Creepy - The Elevator

Episode Date: June 9, 2025

The Elevator***Written by: Linda Miller Esler and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Drip***Written by: Matt Richardsen and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***The Tunnel***Written by: Andrew Hughes***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Check out our merch at creepypod.com/store or creepypod.printify.me***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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All right, let's do this. Start sending in those 31 days of horror stories. We'll be spending the next couple of months compiling the stories. While this happens every year, I would like to remind people that sending in stories in September and October for the 31 days isn't advised as I tend to start production on all this in August. So, if you want to be a part of this year's 31 Days of Horror, please get your stories in as soon as possible. Yes, I know it's only June. Also, remember that this is our Halloween season event. So, topics specifically about that time of year, like trick-or-treating, pumpkins, scarecrows, costumes, etc.

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And yes, the details are important when it comes to accepting stories. I can't wait to see what your warp minds have come up with this year. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic. depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, a struggling young woman moves into a rundown apartment with a sinister secret. As the truth unravels, she must choose between survival and her soul. Creepy Presents The Elevator, written by Linda Miller Esler,

and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. Two days after I graduated from college, I wrote a Greyhound bus from New Jersey to Boston. My cousin, Flora, had promised to meet me at the terminal and take me back to her apartment. When she failed to show up, I took a cab. What I didn't know was that since she invited me to live with her, Flora had acquired a live-in boyfriend named Wolf. After watching a series of late-night visitors leave with plastic sandwich bags, full of what looked like oregano.

I realized that Wolf was selling marijuana out of the second bedroom. It was clear to me now that Flora had only invited me to help her out with the rent. That help was no longer needed. So I ended up sleeping on the living room couch. Between the sounds coming from Flora's bedroom and Wolf's customers, I had little sleep and no privacy. It took me three days to find a temporary job at an insurance company and a cheap studio apartment.

My new home was on the second floor of a house on Commonwealth Ave. There were two apartments on my floor and a storage room at the end of the hall. My room contained a small refrigerator with a single burner hot plate on top, a single bed, a desk and chair, a metal wardrobe, and a tiny, curtained bathroom with a sink, toilet, and tin shower. The only window led on to a fire escape. The building had no stairs. To reach my apartment, I had to use a small and closed elevator.

I was too inexperienced to wonder why the caretaker sent me upstairs alone to look at the apartment while he waited in the lobby. After inspecting the place, I pushed the button for the elevator. The door shut behind me and the light went out. Then it descended and opened into the lobby. When I complained about the light, the caretaker just shrugged and mumbled something about saving energy. I wrote him a check for my first week's rent and two-week security. He handed me keys for the lobby, the mailbox, and the apartment. He said I could move in the next day.

He told me to leave my weekly rent checks under the door of his apartment near the lobby entrance. He mentioned that the other tenant left early in the morning and returned around dinner time. I thought he was just chatting. That night I packed my things. The next morning, while Flor and Wolf were still asleep, I walked up to Commonwealth Avenue. I was excited to move into my very first apartment. After unpacking, I decided to explore the neighborhood and do some shopping.

Fortunately, I used the bathroom before leaving. The elevator door closed, and the light went out. This time, however, nothing else happened. The elevator did not descend. I pressed all the buttons. I banged on the door. Hello? I called. No one answered. Is anyone here? I'm stuck in the elevator. Still no response.

Belatedly, I recalled the caretaker's remark about the other tenant. If I were alone in the building, I might be here all day. I continued to pound on the door in the buttons and to call for how. help until my throat hurt. Eventually I gave up and sat on the carpeted floor. The darkness was absolute. The rawness of my throat reminded me that I had no water, and I might not get any for a while. I tried to calm myself by taking slow, deep breaths. Surely the caretaker had just stepped out for a quick errand. I waited a few minutes for him to return, and then filled my lungs with air, and yelled as loudly as I could.

Help! I'm trapped in the elevator! I waited a few more moments and tried again. After half a dozen attempts to call for help, my fear became mixed with anger. I should demand a refund and find another apartment. Of course, without a lease or a receipt, I had no proof of payment until my check cleared.

Two weeks' rent, cheap as it was, seemed like a lot. It might be some time before I could afford another deposit. I pressed the knob on my Indigo watch. To my surprise, I had been in the elevator for barely 15 minutes. The green glow was comforting, but I had to save battery. My last few nights on the couch had been restless. I must have been more tired than I realized,

because eventually I fell asleep. light and the bell that accompanied the opening of the elevator door woke me. A woman wearing a uniform of a diner waitress stood in the doorway. Her name tag read Doris. I jumped up blinking. A quick glance at my watch showed me that it was nearly three o'clock. I didn't want my new neighbor to think I was the kind of person who slept in elevators. I pushed the buttons, but the door wouldn't open.

Doris shook her head ruefully. She told me that the door wouldn't open unless someone in the downstairs lobby summoned the elevator. She seemed surprised that the caretaker hadn't told me. If it hadn't been a Saturday when Doris left for work early, I would have been stuck in there until 6 o'clock. We rode upstairs together. Doris waited for me to unlock my door.

She told me that the rent was cheap for such a nice neighborhood, but that if I moved, Norman, the caretaker, would keep my security deposit. I felt foolish. Doris told me to knock on her door before leaving next time, and to stay home if she didn't answer. She warned me that if I climbed down the fire escape, I would have to leave my window unlocked.

She didn't recommend doing that because someone got into her room once and stole all her stuff. I thanked her and opened my door. Inside, I looked around my new home. It was smaller, shabbier, and even more depressing than I had realized. After rummaging around for a few minutes, I found an old candy bar in the bottom of my pack. I ate that while writing in my diary. After a noisy shower, I lay back on my bed.

I saw a trap door in the ceiling above the top of the wardrobe. Somebody could get into my apartment through that door. I decided to buy a couple of mouse traps. After my long nap, I was unable to fall asleep. There was at least one broken slat under the mattress. I tried not to think about what else might be there. The voices in my head were loud that night. My mother's was shrill as she reminded me that I should have gotten a teaching certificate

so I'd have a job waiting for me after graduation. At least then I'd have benefits, in a nice long summer vacation to write my little stories. For her, those little stories were just another way to pass the time, like television or knitting or mahjong. My father kept telling me to apply to graduate school. My advisor, Dr. Lawrence, had always seemed fond of me, and I respected his opinion. His frankness at our last meeting broke my heart.

He said that I needed to be practical. He suggested I look for a job in an advertising agency or a magazine, or find an MAT program, and teach English. I said I wouldn't have time to write if I did that. wouldn't it be better to find something less demanding so I can write at night and on the weekends? He responded by telling me how exhausting a menial job could be. He doubted I'd have the energy to produce anything significant. Better to find a meaningful career than waste my life dreaming of publication. I argued that plenty of great authors suffered years of rejection.

He looked sad when he reminded me that he'd read my work. I could write an excellent term paper. and a good letter to the editor because I had small talent. Great authors needed to write. I didn't. Since I didn't know what Doris did on Sundays, I dressed early and listened carefully. She knocked on my door at six dressed in her uniform

and reminded me that if I wanted to go out today, this was my chance. I asked if there was some way to contact the caretaker. Doris showed me where Norman had posted his number above the pay phone in the hall, but warned me that he, he got nasty of tenants bothered him too often. Once I knew my work schedule, I could tell him when I needed to leave.

Until then, I should accompany her downstairs. On weekdays, she left at 4 o'clock in the morning. I needed to confirm my route to work and pick up some supplies, so I grabbed my backpack and joined Doris in the elevator. Three days later, I knew my job was a dead end. The best thing about it, besides the paycheck, was the free coffee and donuts provided by the temp agency. They served as breakfast, and after the first day,

when I spent most of my 30-minute break riding up and down 20 floors to buy an overpriced sandwich from a vending machine, lunch. Reading a book in the ladies' room offered some respite from the boredom, but I had to ration those bathroom trips to avoid angering my supervisor. The other temps in my office were college students who would return to school in the fall. Our supervisor told me that if I wanted to stay, I could apply for a permanent job. The pay would be better, and after a month's probation, I would have health insurance, sick days,

and after a year, a paid vacation week. She obviously saw this as a good deal. To me, it sounded incredibly dreary. The permanent workers I met were older women. Most were married with grown children. A few were spinsters whose social life were. revolved around church and family parties. At the end of every workday, I rode the tea back to Com Ave.

After supper, I showered in the tin box, set my alarm clock, and stared at the trap door until I fell asleep. The mouse traps remained set, but I still worried. Depending on Doris's work schedule, I shopped and visited the library or museum on either Saturday or Sunday. On the other day, I stayed home and accompanied Doris to the laundry room in the basement. Rent, food, and transportation consumed most of my paycheck. I hoarded change for the coin-op laundry machines and telephone calls home. At the end of the month, I had saved nothing. Moving seemed impossible.

My weekly phone calls to my parents contained lies about the fun I was having with my new friends in Boston. I stressed the possibility for advancement in my job. As unhappy as I was, I was not yet ready to return home and defeat. One day before going to work, I chanced to look back at the building I now called home. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder about the third floor. There were two apartments on the second floor. The first floor contained a lobby with mailboxes in Norman's apartment. I had never seen the floor above me.

No one from there ever joined us in the elevator. The next time I checked my mailbox, I looked at the others. along with Normans, Doris is in mine. One was labeled Crow. Doris had never seen the third floor anyone who lived there. There had been another tenant before me, but he got sick and moved out suddenly. Despite the fear that led me to plant mouse traps on top of my wardrobe, I had never seen the trapdoor move.

It might have led to a crawl space, but I could see full-size windows from the street. I asked Doris if she would wait downstairs one evening, while I rode the elevator up to investigate. Since she was usually tired at the end of a weekday, I had to wait until the next Saturday afternoon when Doris was not working the dinner shift. We agreed that when I was ready to come back down, I would knock three times on the elevator door.

When she heard the knocks, Doris would push the button and send me back downstairs. The lobby was a surprise. Instead of a beige carpet and dingy yellow walls, I found red velvet wallpaper, in a marbled floor with an oriental runner. There was only one door on the third floor. When I knocked on it, a soft voice asked if anyone was there, I replied eagerly.

Yes. Hello. I'm your neighbor. When the voice told me to come in, I turned the cut-glass knob. It was red, and, for all I knew, could have been a ruby. The door was unlocked. The air inside the apartment smelled like incense. The floors were the same marble as those of the hall, covered with what had to be expensive rocks. Wallpaper and art decorated the walls. I saw what looked like a Cézanne, a Rembrandt, and a Della Ravia?

When the voice told me to come back through, I obeyed. Walking through a foyer in a carpeted hall, I eventually arrived at a library. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined the walls. In the center of the room was a large mahogany desk and a matching chair. An elderly lady sat behind the desk. She invited me to sit in the chair across from hers. It was large with a padded leather seat. The lady's hair was pure white.

Her skin pale and lined. She wore a blue silk pantsuit and gold earrings. She smiled and said it a bed. been a while since she'd had a guest. She said I should call her Mrs. Crow. I explained that I was curious because I lived downstairs, and I thought the trapped door in my ceiling might lead to a crawl space. Miss Crow informed me that it led to a tunnel that went through a closet at the end of each hall. It gave Norman access to every part of the house except her apartment. No one could enter that except through the front door. When I asked how he got back downstairs, she said there was an override

key for the elevator. I didn't tell her that I had pictured Norman climbing down the side of the building like Count Dracula. After explaining that I was trapped in the elevator on the day I moved in, I asked why the tenants didn't have keys. Mrs. Crowe said that the back bay was not as nice as it used to be and that she would feel unsafe if people could come and go too easily. When she could no longer manage the stairs,

she'd had them removed and replaced with the special elevator. While I tried to come up with a polite way to ask her about that, she placed both hands flat on the top of the desk and pushed against it. It was only then that I realized she was sitting in a wheelchair. When I asked why she wasn't afraid to leave her apartment door unlocked, Mrs. Crow said she had her own form of protection. She didn't show her tell me what that was. I imagined a panic button, a stiletto, or a purrower,

Earl handled Derringer. The possibilities intrigued me. Mrs. Crow's smile had grown a bit strained, and her eyelids had begun to droop. She said that my visit had been an unexpected treat, but she tired easily. Her energy levels were higher around noon. I could join her for lunch next Sunday. Normand would manage the elevator, so I wouldn't need anyone to wait for me. It was less of an invitation than a command, but I had no other plans, so I agreed. She smiled in reply and suggested I apologize to Norman about the mouse traps. She had insisted he reset them, but he was not happy. It was unsettling to realize that someone had entered my room, but I could always add more traps. As soon as the elevator door closed behind me,

I knocked three times. The car descended smoothly. When it opened in the lobby, Doris joined me inside and we rode upstairs together. I told her about my lunch date with Mrs. Crow. Doris looked skeptical. She asked why a rich lady would live in a house with tenants. She warned me to be careful. I agreed that the situation was peculiar, but I couldn't imagine what Mrs. Crow might have had in mind besides a social visit.

On the following Sunday, Norman knocked on my door at noon. I had put on a skirt and blouse instead of the jeans and tea I usually wore on the weekends. After the elevator door opened on the third floor, I got out, but Norman remained inside. Mrs. Crow nodded approvingly when she saw me. There was a single place setting on her desk. A wheeled cart next to it held several covered dishes and a selection of serving utensils. She told me to help myself. When I asked if she wasn't eating, a laugh that sounded like silver bells accompanied her a brief headshake. She informed me that food was no longer a part of her life. She had asked Norman to bring this in for me. She hoped I would enjoy it.

There was a green salad, slices of cold chicken, and a bowl of gazpacho. Everything was delicious, but I had a feeling Mrs. Crow was expecting me to eat daintily. I finished the soup but limited myself to half the salad and a single slice of chicken. I ate in silence. Mrs. Crow said nothing. and she appeared to enjoy watching me eat. My hostess smiled. She said I could pack the leftovers and bring them back with me. Norman would wash the dishes later. I wiped my mouth carefully with the linen napkin

and replaced the covers on the serving dishes. Then I wheeled the cart into the kitchen, that seemed plain in comparison with the rest of the apartment, in more old fashion than the one in my parents' house. I realized that Mrs. Crow spent little time there because she had no reason to do so. I found sandwich bags in a paper grocery sack. After packing up the remains of my lunch, I returned to the library.

I had expected Mrs. Crow to look tired, but she seemed even more alert than she had been when I arrived. She leaned forward a bit. Her eyes glittered as she spoke. I sat back and listened. Now, my dear, I'm going to tell you a story. Whether you believe it is up to you. but I guarantee no one else will ever believe you if you repeated. Many years ago, a young woman lived in this house with her parents and three brothers.

They were old-fashioned people. Her brothers all went away to college, but her parents expected her to stay home until she married. In time, she married a suitable man. not young, but well-bred aristocrat and wealthy. In most stories, the couple would have been in love, or at least the men besotted with his bride's beauty. This was not the case. He wanted a wife to entertain his friends and business associates, and in time, provide him with an heir. Unfortunately, the young woman turned out to be barren.

She could give dinner parties with the appropriate smile on her lips and say the right words to welcome her husband's guests. But that was all. Her defective womb threatened her husband's dynasty. Divorce was unheard of at that time, unless one could approve adultery or insanity. Many barren wives ended up committed to the madhouse or discarded as immoral. One afternoon, the unheard of. Unwanted wife was consoling herself with a walk in the public garden. It was a pleasant June day.

She sat on a bench by the pond. An elderly man walked up to her. Normally she would have been uncomfortable to be approached by a strange man, but he seemed refined and was so obviously too old to cause any scandal that she kept her seat. He was pale and thin, well-dressed in a style she'd recognized as. old-fashioned. He leaned on an ebony cane with a clear red handle. It could have been glass, but she had a feeling it was a large ruby. When he asked if he could sit by her, she agreed. Instead of silence or polite talk about the weather, he said she seemed unhappy. He asked her if

she wanted to make a change. The young woman was concerned that the strange man might be suggesting something in proper. She was uncertain about what, precisely, that might mean. He assured her that he could change her life completely, and she would suffer no disgrace. Mrs. Crow leaned across her desk. As you may have guessed by now, the story is mine. I am quite a bit older than you might suppose, as was the man who had approached me in the park. He offered me a solution to my problem, which I was eager to accept.

Your situation is different, but I think you might welcome what I have to offer. I will not go into more details now because you need time to think. I would like you to return next Sunday at the same time. This will give you a week to ask yourself a few important questions. First, First, are you happy now? Second, do you have the means to create happiness for yourself? And third, are you ready to change your life completely? I had many questions of my own, but I understood that Mrs. Crow was done with me for now. I thanked her for lunch and agreed to return next Sunday.

Back in my room, I refrigerated the food and gathered up enough chance. to call my parents on the phone in the hall. I mentioned having lunch with a new friend. My mother told me that one of her friends had a son studying law at Rutgers. My father reminded me that I had just enough time to apply for the fall semester. I pretended to be out of change and ended our conversation. All week long, I thought about how much I hated my job. I spent all of my time either filling punch cards or scanning microfilm.

It was the most tedious work I had. ever done. Even if I tried to meet people at one of the local colleges, I knew I had nothing to talk about. I could never bring a guest to my sad little apartment or risk having one get stuck in the elevator. At the same time, the thought of returning home, as failure, to be patronized by my parents, seemed impossible. Mrs. Crow's offer, whatever it was, gave me hope. That Sunday, I slept a bit, later and dressed carefully. Norman arrived at noon and escorted me into the elevator. Once again, he left me alone on the third floor. Mrs. Crow seemed excited when I arrived, but she waited until I had finished my lobster roll and fruit salad before getting down to business. This time,

there were no leftovers. When she asked me what I had decided, I said I was ready for a change. She smiled. Excellent. I would like you to move into this apartment as my companion. The bedroom next to mine is large and comfortable. Because I am no longer capable of traveling, you would need to remain in the Boston area during my lifetime. Aside from that, you would be free to come and go as you pleased. You could take classes at one of the local universities.

You could visit museums and attend concerts or plays, go swimming or walking. enjoy meals in the best restaurants. I offer you a pleasant home and a generous allowance. I believe this would be a great improvement over your current situation. You are aware that I do not consume food and that my energy fluctuates. I absorb energy from other people. Since I am no longer strong enough to leave my home,

I must obtain sustenance from people who live in this building. I prefer not to take too much from Norman or the waitress. Their energy is less refined than I would like. Yours is more suitable. I realized that I needed to be careful what I said next. Mrs. Crow had been very cordial, but I did not want to risk offending her. Still, I needed to understand precisely what she expected for me.

I asked if she was a vampire. The silvery bells of her laughter filled the room. When she had finished laughing, she dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. No, my dear, I am not planning to drink your blood. What I require from you is more subtle. I will absorb energy. Not enough to cause you any discomfort. You might wish to indulge in a brief afternoon nap on the days I feed, but that is all.

In return, you will enjoy excellent health for a very long time. You will not be immortal. My benefactor died several decades after he met me. I have aged slowly, but I will eventually die. When that happens, my companion will inherit this house and the funds to maintain it. My income is secure and will be enough to keep you in comfort. While I require your energy, you will need to eat, drink, and sleep. After I die, you may choose to continue living as I do now,

or resume a more ordinary life. There is a ritual required to establish a permanent connection between us. If you wish to continue as I have, with a longer lifespan, you must perform that ritual with another person who will become your companion. After that, you will absorb energy directly from them. If a suitable person is not available, you can borrow sustenance from others without their knowledge. As I do now, I hesitated to offend my hostess,

but I was still curious about the mysterious life change that left her so comfortable. I asked Mrs. Crow how she survived her marriage and acquired this house. She smiled coldly. My husband's favorite horse? through him. I had the animal destroyed immediately and cremated, so there would be no awkward questions. I was told my parents contracted cholera while traveling in Europe.

I arranged for their bodies to be dealt with overseas. One of my brothers was killed in a saloon fight. Another died during a robbery at his place of business. The third never married and was happy to have me manage his household. I inherited his estate, as well. as my husbands. I asked what I should tell my parents, since people don't usually work as companions anymore. If I couldn't leave the Boston area, they would want to visit me. Mrs. Crow shrugged dismissively. She said I could tell them whatever I liked. She added that she had contacts in other states and

accidents did happen. Arrangements could always be made. Her words chilled me. The convenient deaths of so many of Mrs. Crow's relatives seemed more than coincidental. When I insisted I didn't want anyone hurt, she shrugged again. Why explain anything? You don't like your job and you have no significant ties in Boston. Your cousin doesn't care what you do. If you stay, I will evict my other tenant. I would no longer require her energy if I have yours.

Doris might have trouble finding another cheap apartment in a safe neighborhood. She'd been kind to me, and she was also the closest thing I had to a friend in Boston. I would miss her. Then, I realized that I'd never told Mrs. Crow about Flora. How did she know I had a cousin living in Boston? I hadn't told her anything about my job either. What would happen if our arrangement didn't work out? In all the old novels I had read, a companion was basically a servant. If I failed to please my employer, would she dismiss me from her life as conveniently as she had everyone else? If there was no one else in the house besides Mrs. Crow, and Norman, who would know if one day I entered the elevator and didn't leave it alive.

Norman could bury any number of bodies in the backyard at night and tell anyone who asked that I had moved out without leaving a forwarding address. Boston was full of students in need of cheap housing. It would be easy to find another food source for Mrs. Crow. I looked at the elegant old woman and realized that to her, other people were just pawns in a game she would always win. I was really frightened now. If I refuse Mrs. Crow's offer, would she allow me to leave? Would she arrange an accident to keep me from trying to escape? Even though she said no one would believe me, she might want a bit more insurance that no one would ask awkward questions. I had enough cash for a bus ticket in my wallet, but I would have to use the elevator to return to my room and

retrieve it. I'd have to pack, climb down the fire escape, and ride the tea to the Greyhound terminal. Even if I made it back to my parents' home, how did I know that Mrs. Crow's contacts wouldn't track me down and cause an accident to prevent me from exposing her secrets? What if she decided my parents were also a threat? Mrs. Crow was no longer smiling. She knew I was not going to accept her offer. She pushed herself back from the desk and told me I could go now. I stood up and thanked her for lunch. I wanted to finish my iced tea, but I knew it wouldn't quench my thirst for long. Mrs. Crowe had not mentioned my next visit.

I don't believe she expected another one. Outside the apartment, I pushed the button and listened for the sound of the elevator rising. I hadn't accepted Mrs. Crow's offer because she scared me. Even more than what she might do or have Norman do to me, I feared the possibility that over the course of a long and selfish life, I might grow to become like her. I had enough of a moral compass to know that people should not be treated as if they were disposable.

Sharing Mrs. Crow's life would make me guilty of benefiting from her actions. I came to Boston because my cousin wanted a roommate. I could have joined the Peace Corps or the Army. I could have backpacked through Europe. I could have visited Ashthram in India. They never did any of those things. I had written nothing in weeks and probably never would. I knew that I possessed neither the courage nor the imagination to do anything important on my own.

My life up until now had been wasted. I understood that even if I escaped from this house, it would never mean anything. For a moment, I considered the idea that Mrs. Crow was just a weird old woman who told stories to gullible guests. Then I realized it wouldn't matter anyway because she had held up a mirror to my life. And I could never forget what she had taught me about myself. When the elevator arrived, I stepped inside and pushed the button. The light went out, and I waited, alone in the dark. The darkness had entered my soul, and I feared I would never see the light again.

For our second story this evening, decades after a family vanishes from a hotel room, a night clerk discovers their horrifying secret. Some mysteries fade with time, others fester, and drip. Creepy Presents, drip. Written by Matt Richardson and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. Everybody who is anybody in my small town could tell you about the disappearance of the Lechtler family. Some could probably write a book more elegantly than me, because it's just one of those stories. A mystery with more questions than answers.

But I'll do my best. The year is 1994. A man calls to reserve a room at the White Valley Hotel. He needs the reservation for the next night, and he will pay cash, only cash. If he can't pay cash, he will speak to the owner, Billy, who is a known pushover and desperate for the money. The man is specific about the room.

He needs number 13. No exceptions, no switches. He will require a king-size bed, two twins, and a bottle of brandy, wrapped in gift paper, ready to go on the dresser. He will also need towels and sheets for four. The desk and service staff go about their preparations. The bellhop drive to the store and buy. the brandy. The maid shuffled two extra beds into room 13. They clean and clean and clean again, because this is a new client who offered to pay cash, no less, and business is bad. Business is

always bad in White Valley. The next day, the Lexlers show up. According to the bellhop, The father appears educated. He's older, middle-aged, with faded gray hair and a distinctive widow's peak. He wears thick, horn-rimmed glasses, the type that look permanently indented over the ear, with a freshly ironed button-down shirt, brown, clashing with black slacks. The mother, decked out in a floral print dress, ushers the wailing children like preying sheep. The Lechler's have one boy and one girl. Each are under 10 years old, and the young boy appears to be sick, because his coughs and wheezes echo through the empty halls

of the hotel as they approach the front desk. The Lechler's hand over an envelope. The sleeve is filled with money. What he doesn't offer is an explanation. and the White Valley staff doesn't ask for one, just as Billy instructed. The clerk confirms the booking. The bellhop leads the family to their room. Number 13 is nothing extraordinary. On the surface, it looks like any other hotel room. A large and complicated armor stores everything from extra power outlets to a mini-fridge.

There is a bathroom at the back with a stand-in shower and a small coat closet beside it. An oak desk sits catty corner against the wall, and the king bed is decorated with plush pillows, a fuzzy blanket, and prototypical cream-colored sheets and comforters. A small window, on the west side, looks out into the lake below. The atmosphere can actually feel pretty peaceful, considering the modern circumstances, if it catches you at the right time of day. The Lexlers thank the staff and say good night. When the bellhop leaves for the evening, seniors perched at the desk with papers spread out in front,

and a fresh glass of liquor already at the ready. The bellhop assumes Mr. Lecter as a double. doctor. The clerk swears he is a scientist. It doesn't really matter at this point, because the end result is the same. By morning, every single member of the Lechtler family is gone. That's it. Gone. Nobody saw them go in, nobody saw them go out. The room is made up, The bags are missing, the papers are gone. The twin beds have small creases in the sheets, where the children must have sat momentarily.

But the blankets themselves are completely undisturbed. The shower in the bathroom is damp. Somebody must have used it. But the towels are dry. They're just, well, gone, vanished without a trace. The bellhop calls White Valley PD. Billy doesn't want to fuss at first.

He insists that the guest probably just went out for a hike. Maybe they would come back. And then wouldn't they be furious, launching an investigation into something as simple as a breakfast trip? But he caves by dinner time. His employees are worried. The boy was sick. The woods are vast and foreboding. Anyone venturing out that late at night in the 90s

risk something serious. The world was just a lot darker in those days. So, they call the coppers. The police searched the hotel with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing turns up. They check the basement, empty. They check the room, nothing. They check the property, they check the woods, they check the lake, all a goose egg.

They can't even find the kid's tissues for a DNA swab. Then they look into the name Lector, which also turns up Zilch. So the cops settle on the idea that it could be a pseudonym, back to square one. Soon enough, the police are actually asking the town for help ridiculously, instead of the other way around. You can imagine the type of response this generated. Stories about the family volley around the town like a game of telephone. Some people said the Lecklers were spies. Some people said they were in witness protection.

Some said they weren't even human, and I don't even know how all that began at all. But one story, perhaps the most disturbing of them all, the one that occupies the mind of every White Valley resident, is that the Lechler family was murdered. They didn't like to talk about it, but everyone knew it could be a possibility. They had to. Families don't typically disappear on their own.

Who could have done something, like this. Who could have done it to children? The small town starts to lock their doors at night. A criminal investigation into Billy, the owner, begins a week later. The police traced Mr. Lecter's booking call. They know that it originated from Billy's car phone. They know he advised his staff to accept the cash booking. Officers move to bring in their primary suspect for questioning. But that night, a snowstorm slammed the valley. Billy is out for an errand, allegedly to stalk the kitchen,

and doesn't notice finely packed ice holding over a pothole. Bald tires spin helplessly for traction. The front of his station wagon catches a maple tree. The back half dips. down a ravine. Folks say they could hear the impact from a mile away. Town ambulances rushed to the scene. The police are hot on their tails.

Both are too late. Billy Walker dies from his injuries on the side of the highway. And so goes the mystery of the Leckler family. Some people view the accident as an admission of guilt. He was running, right? He was a coward. He must have killed them. He probably dumped their bodies in the miles of wooded acreage that surrounded that creepy little hotel.

The cops were just too incompetent to find them. Billy was a weird-looking guy. He made the perfect suspect. Call that discrimination or just plain distrust. Public opinion settles on its killer. Time passes without any fresh leads. The story sort of becomes local legend. They say that every small town has its secrets,

and if that's true, none fits the bill better than the Lechtler's. The police close ranks and withhold information. The details warp over time. Some say Mr. Leckler was an astronaut. Some say he worked for the CIA. Nobody knows for sure, of course. It's all conjecture.

The Belhob and Clerk are both dead now. They leave behind their own family who add their own details. The truth rarely gets in the way of a good story. Certainly not in White Valley. Fast forward to today. The hotel still stands, obviously under different owners. A nice older couple bought the property at the start of the decade. The abbots loved the historical beauty of the old building.

The hotel has its own stories, they insist, a rich and complicated history completely outside the Lecklers. The grounds were used by abolitionists, after all, and if it was good for them, it should be damn good for the brats of White Valley. The Abbott's hire college kids and high school students. They pay us like shit. There are a few guests here and there, but business is just as dead now as it must have been back in the day.

I worked the front desk on the night that our little mystery finally got its answer. That evening, Mr. and Mrs. Abbott had some business to take care of out of town. Normally, they would trust the night shift to an older guy named Jed, but Jed was sick, and the options for his replacement were few and far between. They settled on me, begrudgingly. We had four guests staying with us for the night. Mr. Sloan was visiting his mother on Mott Street, but she only had one bed, so he elected to use ours instead. The Peterson's were on a cross-country road trip, the Hinkies lost power in a recent storm,

and Tommy and Sarah Measler, teenage newlyweds, were looking to stay in the only allegedly haunted spot in town. Number 13 I know what you might be thinking. Why didn't the abbots board it up? Why did they still rent it out? The reason is not really that interesting. They needed the money. Any tourism is good tourism.

Tom and Sarah were not the first to ask to stay in that room. Over the years, dozens of Ghost Hunters are, centers, psychics, and paranormal whatevers, asked to rent room 13 for the night. They came in with their cameras, EMF readers, and bundles of money at the ready. They left disappointed, but undeterred, just the way we like them. On the night of my overnight watch, I posted up in the lobby with a big book and a rum-filled thermos. I knew the hours would pass slowly, but I never expected to be so goddamn bored.

I walked around the property and double-checked all my tasks. I took in the drifting snowstorm from the lobby. I hopped to every one of the guest requests on the dime because it gave me something to do. But the calls died down. entirely around midnight. And then it was silent. I kept myself awake by thumbing through an old short story collection by Stephen King. There was one in there about an upper-class woman who found a secret shortcut through the woods in Maine. Each time she arrived earlier than her gardener expected, and each time she refused to tell him the exact route.

The author goes on to describe a night where they finally made the journey together. The route is winding. Trees and branches and roots are leaning across the road, making the course narrower and wilder. A creature jumps out, stranger than any the gardener had ever seen, and he swears they hit it. He claims to see it, stuck to the grill, but when he asks the woman, She just keeps laughing and driving and smiling mysteriously his way. Like it didn't happen. Like she didn't have another care in the world besides that ride.

The phone rang. Have you ever been so captivated by a story that the fingers of reality disappear around you? I stare blankly at the receiver for a moment. I looked back into the snow. I couldn't stop thinking about the shortcut. Where did they go? What did they hit? Could such a place really exist?

A place that gets you from here to there faster than ever before? The phone rang again. I answered it. The shrill panic of Tommy Measler's whiny little voice assaulted my eardrums. You have to come up here, he whispered. Really, man, quick. Something smells like death. I chuckled.

Sometimes the pipes in our old hotel backed up. Tommy would not be the first to complain about it. I grabbed a plunger and walted down the hall, with the story still fresh in my mind. I wondered if the valley had a shortcut. Maybe there was a path through the woods to Fullerton. People always used to get lost back there. I knocked on the door.

Sarah opened it up immediately. She had a blanket wrapped around her face. Tom was in the corner with his head sticking out of an open window. I wanted to ask what happened, but a moment later, the smell hit me, and then I didn't have to ask. I can't use enough adjectives to describe this stench. It smelled like body odor and sweat rolled into a disgusting tortilla of old meat and beans. Have you ever left a piece of chicken or steak out of the freezer for too long, until the maggots tear it apart? Take that stink and add a thick layer of something inexplicably sweet on top of it.

I couldn't get it out of my nostrils. It invaded my lungs. I turned to gag, and even then the ranted stench still stayed with me. We noticed it after check-in. Sarah started. We thought maybe just old pipes? But now... I nodded and proceeded cautiously to the bathroom.

Plunger out in front, brandished like a katana. Sarah paced behind me nervously. Then she shook her head. Not over there, she murmured. Here. She pointed to the closet. I'm scared to get my jacket. A lot of uncomfortable thoughts went through my head.

My mouth went dry and throat spasmed uncontrollably. I walked over to the closet and thrust open the door dramatically. It was empty. Tommy shouted that they had tried that before a fresh symphony of vomiting shook his frail little frame. I looked around and found a single life. light bulb in the closet. Tom's bulky north face sat parked next to Sarah's fashionable Patagonia. I moved them aside to search for something, anything that could be the source of that horrible gut-wrenching odor. It had to be nearby. The sweetness seemed to get worse

inside the closet. My fingers caught a break in the paneling. I pulled back expect. acting it to stay in place and fell on my ass once the entire wall came crashing down. Standing still as scarecrows were a mother and two children. A thousand wires were sewn into their skin and connected to batteries in the back. I looked down at my hand and saw a sticky, gooey substance, and I couldn't figure out why. It was only when Sarah screamed that I noticed the horrible ball of wax sitting beside the children. Entrails and blood were mixed together in a misshapen little pile of blood encased in a dusty pair of slacks and a faded button-down shirt. Sitting on top of the ensemble was a distinct.

pinked pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I couldn't stop staring. Tommy couldn't stop screaming. A thick liquid leaked out into the closet and puddled at my feet. I turned to get the mop absurdly before Sarah's cold hand caught my shoulder. They're breathing, she whispered. Look. I focused on the woman.

floral dress. For a moment she stayed still. Then her chest inflated. Her eyes fluttered, and she exhaled. I don't remember running from the room. I don't remember the phone call to the police. The only thing I can picture clearly is standing outside in the snow with Tommy, Sarah, Mr. Sloan, the Peterson's, and the Hinkies. We were desperate for answers. We needed answers. But those are hard to come by in the valley. Mr. and Mrs. Abbott were devastated when the government seized the hotel.

The suits called it eminent domain, and they gave a fair price, but it was barely enough to cover retirement. The poor folks had to move in with their grandson. For months, White Valley was swarmed by paneled vans and guys with sunglasses. The locals begged for answers, in coffee shops and grocery stores around town. But the G-Men stayed quiet. To date, no official explanation has been given for the disappearance and reappearance of the Lekhler family. And no one truly knows what happened to the surviving family members.

Not even me. But a small town will always have its rumors. Some say that Mr. Lekhler must have been a scientist. Some say he could have been involved in cryogenics. Maybe the procedure had a shelf life. He was the oldest of them, after all, and the first to rot. Billy must have known about the plot to some degree. Maybe somebody killed Billy. Wouldn't that be a twist? You can bet there will be a book about it somewhere.

But it's not the mystery itself that haunts me. Not exactly. When I'm sitting in bed, praying for sleep, fighting the smell stuck in my nostrils, I think about the children. Those poor fucking children. Were they awake? Were they aware of what was happening for all those years? Because if they were, I cannot.

imagine any worse fate than being trapped in a closet completely helpless, while the rotting pieces of your father drip listlessly onto your shoulder. For a final story this evening, when Mark's dog vanishes, he defies fear and sneaks into the night, only to uncover something far more sinister lurking in the shadows. Creepy presents The Tunnel Written by Andrew Hughes Mark checks his phone for the 12th time

tosses it back down on the couch and crosses his arms across his chest the whole room is blue from the TV's glow there's a new season of his favorite show Cobra Kai but he's not really paying attention he's too focused on the fact that neither Taylor nor Hassan have messaged him back Usually they're texting all night, especially on a Friday.

But tonight, Eifery told them about Daisy at school. They hadn't gotten back to him since before dinner. He looks at the cushion next to him in size. That's usually where Daisy sits, curled up next to him, slobbering as he pets her. First a long stroke down her back, then some soft scratches behind her ears. She's gone, though. And even though he knows he knows,

he shut the back door after letting her out for the last pee of the night. Mom and Dad don't believe him. When Dad found the door open on his way to work, he'd been furious. Mom had been a little more gentle, but after checking the next door app, she hasn't been optimistic. Apparently, there had been a few animals that went missing. All the comments said there were coyotes in the area. Mark tries not to think about this.

I hate the implications. but he still pictures are furry brown snow and black pleading eyes. He's on the verge of tears, so he gets up and walks to the back door, pressing his face against the glass, he wonders, Where are you, Day? The backyard is a barren stretch of gravel, typical Arizona landscaping, with a few little outcroppings. There's a patch of artificial turf in one corner where Daisy likes to do her business. Beyond that is a palm tree and a kitty pool where they like to splash during the summer months. He studies each spot, hoping he'll see her curled up in the shadows before looking at the back fence.

It's a line of steel bars that separates their yard from the dead grass of the abandoned golf course behind their neighborhood. He doesn't see it immediately. The shadows are thick around the palm trees and rolling hills, but after a moment, the movement comes to him. Squinting, he sees it for a brief instance before it fades out of sight. A tall figure covered all in black. It's hunched over and dragging something behind it. Some brown shape with outstretched limbs. Mark's heart thumps in his throat and his eyes grow wide as a creature disappears behind

the bend in the coarse wall. He wants to reach for the door, wants to reach out there screaming, but he can't move. This reminds him of the movies he's not allowed to watch, the ones that his parents turn on late on school nights when he's heading the bed. It makes him feel afraid. He closes his eyes, holds them shut, is sure that the figure will have dissipated from his imagination. But when he opens him again, he catches a brief glimpse of it going around the curve.

Then it's gone. Mark takes a step back from the door, runs his hands through his hair, and tries to think. He knows what he should do and what he wants to do. Whenever there's danger, he's supposed to get his parents. He knows this, but he can hear Dad's voice, the anger and disappointment when he said, She was your responsibility. The shame is still raw and makes him want to ignore this even more. In his heart, he wants to run to his bedroom, hide beneath the covers.

But he can't, because Daisy's face is so clear in his head, he can't stand the thought of her being afraid, being hurt. For some strange reason, he pictures his teacher, Mr. Roberts. During a lesson on Martin Luther King Jr., he'd said something that caught Mark's interest. He thinks of it now. Sometimes it's important to do the right thing, even though you want to do the easy thing, the right thing, he says, nodding his head. He curls his fists, squeezing them tight as he takes a deep breath.

He knows what he has to do. He's a good kid, gets straight A's, never gets in trouble. Sneaking out isn't something he's done before, but that doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it. Taylor and Hassan live in the neighborhood across from his on the other side of the abandoned golf course. They discussed how they could sneak out through their garages and ride their bikes down to the playground. Of course, they'd chickened out every time they'd made the plan, but the steps are clear enough that Mark doesn't hesitate. He tiptoes down the hall toward the garage,

careful not to step on the creaky board that might squeak a warning to his parents' room. The door is open. and he can hear his dad snoring, long and deep. When he gets to the garage door, he uses it open and slips inside. His bike is already out, ready to go. He presses his fingers to the tires, checking the pressure, then grabs the handlebars. Right before he opens the side door,

the one that leads to where they keep the garbage cans, he stops. Mark's read enough monster books and draggen's stories to know that you don't go into their layer empty-handed. He scans the cork wall where Dad hangs his tools until his eyes settle on the carpentry hammer. It has a long blue handle and a thick metal hat with two rusty prongs poking off the other side.

He has to stand on his tiptoes to get it, but once it's down, he puts it in the water bottle holder on the frame of his bike, then wheels it towards the door. There's no alarm on the door. Dad doesn't believe in paying for one. when they have a dog that barks at anything. So once it's open, he's free.

His heart powns faster than ever, and even though he's afraid, he can't help but feel a little excited. As he swings his legs over the seat and kicks off, he only wishes that his friends were there to join him. Mark coasts down the driveway, sliding right into his cul-de-sac, peddling hard to get that momentum, that thrust.

A soft breeze greets him, tussling his hair, as the hammer rattles around the cup holder, threatening to bounce out onto the pavement. But as he turns right onto Maple, the road that bisects his neighborhood, it holds steady. Having it there makes him think of knights with swords and their scabbards as they ride off to rescue their allies and princesses from dragons. The image makes his adrenaline spike, and he pedals faster. everything is black and still. The houses are dead-eyed and empty. No signs of life except the car is parked out front. Some streetlights offer faint yellow glows,

but others have flickered out, leaving patches of darkness as he coasts towards the end of maple. There is a stop sign that bars cars from speeding off onto the road to town, but he doesn't get there. No. He's going somewhere even less inhabited. Right before, Before he reaches the stop sign, he views left under the concrete path that arches down towards a golf course.

The bushes lining the path are thick and overgrown, there's spiked leaves slashing in his face, but mark ducks his head and pedals hard down the hill. All around the world grows darker and darker as trees consume the moonlight. But then, right before it's pitch black, he sees a flash of light ahead. ducking to avoid the worst of the leaves, he makes one final push, and suddenly, he bursts through the overgrowth into the scant emptiness of the golf course. Here, the concrete path is decayed, crumbling and cracking, making gaps for weeds to breach. He slows his roll, looks out across this barren brownfield, and can't help but feel a little

sad. It wasn't like this when he was younger. back when they'd first moved into the neighborhood. There was no dead grass, no smashed bottles on the path making them have to skirt off to avoid a flap. The ponds weren't pits drained to brackish sludge. The golf course used to be lively,

a place where they'd go on walks, his mom and dad holding hands, Mark out front getting half-draged by Daisy, back when she had puppy energy. This memory grounds him, makes him remember his purpose. He scrunches his face into his most serious expression and pedals hard toward the spot where he'd last seen the figure. When he's parallel to his house, he slows to a coast, then hops off the bike.

He kicks down the kickstand, pulls out his phone, and clicks on the flashlight. Across from his house is the wall of brick that rises into the air, elevating the houses at the rear of Taylor's neighborhood, making sure that they didn't get golf balls through the window back when people hit golf balls here at all. Mark walks towards a wall and begins to scan the ground with his flashlight. It doesn't take long to find what he's looking for. Footprints, big and bare,

five skinny toes at the end. There's a thick disturbance of grass beside them. From where it dragged her body, Mark thinks, his heart thumping madly again. He looks up and follows the impression around the bend, follows it toward where, deep down. He already knew it was going. In the distance, he can see the old irrigation tunnel.

It's a black hole in the dead grass, a mouth in the earth. Mark takes a deep breath, clicks off his flashlight, and heads back toward his bike. He presses down on the pedals and the squeamers. the week of the gears seems to have a screech in the bright moonlight. It makes him feel exposed, watched. But he thinks of Daisy, and he keeps going down the path. It isn't until he's near the end, where the path curls off toward the desert, that Mark realizes he's holding his breath. He lets it out, takes a few short sips of air, and rides to a stop. The sewage tunnel is off to his left. The

blackness of the opening is a stark contrast to the white light of the moon. Mark slides off the seat and pulls the hammer from the cup holder. It feels heavy, heavier than it should, and his legs shake a little as he steps off the concrete path toward the tunnel. I'm coming, girl, he whispers as he follows the path of crumpled grass all the way until it meets the ribbed metal of the tunnel. Then he sees something in the light that's slipped in the, to the opening. It makes him angry, makes him afraid. He curls his fingers tighter around the hammer,

steps over the blood smear, and enters the tunnel. As he's ridden, he'd imagine this as a stealthy rescue mission. Now, as his feet thump along the metal, his footsteps echoing into the depths of the earth, he realizes there's no chance of going in quiet. He needs to be fast. Fearless, as brave as the knights in his books. Caution abandon, he takes out his phone, ready to turn on the flashlight, when he sees the text messages from Taylor and Hassan. Taylor, you up? Want to hang tonight? Hassan, sneak out?

They'd both arrived ten minutes ago. The specificity of the messages makes Mark's heart thump faster. His fingers starting to tingle. He wants to text him back, but he's got no bars inside the tunnel. As Mark looks over his shoulder, he hears the yelp from the depths of the tunnel. It's a short, bleeding cry. It sounds like pain. Mark wants to go back.

He wants to call his friends, the police. But he knows that by the time help gets here, it'll be too late. So with a cry, He turns on the flashlight and charges down the tunnel. I'm coming day! He shouts as his footsteps ring off the walls around him. The flashlight beam bouncing off the bent metal, warping its glow. Still, he can see something ahead and opening,

so he raises the hammer and keeps moving, keeps running. He emerges in a concrete room that smells of sewage. The first thing he sees is the pictures on the wall. Dozens of Polaroids organized in a heart. What? Mark mutters, his legs beginning to shake. As he looks at the pictures of him, Hassan, and Taylor, he realizes he was never really scared before.

The fear he feels now is different. It's blacker, thicker. as his eyes scan the images of them in their most private moments, changing, sleeping, playing. He steps back and his feet hit something, something soft and giving. Mark looks down and sees the pair of white legs sticking out from beneath a pile of trash bags. The feet are clad in a familiar pair of red tennis shoes. Taylor's shoes. Oh my God.

Mark mutters, the hammer slipping from his grip and clattering on the ground. He looks a little further and sees an arm, the skin brown, the hand missing fingers. Tears drip down his face as his feet give out. Falling on his backside, he tries to catch his breath, but he can't quite get it. Can't quite stop shaking. Footsteps sewn down the tunnel. the blackness slides away to his teacher's face. You came all by yourself.

Mr. Robert says as he stands to his full height. The fallen flashlight illuminates his smile. But Mark hardly notices. He's too focused on the knife. 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 Share-A-Lite licensing

or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team. and the story's author.