last, that I might never finish this thought. No, don't think about it. Just do your job. One mile down. 1.3.

1.6. 1.7. 1.6 miles is the maximum dive depth of sperm whales, meaning I was now almost certainly the only living mammal that far down at that exact moment. 2 miles. 2.1, 2.2.2.2. It's hard to describe how dark it is 2 miles below the surface. It's suffocating. You don't get the sense of being in a wide open space, though you are. Imagine being trapped in a little closet, separated from the outside world by walls that are several miles thick and trying very hard to crush you. If anything happened to you in that little closet, help would never come. 2.3 miles down. 2.4.2.5.

The abyssal zone of the ocean. Here the pressure ranges from 6,000 to 9,000 PSI, or 4 to 600 atmospheres. Imagine 12 elephants standing on your head, or being trapped under a skyscraper. An anglerfish floated by. It was the first life form I'd seen in two and a half hours since I left the reef. If you've never seen an anglerfish, they're frightening creatures with great big jaws and a bioluminescent appendage dangling from their head like a light bulb. It made me think about the apocalypse. Can there ever even be an apocalypse? If life can exist even here in these conditions, you'd have to

blow up the planet to make sure everything on it was truly dead. I wonder what else is down here. 2.7 miles. 3.3.3.5. At 3.8 miles or 20. 20,000 feet, I entered the Haddle zone. This is normally reserved for deep trenches in the ocean floor, but I was still in the open. Pressure here is 1100 times what it is at the surface. Imagine balancing a car on a dinner plate. 4 miles.7.5.5. The height of Mount Everest inverted.

5.8 miles. The same distance from the surface as a commercial airline or at peak altitude. 6.8 miles or 36,000 feet. The depth of the Challenger Deep. 36,500 feet. My heart pounded. A new world record. There was nobody around to note the achievement.

The awful spirits of the deep hold their communion there. there. And there are those for whom we weep, the young, the bright, the fair. Despite mounting evidence that the ocean floor here was far deeper than the Challenger deep, there were skeptics who chalked it all up to some kind of widespread instrumentation failure. That's impossible, they said. There must be some kind of mistake. While at 38,500 feet down with no bottom in sight, I could personally confirm that the instruments were working just fine. I began to think about what might have caused the sound we'd heard that led to the discovery

of the maw. There were a few theories, but none of them perfectly aligned with the data. The leading idea was that the sound had been caused by tectonic activity, or partial seafloor collapse. Such an event would almost certainly produce to sound loud enough to be detected across specific, and it could potentially explain how we only just now decide. discovered such a deep part of the seabed. The problem is, the sound repeated several times in a way that wasn't consistent with aftershocks.

Still, it's the most plausible theory. But if you ask me, researchers are clinging to it. Because what would it say about them if the maw had been there all this time and they'd all just missed it? Another theory held that there had been a hydrothermal vent eruption. But temperature scans didn't pick up anything abnormal. Besides, the sound wasn't sharp enough to indicate the kind of superheated degassing you'd expect around a newly formed vent. Human activity was ruled out too. Not only was the area under international protection,

but it would have been impossible to conceal a rogue deep-sea drilling or subsurface mining effort large enough to make a sound like this, if such a thing were even possible. That idea was never taken seriously. So all the existing theories were junk. That meant something else was down here. Possibly something unknown to science. Boldly go, dove deeper. 40,000 feet down.

40,500, 40,800, 40,800. According to the best data available, At the time, which wasn't much, the ma is a large circular pit, maybe half a mile in diameter. It begins at 48,000 feet below the surface and is estimated to bottom out at Higgins Deep, a presumptive valley that sits at its base about 2,000 additional feet below that. But until we confirmed it, we couldn't be sure. 43,000 feet down, 43,500. I was getting close.

I hit the lights beneath Boldly Go. This place hasn't seen a photon in a billion years, not since the surface of the earth first cracked and split. There were mountains here, real mountains, ones that rivaled the Alps, and wide arches, steep cliffs and plateaus that stretched away until they couldn't be seen. I even saw huge trenches and trawl marks in the sediment. It was very strange. If I didn't know better, I'd say Godzilla had been feeding down here.

There was even life. I couldn't believe my eyes. It wasn't just plankton or krill. A squid the size of a house swam right past the craft, peering into it with a giant, squishy black eye. There were fish as transparent as glass with no eyes or pigment. I could see every organ in their bodies. I was very familiar with known marine life forms.

Nothing I saw here was known at all. 44,000 feet. 45,000. And then all of a sudden, there it was. The maw. I remember seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time when I was a kid. The best way to describe it is to say that photographs don't do it just. Now imagine how inadequate data on a spreadsheet must be to describe something like this.

At the bottom of the sea, I was speechless. I descended a bit further, 45,500, 46,000 feet. And boldly go, boldly went, right into the great, yawning mouth. calmly the wearied seamen rest beneath their own blue sea. The ocean solitudes are blessed, for there is purity. For fun, OSP tried to decide on a name of the post-hattled zone of the ocean that existed beyond 37,000 feet. We settled on the Arabic zone, named after Arabis, the ancient Greek god of darkness. I can say that that name fits like a glove.

46,500 feet, 47,400 feet, 47, 48,100, 100. The pressure down here was 22,000 PSI. Imagine trying to lift a mountain. Not even unmanned vessels had descended this far. I was in uncharted territory, but we could make educated guesses about what it might look like. I was told there might be clouds of muck and sludge that was. would limit visibility, especially if the seafloor collapse theory was correct, because it'd take a long time for all the sediment to settle back into the seabed after a seismic event.

If the degassing explosion theory was true, I should look for plumes of superheated bubbles jetting out hydrothermal vents, may be surrounded by small life forms, huddling around them for warmth. At the bottom of the ma I might even find whale carcasses. We predicted that the remains of smaller animals would have been to, dissolved into vapor by the water pressure. I was even told to look out for plastic garbage, like fishing nets and soda bottles.

It would be sad, but not surprising. In fact, none of this would be surprising. In 20 years of exploring the oceans, I've seen underwater volcanic explosions, alive giant squid, and brine pools on the ocean floor, which look like underwater lakes. Very little shocked me. But I never would have imagined a multicolored glow, 50,000 feet below the surface, at the bottom of the maw.

What the hell is that? I dimmed the outer lights to confirm that I wasn't just seeing things. I wasn't. There really was a dim glow, a few thousand feet down. It was changing colors. First it was reddish-purple, then green, then purple again, then blue. I took the craft deeper, slowing down as I got closer to the light, afraid I was about to slam into the seabed.

I never did. 49,000 feet down, 49,700, 49,900. 49,900. The glow became brighter. Soon I shut off the lights entirely because I didn't need them. Boldly go entered a cavernous chamber at the bottom of the maw. I was speechless. This had to be documented or else nobody would believe what I was seeing.

Hell, I was seeing with my own two eyes right now and even I couldn't believe it. I flipped a switch and the camera's word to life. The cavern was at least a mile across. I couldn't see the bottom but not because there was no light. There was plenty as pulsing luminescent pods lined the walls, producing an eerie glow. The water wasn't empty. Far from it. I saw things I could scarcely believe.

A thick towering plant dominated the chamber. I couldn't see the bottom of it, but the top was pressed against the roof of the cave, which had large jagged stalactites around the edges. Small creatures with very thick shells darted between cracks in the wall. Very large bioluminescent jellyfish-like creatures floated together in groups of five or six. Glowing eels zipped back and forth. They were eating something.

When I got closer, I saw that they were munching on a whale carcass and broken boat hulls that drifted in the water in the middle of the cave. What is this place? I noticed something strange about the wreckage, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I took boldly go in for a closer look. I saw that there were strips of paint hanging off the broken boats and flaps of loose torn flesh on the whale bones. The skull was soft and pitted, and the skull was soft and pitted, and, you know, and they saw that they were strips of paint. the ribs were warped in strange ways. The decay pattern wasn't consistent with being eaten

or even crushing damage from water pressure. The whale bones look like they've been soaking in vinegar. There's an optical distortion on the cameras too. And boldly go had begun making strange noises, little hisses and squeaks, like something was eroding the hull. The submersible was built to withstand 2,000 atmospheres of pressure, but not corrosion.

What could be causing that? I had a thought and sampled the water with a pressure-rated intake nozzle. The result was shocking. The water had a pH of 1.4. I tested it two more times and each time the pH was under two. Water this acidic had no business existing outside of a stomach. I felt a lump form in my throat. What am I?

Is this? No. No, that's impossible. But I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I took boldly go back to the plant in the center of the chamber. I fired up the lights to max settings and caught my breath. This was no plant. This was a tongue covered in suction cups, each one bigger than the submersible.

I gasped and tried to pile. that's merciful back towards the mob, but the hull got stuck to one of the cups, triggering loud, blaring alarms. I blasted one of the thrusters to rip away, producing a wet, tearing sound. And then the tongue came to life. It whipped around the cave, scattering the wildlife. It pressed back up against the roof of the cave, of the mouth or stomach or some combination of the two.

Then it crashed down like a falling building deep into the darkness, producing waves within the water that threw boldly go around. I gunned it. Smercule was small and maneuverable, but she wasn't exactly built for speed. Just then, the tongue swished up out of the blackness like a blade and side swipe to Smerciful, sending me rolling. I don't think it meant to knock me back into the mob, but I found myself climbing back up the way I'd come as quickly as I could. 52,000 feet, 51,500, 51,000.

I could feel the tongue rumbling behind me, searching. I didn't know I was about to escape. 49,500, 49,000, 48,800, 48,400. I could see the end of the tunnel above me, just below the open ocean. It wouldn't be open for long. A ring of vast spiked rocks, teeth, I realized, began to slide together like a thousand and interlocking fingers. The mouth of this gigantic creature was closing very quickly.

I hit the throttle and boldly go slip between two of the long spikes just before they sealed tight. I was back in the open ocean. But I wasn't safe. Behind me came the loudest where I'd ever heard. It sounded like an atomic blast. The instruments on the panel shook in the rubber cases. Emergency supplies fell off the walls of the walls.

inside of the submersible. I was deaf for a full minute. The creature I just escaped was awake and looking for its supper. Just then, that tongue, the size of a city block, shot out ahead of me and curved inward, blocking the path forward. I yanked the joystick fast and hard, missing it by feet. Oldly Gold rolled to the side and bounced off the ocean floor, kicking up a cloud of silt and launching me into the viewing dome face first. My vision swam as I fought to regain control of the vessel. I pulled the joystick the other way as far as it would go. This Merciful rolled around and slipped alongside the tall rock formation,

clipping it, sending broken shards flying like arrows through the water. There were many similar formations up ahead. I hit the lights to avoid smashing into them. Only then did I realize they weren't rocks at all. They were ships Twisted metal hulls littered the seafloor Broken battle ships Judding out at dangerous angles

Flew in from the shadows I jammed the joystick this way And that heart pounding Particles of debris and silt zipping by like bullets Boldly go flew past chains And anchors stuck into the ocean floor And under the main mass of old warships There was a whole submarine

lying on its side against the slab of rock. Any impact would destroy this immersible, but I dodged it all with inches to spare. Whale and shark carcasses were everywhere, too, lying on the ground or floating eerily, getting picked clean by clouds of tiny scavengers that flew apart as boldly go burst through. Behind me, the giant creature,

the Leviathan smashed through the nautical graveyard, sending metal debris flying in all directions. The force of water pressure crushed everything in the flat hydrodynamic shapes that rushed past me like giant spears. One hit and I was dead. I dodged and dove. Missiles flew by and vanished into the blackness. Once we were clear of the wreckage, I restarted the climb. 45,900, 45,200, 44,800.

The creature roared again. It wasn't less shocking the second time. At least I'd found the source of the mysterious sound. Some seismic event. I clapped my hands over my ears and screamed, but I couldn't hear myself. A hundred and ninety-four decibels is the lethal threshold. The Leviathan's roar was likely in the 240-deceble range. If boldly go hadn't been heavily soundproof for this exact reason,

it had been custom-designed to investigate a mysterious, deep water sound, after all, my bones would have been pulverized in an instant. Just then, an orange glow flashed across the water, lighting up the sea. For the first time in hours, I could see for miles. It was the glow from the Leviathan's eyes. There was no hiding now. Up we went. 44,200, 44,000, 43,700.

I looked at the rear camera. The ma, which I now understood to be the Leviathan's mouth, was roughly half a mile wide, ringed with teeth the size of buildings, and now it was on the move. The rest of the body scaled proportionally. I couldn't see the whole thing if I tried. It was so vast that most of it fell away into the shadow of the water. But what little I saw of it was consistent with something miles long. When it moved, the ocean moved with it.

Water compressed unnaturally in front of it, producing strange currents and riptides, which dispersed clouds of deep-sea wildlife and hurled walls of sediment in all directions. It opened its mouth and roared again. The sonar instruments flatlined, overwhelmed with signal. On the rear camera, I saw the broken ship hull as disintegrate because of the sound. It was layered like a rocket blast off, a thunder clap, and a mountain being ripped in half all at once. Even inside the submersible, the force of the blast made nuts tremble in their housings and sent everything not tied down flying across the cabin. I thought my eardrums would burst.

My whole body shook. The vision in my eyes swam like the fluid in my eyes was moving. 39,500, 39,000, 38,700, 38,200, 38,200, 38, 200, 38,000 feet. I was nearly at the Hethel zone. Come on, come on. By now the Leviathan was swimming directly upward, pursuing me. The water below me was already black, but the Leviathan still managed to cast a very large shadow. Except for the fierce orange eyes that looked like I was falling into a dark planet.

It was gaining. 37,500, 37,000, 36,400. The pressure gauge started to drop. It made me think. Leviathan defied many rules of biology, mostly due to its size, but I couldn't imagine to be able to tolerate lower pressure conditions any more than a human could tolerate 22,000 PSI in the Habel and Arabic zones without a protective submersible. If I would implode down here, the opposite would happen. and it's the Leviathan surfaced.

Without heavy water pressure, internal gases might cause it to expand like a balloon and pop, killing every living thing for miles. You'd be able to see the explosion from space. I wondered if it had the instincts to turn around before this happened. But so far, the pressure was still immense. It continued to pursue me. 29,000 feet, 28,300, 27,500. I could feel the maw open up just behind me.

The water began to rush backwards, dragging at boldly go. The reinforced window glass chipped slightly. I checked the gauges. 20,000 feet. 19,800, 19,400, 19,000, 300, 19, 250. The ascent was slowing. The submersible began to sway side to side.

18,900, 18,800, 18,700, 18,700, 18,800, 18,800, 18, 900. That's it. I was caught. The depth gauge slipped and boldly go instantly lost control, tumbling backwards, caught in a riptide. I flew out of my seat and smacked my nose against a console above me. Blood exploded. I held my face to control the bleeding, but boldly go fluted. Lipped around and around in the whirlpool, hurling me this way and that.

I smacked my knee into the hatch ladder and dislocated my shoulder. The cracks on the windows spittered. All around me the water rushed backwards like a flood into the gaping maw. I got an idea. I limped back to the controls and gripped the side of the console holding on for dear life. I waited until we tumbled into the right angle, facing out, then blasted the thrusters. The vessel rolled around quickly to the side now, just past the edge of the maw. We grazed the Leviathan and tumbled out into the sea like we were in a wash and spin cycle.

I was thrown right back into the ceiling head first. I collapsed back onto the floor, cracking my ribs on the console. I threw up violently, then climbed back into the chair, bruised and bleeding. Another quick burst from the thruster stabilized the vessel. I watched the Leviathan fly past me, filming as much as I could. Mostly I just sat there, marveling at it. It stretched into the abyss below, for over a mile rushing by like a freight train. It had a forest of tentacles, each one the size of a highway, with sharp hooks on the end.

On its back were three parallel rows of spikes, each the size of small buildings. It took ten minutes for it to fly past me. Then it swung around the way it came, roaring. And it was gone. I let boldly go take its time limping back to the surface. I didn't want to push her. When I got back, I didn't say much, although everyone on the Tuscanee mobbed me with questions. They knew something had happened, even if they didn't have the details.

They heard the roars and detected what they thought were minor seismic. activity. And now they have boldly go and me, both in very sorry shape. Stubborn research leads were still squabbling over their theories. I couldn't care less. I recovered in quaduline for a week, then flew back home. The story was hard to keep a lid on. The OSP released a preliminary rapport using terms like biomass displacement and bioacoustic anomaly, so everyone could keep their jobs. But armchair experts and ex-NOAA consultants figured it out quickly and the news spread. Most laughed at it.

Whatever. I told them what I saw. They have the footage. They can do whatever the hell they want with it. Just stop calling me. I've studied the sea for 20 years. I don't want to go back. I'm sick of it.

There are things down there that own the deep, and I think we should leave it that way. The earth has guilt. The earth has care. Unquiet are its graves. But peaceful sleep is ever there beneath the dark blue waves. Nathaniel Hawthorne. And next, when a desperate young boy bargains for his missing brother's return, he discovers that the creature waiting for him wants something far stranger and far more unsettling than a human soul.

From writer L. B. Waltz and narrated by J.V. Hampton, Van Sant. Creepy presents, God hath given you one face. Riddle me this, little one. What serves as a window to your soul? Your eyes, very good. Let's start there, shall we? Let's stare together into those windows. Go on.

There's a puddle right there. Feel free to gaze deep. So, here we are, you and me, peering through that porthole, past translucent tissues and organic lenses, beyond a vicious mess of membranes and tangled root veins, to what is the single most precious part of your identity. which looks like what precisely? That's right, exactly the same shite as your other ocular bits.

Because if there were anything ethereal and a glow inside there, you'd have been vivisected as a freak. Humans are corporeal creations. And if logic dictates that A equals C and B equals C, then A equals B, doesn't it? That means if A equals gunk and B equals gunk, I'm just saying, I can't see anything intangible in there, can you? Yeah, as it turns out, the soul is one of the most rapidly biodegradable body parts.

Crazy, huh? No, I'm not crazy. No, I'm not mistaken either. Yes, I'm aware there is a difference between the two, much as there is a difference between a glass pane and what lies beyond it. Look, the eye is a disgusting glue sack that shares the structural integrity of bog mulch. That the same thing can be said of the soul is a quirk of evolution, a matter, of coincidence. Correlation, not causation. Not that it's my fault either way, I didn't sign off on your

blueprints. Don't blame me for the strange design of your skin suits. I am but a messenger, relaying humble fact that the eye and everything behind it is made with identical goop, jelly slop. And in the natural world, that goop jelly slop generally has a post-mortem shelf life of around two months. In other words, it's rapidly biodegradable. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. If anything, it makes for a more environmentally conscious choice. Like compostable products will be when shopping, or switching to solar panels when those become available. Given the state of the world, it might not be the worst thing to soften my views about specific cliches. Or, alternatively, I could lean into your views about those same cliches.

Exacerbate existing paranoia. Milk that fear into a cup that runneth over. Drink it in. throw it out. After all, it's not the container itself that nourishes. But... Eh? Honestly, I have very little interest in souls.

They're just not to my taste, figuratively speaking. Or literally. I prefer more palpable payments. Ones that offer opportunity. And if we're to be exchanging goods and services, isn't it only fair that I should receive something that I want out of this? Mm-hmm. Uh-huh. Oh, indisputably.

You make a valid point. The way to a man's heart is indeed believed to be through his stomach. Assuming you don't intend to twist that expression into sense. some pedestrian joke about stabbing him through the rib cage, as if no one has ever heard that bit before. Oh. Apologies. That was uncalled for. My patience is quickly worn thin by the banal, I'm afraid, one of the common side effects of long life. Regardless, it was rude of me to presume disingenuousness on your part, especially when your reaction tells me your question, came from a sincere place.

Honest curiosity is a trait I do not begrudge. Quite the opposite. So, if you'll allow me, I should like to rescind my previous response and offer a more genuine reply. Thank you. To begin, you are not wrong. There is a kernel of truth to that idea.

to the heart being one by way of a stomach. But that seed, when planted, is not guaranteed to grow into something quixotic. Just as often it bears practical fruit. Man is an animal, you see, and like all other animals, he requires basic necessities for survival. Food is a prime example. Water is another, yes. A cottage is convenient, but most aren't picky about shelter. A shack will do.

A hut, a hole. An inconspicuous circle of grass in the shade of rowan trees. You get the idea. But see, food is important. Everyone knows that. You know that. And because of that, food is one of the most straightforward, manipulative tools available to anyone looking to exert power over another.

You're familiar with this concept. The stories cannot be escaped. Was it not through the bartering of greens that the witch gained custody of Rapunzel? Hansel and Gretel made some famously bad choices where food was involved. as did Persephone, and Eve. Perhaps you may even be acquainted with a character whose deeds are not confined within a book? Why, whatever do you mean? I insinuate nothing, but please, stew if you wish.

Get it? Stu? As I was saying, it doesn't end with access. Oh, no. After access, we get into content, sugars, minerals, carbohydrates. Your gut biome is a greedy, if delicate ecosystem, comprised of trillions of individuals organisms that can only serve their purpose if the God they literally live to serve is able to provide them with the means to do so. Your body is a temple, you know. If the acolytes who tend to it fail, everything crumbles back to the dust from whence it came. Oh, speaking of death, your immune system. Bless, it is trying its best.

But considering we live in a simmering zest pit, it can hardly be judged for its incessant need of boosts. Has your mother or father ever fed you chicken and orange juice when you've caught a cold? Huh. I suppose oranges aren't native to this area. Some other citrus, then. The combination of protein and vice-a-cotein, vitamin C is the important bit.

They've been proven effective at combating sickness when consumed in tandem. Well, if your mother has kicked it already, have your father do it then. I rather think that ought to be obvious. Lords, it's not rocket science. Rocket science. Rocket science. A rocket is a sort of... cylindrical projectile designed to reach the moon. Yes, that moon. Don't worry about it. It

shan't be relevant in your lifetime. Anyway, I digress. I could go on and on about the biology of it all, but I can see you're tired, so I'll close my argument by stating that there will be studies, long, complex, boring academic studies linking nutrition to food and concentration, and academic abilities amongst other things. So, to bring this back to your original point, yes, absolutely, emotions and affections can very well be influenced by food, food, which interacts with a person's digestive system. The thing is, the heart is not part of your digestive system. Your stomach is.

Your intestines are. Your teeth, too. Your heart is a muscle masquerading as an organ. And while the role it plays in running your weird little Gristle Puppet is undeniably important. At the end of the day, it's just another handful of sinew. It doesn't dictate emotions, or seat the self, or host a great number of undifferentiated cells, or anything interesting like that. In summary, no, I don't want your heart either. But thank you for the offer. Now see here.

I will be honest, child, this is exasperating. I am weary. And at the risk of being blunt, I don't think we've anything more to discuss. Day after day you tow the liminal line between our realms for what appears to be the explicit purpose of ignoring me. At this juncture, What more is there to say?

I have expressed myself and my people's terms quite clearly, and in return, you have offered not but disrespect disguised as good faith bartering. No, I... No. No, it is not the same thing. Bone contains a magic of its own, in the forms of marrow and fracture healing. Bones create, either directly, as in the case of blood and height, or indirectly, in how they

store so many growth factors. It's impossible to explain to a creature like you whose sixth sense is so pitifully dull, but trust me, would you? When I tell you that a sort of positivity oozes from bones' porous surfaces, It is of no use to us. What an idiotic thing to say? No, really, shut up and think about that mire that just fell from your gob, you insolent imbecile.

Actually, think about it. I don't care a shit-covered wit, what your tome on my people suggest. Who do you expect is better informed about the customs desires and intentions of a being of my ilk. A book? Or the real breathing thing?

The nerve? Well, now that we manage to sort that out, which would you rather do, boy? Continue to espouse misinformation or listen earnestly enough that we might reach a place of mutual understanding and, by the power of the unsealy court, finally come to some functional compromise.

That's what I thought. To begin, I understand why you would reject my initial request. I do. Much as I recognize why that request might have been difficult for one as young as yourself to grasp. There's... Ah, uh, ah, shh, nope, don't speak. There's no need.

I already know what you're thinking. Something along the lines of, If you really understood, how could you have asked for such a horrible inhuman thing? Yeah. Little one, that itself is the reason. I am horrible. I am inhuman.

And I do. very much wish to wrench all 28 of your sallow white teeth from your puffy pink jaw, one by one by one, whilst using every unholy trick and demonic power at my disposal to ensure that you remain conscious during the entire excruciating affair. Those are my terms. That is what I want. And I want it because that is what me and mine consider fun. Does that make sense?

Is that simple enough? I hope so. I'm not convinced there's a way to make it any clearer that mortal agony is fun for us. Causing unspeakable torment and pain is fun for us. Listening to a scrawny human child thrash about in the leaves, choking on a gullet clogged with gore, is fun for us. There is no fun in a soul. There is fun in your terrors surrounding its fate, sure,

but not in the goop, jelly slop of it as an object. Your priests don't tell you this, but toying with a soul is like trying to play with a flame, a wet spark. Once it's there, it's already withering. Then, just as quickly, it's snuffed out, cold, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken, blah, blah, blah. Dull. Ripping out your stomach, meanwhile, or even,

in your heart wouldn't be a bad time per se. But, crucially, neither would it take a long time, not even in the way that humans define time passing. Uh, given the vastly different ways our species experience chronology, I trust you can piece together why this is unacceptable for us. And as for bone, Well, okay, to be fair, I suppose I could spend a long time methodically breaking every bone in your body. Even longer than I would if I were treating an adult to the same sort of attention, considering your skeleton has yet to fully fuse together. It's even possible that I could snap each and every one in Twain without killing you.

Unlikely, yes, highly unlikely, but possible. However, this is where we get into the whole matter of preference. For you see, in the magics my kin and I practice, one might think of bone as symbolic of addition, a plus sign, if you will, positivity, growth, etc. Teeth, meanwhile. Teeth represent subtraction, because they destroy, don't they? Once caught in their spring-lock trap, teeth grind matter down into fragments, pulverizing prey until it's been reduced to a delicious nothingness, an elegant. allegory, don't you think? Teeth as warning, teeth as weapon, strong enough to exist outside their own protective flesh, yet sharp enough to rip, clean through the protective flesh of others.

There is, in short, a dark power to teeth. And in that power, a potential both preternatural and scientific. What? In what possible way would... What in the name of the ace side are children being taught these days? Forget it. There is no use trying to siphon reason from your ramblings. No, there are no rockets in this science either.

This is the study of biology, not technology. Genetics, if you must know. Regeneration through the extraction of stem cells, DPSCs, and their use in cloning, that sort of thing. By God, what is clogging up those ears of yours? Not brains, surely. Cloning, I said, with a clah, not remotely the same. though I suppose we could argue we... Oh, never mind. I can see it on your face that it's not worth explaining these concepts further.

That's fine. You don't need to worry yourself. Whether you understand what it is you'd be agreeing to is irrelevant. Because in the end, descendant of Adam, what it boils down to is this. If you wish to forge any sort of covenant with me, I will require, in exchange, those apple-biting teeth. Not soul or heart, not awful, or bone.

We want your teeth and teeth alone. Fine. One day more, it's no skin off my... Well, it's not my life that is dependent on this deal. Are you done being selfish then? Yes, no. To be clear, it is no consequence to me if you are or not. Drag your feet so deeply that they dig a pit to hell for all I care. Surrender this quest, give up, and go home.

My concerns are with your teeth, not your spine. I shan't judge. Neither would I stalk you, beyond this fairy ring. Is that your concern? If so, rest easy. We are talking quid pro quo after all. That means if you give nothing, you get nothing.

And what a blessing nothing can be. Think about it. Should you turn around and leave this very moment, you do so scot-free. No curses, no hauntings, no paranormal vengeance. We're two representatives stuck in negotiations, you and I. Not a foot and an uncanny hornet's nest. You need not fear retribution.

No, child, when you leave unfulfilled, oh, pardon me, if you leave unfulfilled, it shall be in peace. Uh, all right. Yes, touch. You are correct there, I'll grant you that. But in this particular case, I swear that even if I could, I wouldn't. Pinky promise. Because let's be real. If my people had the freedom to travel wherever we wanted, do you genuinely think we'd waste our time and efforts following you? Some scrawny peasant boy from the middle of nowhere? Please. On the subject of hubris, though, we have a deal, or don't we? The decision is yours. No pressure from me.

Incorrect. Lying is one of the few things I cannot do as it happens. There's no pressure from me. From. Certainly, I am applying pressure to you. There's no denying that. But that is a service I am offering for. For your own sake, not mine. I am perfectly content with things as they presently stand. Your brother thus far has made a wonderful specimen for our experiments. I expect he will continue to serve beautifully. I have no complaints. Well, not about him. Perhaps about a few situational aspects like being unable to maintain my focus, since someone must deal with your guilty sniveling eat. each day. Come on, there's no use trying to hide it. Regret leeches from your every stinking poor child. Let me guess. Bit of a drought this past summer wasn't there? Reckoned your father would be

grateful for one less mouth to feed. And a visually impaired brother can't contribute much in the fields, I expect. So, why not try the forest? No doubt you figure the fairies would have a use for him. And huzzah! Wouldn't you know it? You were right. Isn't it nice to be right? Doesn't it feel good to be right?

We fairies have many uses for those who stumble into our rings. Many, many uses. It doesn't happen as often as one would expect, so we've learned to make the most of every opportunity. Waste not, as the expression goes, which I assure you, we don't. We never do. What I am getting at, little one,

is that the longer you wait, the less likely you are to recognize whatever remains you happen to save. and the less likely he is to recognize you. Okay, well, the shock seems performative, being honest. Isn't that sort of thing to be expected? Experiences shape us. Time apart, changes people.

That's life. Frankly, I wouldn't bring it up at all, except that humans tend to struggle with all things drastic. And I don't want to deal with the headache that comes from a snot-nosed brat standing outside our metaphysical door and screaming, bloody nonsense, for hours on end, about being tricked. It makes for a rather hostile work environment. Yes, see, this is exactly what I was saying.

The volume is annoying, but it's not convincing. Neither is the aggression appreciated. Ooh, the tears are, though. Appreciated, I mean. Wouldn't call them effective unless your new goal is to be funny. But, hey, if that's the case, keep it up. You're killing it, kid. The only way to make it more hilarious is to describe your father's reaction to this debacle in explicit,

it miserable detail. Wow, all right. You choose weird things to get offended over, but whatever, to each their own, we're done here. You. What in the name of the Christchild could you possibly want? This is ridiculous. Insane and insulting. Best give thanks to this.

these mushrooms boy, because they are the only thing that is stopping me from ripping all of my wasted time directly out of your... Oh. Oh. Well, a gift like this has the potential to change a thing or two. Now, now, let's remain realistic. Any rational person would agree a baby. tooth and a baby brother hardly an equivalent exchange make. We can still do more with our present

prize than with your offering, and so have no reason to humor your greed. Besides, you didn't even let us help remove it, and molars are the most fun to tear out. Pardon? Two representatives was exactly the phrase I used, correct. I represent my folk. To quote the future sages, duh. From that, I trust you can deduce for whom you speak. But what does that mean? Oh.

Just to double check, you are aware that we are malicious creatures. Excellent. Follow-up question then. Are you completely during? Don't get me wrong. Personally, I love this plan. Big fan would make it much easier for us as a species to gather what materials we require for our projects should you follow through with this. It's just, usually, mankind isn't too keen on granting us freedom. on account of the whole malevolent being schick. Ah, there we go, stipulations.

Right, let's hear them. Already out? What do you mean already out? Fully? We won't even get to do the fun part? Why, that's... That's... Acceptable.

You know what? Those are acceptable terms. More than even considering the theoretical numbers being proposed, if anything. Hmm. Tell you what, we'll even sweeten the deal for you, yeah, to ensure that no one leaves the table feeling shorted. How's this? Depending on the impressiveness of the individual specimen, how convenient the mortal involved makes the retrieval process, we may even feel inclined to leave a little token of appreciation. Tact means nothing to you, does it?

Yes, money, monetary payment, not riches, but a reasonable amount, flexible enough to convey various levels of gratitude for a person's contribution to our genetic database, as well as serve as an acknowledgement of damages. Seems an appropriate method of consolation given their being sold out. No, no, I won't define that idiom for you. I don't really think you need me to. Now then.

One last time, child. Do we have a deal? And finally, after dying from cancer, a devoted mother remains in the family home as a ghost, convinced she'll be protecting her husband and sons, even as her desperate attempts to preserve their lives begin taking a sinister turn. From writer Shazrad and narrated by Megan McDuffie.

Creepy Presents, a happy ghost. Caitlin was a happy ghost. She stayed at home. of course. Where else would she go? A stay-at-home mom in life, and even more so in death, she watched her three sons and their father, but she didn't need to protect them or anything ridiculous like that. Protect them from what? After the shock and relief and numbing pain of her early death brought on by cancer had passed, they seemed to be doing just fine. Well, not fine, fine. Caitlin found herself rather enjoying watching her husband's struggle with school lunches

and managing the schedule for Noah's soccer and ortho appointment. With William's dance class, yes, he only ever went by William, none of that Billy Liam shite, but eventually he figured it out. Were there tears and screams and missed practices? A few, yes, but it was all fine. Anyway, James, the eldest at 16 and soon with a brand, new driving license, so funny that he thought it would bring him freedom. Well, James was a quick study in helping his younger brothers with homework and getting them to practice. It meant James

dropped out of basketball, but honestly, he hadn't been that good, and the last couple of years had been rather performative. Caitlin, now unbothered in death, could finally admit that to herself, and it was probably better for his future career to spend his evenings doing homework while waiting for Noah or William to be done, rather than chasing the ball himself. It was actually quite easy and obvious. James had to drop out and take Noah, then Dad could take William. Caitlin had the fight the temptation to just tell them, but she couldn't anyway, which was probably a good thing for all of them. And then William started learning how to cook, giving up on the constant takeaways, which just stopped feeling like a treat after a while.

burnt toast and eggs with great gobs of slime and runnyness nesting in them. He turned out to be pretty good at it. After all, cooking isn't actually that hard. Her husband's famed ability to burn water notwithstanding. She was pleasantly surprised at William's newly burgeoning ability to cook, but couldn't help feeling resentful too. Had it really taken her to literally die before one of them lifted a finger around the kitchen? It was funny, all the large feelings she had as a ghost, which she never seemed to have time for when alive.

Caitlin thought she'd be sad when James finally gave up on basketball, but actually, she wasn't. She'd spent so many of her hours of life driving him around. Now he could do the same for his brother's circle of life. Not that she felt she'd ever had one. A life of her own, that is, not with managing those boys in the household. What about her life? Standing before the kitchen sink, she stared out at the garden, as she had done all those countless hours when alive.

And then there was Noah, sitting on the garden steps, his shoulders shaking with sobs. He had been reminded of his mom as he looked out at the garden, and he was only 11, after all. Such a young age to lose your mom. You still need her so much. Caitlin had really felt sad. She wasn't a monster after all, just a ghost, but then she couldn't help being entertained by how her husband

His father had awkwardly patted Noah's shoulder and then told him that his mom would feel better in heaven if he mowed the lawn That was just the kind of mom's strategy she would use to get the boys to do their chores Too funny Noah mowed for five minutes, then dropped the lawnmower right there out on the grass and ran inside She watched her husband irately finish the job. That was fun too. It had been so much work being their mom and the cancer. At first she had perversely enjoyed the attention,

but then she had been in pain, and then she had gotten really scared. And then the pain got worse. So by the end, it had been a relief to die. But now she had all the time she needed to rest, no more work, just watching her beautiful son. grow, and maybe she could discover herself, though she really was, what she really enjoyed doing other than just flopping on the couch at the end of a long day. But it turned out she didn't enjoy

much other than being their mom, which made sense. She had to watch over them, to care for them. She literally had done that just for so many years, that she didn't know much else. And that was why Caitlin quickly put a stop to Annika's visits. Anika was a hot, divorced school. school mom who started dropping around after school with a fresh-baked pie or simmered slow-cooked casserole barely a month after Caitlin's death. So basic. How could she trust her beloved sons to Anica, unable to hold onto her own husband now after hers? Not that Caitlin was jealous. Oh no. She just didn't want any meddling with her sons' life. As a ghost, Caitlin had a few tricks. She superimposed her own cancerous face on Annika's when she looked at a mirror to fix her face.

And that was that. The poor woman couldn't get out of their fast enough. No more pies and casseroles. And then young Sophia started hanging around James. She was even more of a threat perhaps than Anika, and stronger measures had to be taken. The youngens are tougher. Sophia wouldn't be scared of a faint image. And James wouldn't be able to resist the throes of teenage past.

and Sophia kept coming over after school to do homework with James, and this was causing William to be late, getting to dance class. Well, that couldn't be repeated. William had to be home on time because he was the only one who could fix Noah's lunches the way Noah would actually eat. Sophia was destroying the delicate chain of chores. Caitlin tested and practiced her powers carefully and methodically. And then, one day, as well, As Sophia was leaving, Caitlin was able to nudge her as she was going down the stairs. Oh, dear, thought Caitlin, looking down at Sophia's broken body and crooked neck at the bottom of the stairs. She hadn't quite realized the extent of her ghostly strength. Or had she? She wasn't sure. She felt a bit appalled at what she had done, but not too much. She had to be more careful, she told herself as she watched James fuss and shout. She didn't want her sons getting so so spooked that they left the house. She wanted them right there so she could keep on watching them.

No, watching over them. Enjoying their life just as much as she was enjoying her death. 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.