Creepy - The Family Tradition & Nothing to Dread

Episode Date: December 25, 2025

The Family Tradition***Written by: JT Johnson and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Nothing to Dread***Written by: Michael King and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***They're Not Shadows podcast: https://open.spotify.com/show/0Rj6kA3eJKFHRXZ7aq3gyV***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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. Happy holidays to everyone who celebrates them. Before we get to today's stories,

I just wanted to share another podcast discovery that I think y'all might like. I know some people are traveling a lot right now, and finding new podcasts is one of my favorite ways to pass time driving or waiting in airports. So I think a show like, They're Not Shadows, is one you'll really enjoy. And with over 100 episodes available right now,

they'll have more than enough to get you through the holiday season. So, if you're looking for more, immersive narration with a full cinematic soundtrack and effects to go with the tales that will have you double check in the shadows. Make sure to subscribe to They're Not Shadows, wherever you listen to podcasts. The Spotify links also on the show notes. Okay, let's get right to it before we have any more audio issues.

Well, I must be really messing with the old radio tower. And I know it sounds paranoid, but I feel like I've been hearing sounds on the roof, like Eddie mentioned. Okay, I don't know if you can hear that. But I swear it sounds like someone's walking around up there. The janitor claims it's rodents. But I don't really know how I feel about how he recommended I'd deal with him. I mean, I don't even know if this is legal.

Die evil rodents! I think I got him. Man, that sounded like a big rat. A big rat jiggling like a bowl full of jelly. Weird. Okay, I should probably go clean up the mess and give this. The station manager, a call. Let's get to the first story.

First up from writer J.T. Johnson and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Creepy Presents. The Family Tradition. Christmas music is a low drone on my car. My hands gripping the wheel. Still cold, despite the leather gloves, I haven't taken off since we left. I hate going. Benjamin's voice is low and gravely.

A reminder of the absolute fit he thrown before finally. getting in the car. Kind of fit that reminded me more of his toddler years when we called him Benji the difficult. Not the barely 14-year-old he was now. I don't reply. Instead turning the radio up, cringing his jingle bells, drones out even louder. I kept stealing glances at Benji through the mirror. His face pale, cheeks bright red despite the heat on full blast.

His arms crossed tightly over his chest. I hated it. I probably hated going more than he did, but I couldn't say that. Ben Gromold that his mother wouldn't have made him go. His voice was low. It was almost questionable if he'd want me to hear it at all. Pain twisted in my chest like a knife made of ice. As I swallowed back two.

many words. Most of them, much too vicious for a boy who was still grieving. How could I explain to him that his mother would have made him go to? That was his mother's family. That it was her fault we were even in this mess. The blame felt misplaced, but eased a piece of me all the same. It was easier to choke back the absurdity of it all by remembering, It was her family, has spawned this nightmare.

Every year. Every fucking year. There was a dull ache in my stomach, anxiety and dread colliding as I tried to force a brave face. For me, for Benji, I couldn't be sure. I just knew I needed to try and get as numb as possible. Catherine had always been better at this. always easing me and my worries as we drove the six-hour trek to her great-grandmother's house. Great-granny.

When we first started dating, she had been very elusive in talking about her family, only mentioning it very vaguely that she didn't have the best relationship with them. She had said, however, they always make sure to get together once a year. I hadn't really thought more of it. Plenty of dysfunctional families put aside their differences at Christmas time. When I sent this, she'd gave me a look I'd never seen before. It was secretive. Her dark eyes clearly holding back more than she was willing to give away at that time.

I dropped it, asking if she'd like me to go with her, which brought a quick and firm, slightly. harsh. No. I never really pressed more into it. I knew when someone wasn't ready to talk, and so I gave her space. I thought once we were engaged, she might consider bringing me to the elusive Christmas get-together. Shocked and slightly offended when she continued to refuse. What? Are they really that weird? Or are you ashamed of me? To be honest, I had had a hard time understanding why, after nearly two years, she refused to let me near them. Back then, I'd

known nothing about them. Not their names, not the drama that caused this rift in the family, nothing. If I could, I'd go back in time and try to change things. Maybe stop the wedding, maybe stop the engagement. But her, I'd never stop myself from meeting her. Not even. I'd never stop myself from meeting her. Not even with all of this. Catherine had been the light of my life, which was a saying I had found ridiculous until one morning I'd looked at her and realized, I can't do this without you. The first Christmas as newlyweds had been strained. Her attitude and all-around demeanor had changed from hot to cold. I'd ask her, completely confused, why she was acting like this.

And it was only after the umpteenth fight did she finally break down in sauce. The reason? She had to bring me to her Christmas gathering now. I'd been dumbfounded, perplexed, and again a little offended, still thinking this had everything to do with me. I don't blame myself entirely.

She had never given me any sort of inkling about her family. I had no idea what it was she was so upset about. I knew she came from money. She never said, never had to. But any person who grew up pinching pennies, making tomato soup from ketchup packets, could sniff out someone who didn't have to worry about things like rent or where their next hot meal was.

When I asked her bluntly if it was because I'd come from a less silver spoon upbringing, She finally softened, quickly assuring me and had nothing at all to do with that. So what then? What are you so upset about? If I could go back. If I could go back and change things, I would. I would keep Catherine. I'd keep every moment that built our lives.

But I'd stop the wedding. I'd stop her from linking herself to me. from linking me to her family. It's... It's hard to explain. But I know I have to tell you. She'd been so hesitant. Look of true shame all over her stunning face.

My family. We have to gather at this time. It's a tradition. A family tradition that's been happening for... longer than I even know. I nodded. Okay. And?

It was like watching someone struggle to learn how to talk. Like forming the words wasn't something she didn't want to do, but couldn't. My family is quite wealthy. I think you know that. All of us do quite well. And not because of handouts or generous checks being sent from our relatives. There's a tradition that keeps the wealth going. But the cost?

The cost is a lot. It's all she would say. And even when I begged her, then threatened to leave for the night. Still, she refused to say more. You'll see for yourself. And I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done this.

I shouldn't have. She'd looked so broken. I couldn't have stayed angry. And that night I held her. I promised her we'd make up our own family traditions to make this one as insignificant as possible. We don't have to go, Kath. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.

I'd meant it when I said it. She only sighed, wiping away the tears. That's still clung to her cheek. and quietly whispered that it wasn't that simple. Please, Dad. Benji's voice pulled me from the thick memories enveloping me. His voice now cracking. My eyes.

Meeting his through the mirror to see fresh tears lining his brown eyes. Dad, please. Let's go home. I don't want to go. I choked back a sob. Gild, clawing at me like a cage wildcat. My throat bobbing as I swipe my hand quickly over my face. It's not that simple, buddy.

He kicked my seat, his sobs turning to growls of frustration, his breath's becoming thick and seething, his rage and fear palpable as a song, Mary, did you know, hummed quietly in the warm air. The first time I made great-granny, I'd mistakenly thought it was her fault that Catherine didn't like going back home for the holidays. The old crone was like a living, breathing artifact from the olden days, like some strange, withered witch torn out of a house with chicken legs.

She was the epitome of every wicked witch in every childhood fable, right down to the gummy and toothy grin that winked out from her many wrinkles. rest of her family had all been strange, but not enough to make me think that it was their fault. Catherine had built up so much fear for coming here, for bringing me here. The women all carried similar features to cath, dark eyes, thick black hair, similar heights, body structures. They all seemed to sport the same array of freckles, something I mentally noted to bring up later. The men were all quiet. when I did catch the eye of one, I'd try to offer a half-smile and shrug.

Just trying to communicate with anyone, yep, I'm the new guy. No one introduced me. No one offered their name. Instead, we all seemed to move into a weird line with great-grannie at the head. Hunched and breathing raspy, sour breaths in her small wooden chair. Beside her was a doorway. A ridiculously tall, narrow doorway. With the darkness I'd never seen before, or since.

Only there. I'm sorry. Catherine had squeezed my hand, moving to stand in front of me, her fingernails biting into my palm. You have to do it. You can't run away, or it'll automatically go to you. She looked at me. Wide brown eyes pleading and apologetic. Just do what I do.

And you'll be okay. You have to be okay. For the first time, I finally found some long-forgotten instinct, waking up and squawking loudly. I was in clear and imminent danger. I had felt my skin go hot and cold. My eyes darting wildly around the room, taking in the faces of all of her family.

Scared. They all looked scared, shitless. I don't want to be here. I whispered it. She only shook her head, her mouth curving into a cartoonish frown, as the line slowly inched closer to the dark doorway. When we neared the door, I was close enough for Great Granny to pin me with a predatory. her small eyes glinting like polished cold as she licked her thin cracked lips she said something

language not one i knew albeit i only knew a handful of spanish whatever she'd said had made catherine pale eyes like saucers her grip becoming do as i do don't run try to not be afraid or try to not show it, okay? She had sounded like a girl in that moment. Her voice was so small, so terrified. At last I understood when it was finally time for Catherine to walk in. Her hand tugging me in with her, despite the whispers of disapproval from behind us.

I had the feeling it wasn't the norm to go in two at a time. But I was grateful I didn't have to walk into the cold, dark space alone. Once through the door, I could see there was some dim light coming from the other side of another door. Catherine's breaths had been shallow and quick as she pulled me along. The second door was opening with a long, grown. The actual, she'd hushed me, her clammy hands slapping over my mouth before I could say anything else. Two candles were lit on either side of the same. the thing that stood in the center of the room.

The air thick, smelling like salt and dried meat. It stood strangely tall, unnaturally so, with a faded red vest that might have been velvet, a tall black hat adorn with gold twine, and tarnished brass buttons lining the front of the moth-eaten coat. It was,

A nutcracker or something meant to look like one. It stood rigid, arms locked into perfect 90-degree angles, gloved hands holding on one side a brass scale, and in the other hand, a glass cup. I'd followed behind Catherine as she walked closer, taking in the fleshy, leathery surface of the nutcracker, almost two realistic eyes that gazed out. The large nose.

painted a bright pink to match the circles that covered the thin cheeks. His mouth was wine, with deep grooves running on the edges of his chin, just as traditional nutcrackers won. Yellow, large teeth lining the top and bottom of a lipless mouth. A patch of long, scraggly white hair seemed to grow like dead roots from the painted chin. I'd felt sick in that moment. A part of my brain understanding. What I was looking at was and wasn't a nutcracker.

As Catherine moved to stand directly in front of it, I saw the chest cave in. A terrible smell seemed to radiate out of the black mouth. My stomach twisted. My gang audible as I watched Catherine's back stiffen. She reached. As her hand rose, the bottom teeth and chin jutted downwards until the nutcracker's mouth was now a glaring cavern.

The smell pulled a long forgotten memory from their now spinning thoughts. My younger self, cracking open an old freezer someone had dumped off, an old gravel road, rancid hot meat. It had filled that summer air with such a punch and stench. A smell Like what I was smelling now I watched her hand go into its mouth Then her forearm

Then her elbow Until the entirety of her arm Was lost inside the grotesque nutcracker I gaped with thrumming terror As the scales in one hand began to bob up and down Until one side seemed to be heavier than the other I looked at the cup Which didn't move at all

before forcing myself to look back at Catherine. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth moving quickly and soundlessly. But I had thought, in that moment, I was seeing my wife pray for the first time. I don't know how long it lasted. Time becoming some strange foreign dream. There was simply a moment when the mouth began to open with a bone-crunching grotto. and Catherine carefully pulled her arm from the dark mouth. She let out a long, shaking breath.

Her face pale. Her eyes almost black against the colorless wash of her face. As she moved to the side, motioning with a shaking hand for me to come forward. To be honest, the first time was a blur. I can't really remember. Like the fear I felt was enough to make my brain. lock away those memories. I can tell you that I saw something, flicker in the glossy human-like eyes, that I felt hot air on my arm as it went into the gaping mouth. I can tell you that the

teeth were a dull pinch against my upper arm. When I was done, I remember stumbling away, allowing Catherine to drag us out of the room. Through a door I hadn't noticed, I collapsed to my knees, choking back gags as I looked up into the crowded room, as the equally pale and terrified faces that met my burning eyes. I'm not sure what his name was, but a man in the dark green sweater handed me a glass of whiskey. Then another after, I tossed the first one back in a greedy swallow. Please, Dad. Benji's voice was quiet again. His breath's heavy but slower. as he pressed his head into the window. His voice a distant whisper as I fell into my memories.

Please don't make me go. After I'd had three, maybe four glasses of whiskey, I told Catherine I wanted to leave. She didn't object. Simply took my hand and we walked out. Great grannie's laughed her biting after our quick steps as we left. Now I'm not great at math. but I knew there were too fewer people in there

than had been before. We got a room out of bed and breakfast a few miles away. I didn't think I could handle the drive home. Catherine didn't seem to mind stopping for the night. Once in our room I nearly exploded, demanding she told me everything. And I meant everything. It's the traditional.

tradition. Two must be sacrificed. When great-granddad was alive, he would sit in that room in a chair like grannies. He would weigh your, your character. He wouldn't speak. He wouldn't ask questions. He would simply hold your hands. She'd taken mine as if to mimic a memory playing in her mind. And he'd hold them until he knew. only took two. Her voice was soft. But two all the same. The ones who were the worst of us would be chosen.

Back then, it would be by Granddad's Blade. After he died, great-granny had him done up into the Nutcracker. I don't know how she did it. But his bones, his flesh, his eyes. He is the nutcracker. And it is much darker now than when he was alive. Whatever magic or curses or old ways she used to turn him into it, it will judge you and it will claim you should it think you're terrible.

I denied it. Calling her crazy. Calling her family crazy. Then throwing up violently before finally being able to hear more. Great Granny makes us come. Those who do not are automatically chosen. It doesn't matter where you are, even if you're in the same land. If you do not go, then you will die.

I'd asked why. Why do it at all? Our family's success, our abundance, is linked to this tradition. Those who do not get chosen will thrive and prosper. I'm not saying it's worth it. I'm saying I have no choice. This was in place even before my mother was born. I'd cried.

I'd like to think it was because I was emotionally drained, driven to tears by the event of the evening. The truth? I think I cried because I realized. realized I would have to go back, that I would have to do it again and again and again. The realization of how many more times I'd have to return to that damn nutcracker, sending me into a true emotional spiral. We'd gone every year, even when Catherine was pregnant. She had to endure placing her arm into the nutcracker's mouth, waiting to be judged.

by something not alive or dead. When Benji was born, I was terrified that I'd have to hold up my infant to the nutcracker. To have to wait for the nightmarish thing to deem my son good or bad. Catherine had been calm, even relieved, to explain that children under 13 did not do it. Once they were of age, though, they would have to. Last year was his first year. It had been a rather tumultuous year for me and Catherine. Strained work hours along with what felt like Catherine becoming more and more emotionally distant

had left us both haggard. We have finally somehow come to amends on our way to her great grannies, which had left me feeling somewhat relieved, worrisome at the same time. When we'd made it to our place in line, Benji stood. there behind Catherine and in front of me. In memory, he's so small. Even at 13, I cannot help but somehow see him younger. He never, ever, should have had to be part of this.

We'd explain to him the tradition, the whole thing, and I'd try to prepare him for a great-granny, the nutcracker, but I knew nothing would ready him for what was to come. He'd been behind Catherine, I'd been holding his shoulder, trying my best to ignore the grinning gleam of great-grannie in her little chair when a terrible, terrible sound came. Her scream was like glass-breaking,

like metal being ripped. My mind, my heart, my soul, I'd left my body in that moment. I watched through horror-stricken eyes as my wife's body was ganged up and then into the mouth of the nutcracker. As if moved by an unseen force, the bottom teeth kept slamming up and up into Catherine. First her face, her skull crunching loudly, her eyes bulching, then popping out of her sockets, her head caving in farther. and harder the teeth crunched into her. Shoulders went in, bone and muscles snapping, cracking beneath the unforgiving teeth. Her torso twisting and bending until it resembled putty being mashed over.

Her screams had stopped, but my own. Benjys had filled the space. around us. Navrednik. Great-granny had cooed to me. And then to Benji, her claw-like hands

clapping delightfully. Her small slipper feet kicking out with wild glee as a laugh of Catherine's body vanished into the mouth. I'd barely been able to hold on to Benji, who was flinging himself towards the nutcracker,

towards his mother's lost body. I'd only been vaguely aware of the hands pulling at me, the arms wrapping around my shoulders, my stomach, my own hands gripping into Benji's shaking shoulders as I was struck away. The tradition is finished. A voice had ferociously whipped into my ear, and take it point. I'd done just that. Tearing away from the stranger, my son's flailing body held tightly in my arms as I flew down

the stairs, slamming us into the car. I've been driving practically blind. My tears making the world a blur of snow and headlights. My actions propelled purely on shock and adrenaline. My brain no longer functioning. Just running on a robotic-like autopilot. I knew I had to get away. I knew I had to get Benji as far as I could.

I took us to the same bed and breakfast I'd stopped at the first time I got lost in a state of numb pain Unable to process or even comprehend what I had just seen The image of my beautiful wife my precious Catherine still burns brightly But worse when winter settles in the first flecks of snow The first songs of the season awaken that fear that hides for most of the year. The memory of her death, of her terrible, awful granny cackling, the smells, the way her eyes popped and rolled away.

I looked in the mirror of Benji, his eyes dry now. His mouth still pulled into a frown similar to the one Catherine would have. His hands shaking as he sniffed helplessly. Catherine had told him before how their tradition was absolute. Then no one got out of it unless you wanted to forfeit your chances. I stared at him. My cheeks damp with my own tears as I reached back, blindly grabbing for his hand.

He squeezed my hand once before tearing his hand away, his mouth setting into a firm scowl. Honestly, Ed sincerely debated not even going. Something inside me demanding I know. not damn myself and my son to certain death. Fuck this tradition. Fuck this family. Catherine's dead and we are no longer connected to these people.

A rational person would say you couldn't die from now going. The real threat was that nutcracker and the old witch who seemed to drive this terrible situation. A rational person would say, just don't go. But I knew better. I'd seen with my own two eyes what happens when the nutcracker found you to be nevrednik. A word I later found out meant unworthy. Benji quietly pleaded with me, begging me not to go. His voice was low and quiet like a man who thought he was on death row.

I said nothing. The music's still playing quietly as I pulled the tires onto the familiar private drive I'd seen every December since I'd married Catherine. When the old house came into view, I let out a single sob before choking back any and all emotion. I looked at Benji in the mirror. As I was meeting mine with a defeated stare. We have to do this, Benji.

My voice was not my own. It was firm and cold. It made me remember the stoic expression, Catherine. would wear every year, the face of an animal who knew they were going to the slaughter. It's the family tradition. So, um, let's get to the second story while I do my best to hide a sleigh and a body. From writer Michael King and narrated by J.V. Hampton Vanshand. Creepy presents. Nothing to dread.

Will couldn't be sure. but he thought he'd awakened to a clattering at his bedroom window. The position of the moon and the pale horizontal blinds created a showcase for shadows. While he slept, the leafless tree in the backyard had stepped closer and lowered its spiky angular head into the room. He told himself it wasn't moving, that its twiggy hand hadn't reached out to tap the glass.

When the branches started outright bouncing again, Will rolled onto his side and wished he'd piled into the van with his family for the three-hour drive to his grandmother's homemade chicken noodle soup and candy cane-topped chocolate pie. He dropped one arm off the bed and, stretching with effort, touched the baseball bat he'd put there earlier. Whatever was going on outside wasn't worth the fear response building up in his chest and belly like air pumped into a tire. Maybe a squirrel was off-schedule, or a monkey had escaped from the zoo? The motion seemed rhythmic, reminding Will of a seesaw, or, better yet, a handsaw sawing away at a limb. Shadows swayed and darted on the wall and on the closed closet and bedroom doors. It was not the wind that caused the commotion, or a hand-saw. Even with the hum of the bedside fan and the rush of heated air through the registers,

he would have likely heard either. Will crammed a pillow under one ear and wondered what small sounds the white noise might be hiding. Rolling onto his back again, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and replied to text from a friend and two relatives with an image of stockings hung on a fireplace. The shadows slowed and stilled. He sighed with relief, noting for the first time, chips of some sparkling material scattered throughout the popcorn ceiling. Now, more than ever, he regretted lying to his parents.

He had told them they'd scheduled him to work at the theater before he'd remembered to request time off. Considering his traffic jam of homework and the holiday uptick in hours at work, having the place to himself for the weekend had seemed too tempting to resist. Not that he'd used the time wisely. Other than provoking his inner chicken shit, he'd accomplished almost nothing. He imagined his sisters sugared up Gallup around the house and realized he missed her. Metal clanked in the backyard. Will kicked free of the shifting comfort. Will kicked free of the shifting comforter and dropped his feet onto the carpet. The space between his back and the

window seemed to contain a prickly charge. He stared at the phone in his hand. Only one thing could have made that noise. The lid to the barbecue. The gate latches were rubber-coated. No animal had lifted that lid or wedged in between that thing in the house to knock it off kilter. He remembered his father talking it up. He had paid for quality and craftsmanship. It'll still be around when you're my age. Will gasped, squeezing his phone.

What sounded like a handful of pebbles struck the glass. He got to his feet and crept to the window. He reached out to finger the blind. but pulled his hand at the last second. He needed to see outside, but without giving himself away. He stood, eyeing the darkened phone at his side. How many times had he heard something, or seen a shadow, and found anything threatening when he worked up the guts to investigate?

Not once. He had to look. He wanted to solve the problem, not be a part of it. He couldn't even call the police until he peaked. Will couldn't make his hand open the blinds. His monkey brain had taken over. He thought about the bat under the bed.

Were the blinds downstairs and the dining room open? No. He'd closed them when he locked up for the night. Just look. He edged closer. to the window, trying to peer through the gap between the blinds and the window frame, but he couldn't find a good angle. He took a breath.

The window screen was dusty, acrid. Instead of pushing through the fear, he stopped fighting it. He took in another big breath and exhaled, and then he pushed. He had meant to use a couple of fingers, but he'd. He'd gotten his whole hand in there to pull down one of the blinds. His knuckles bumped into the cold glass, but not hard enough to make noise. He looked down on the barbecue, through whatever fluid spattered the window, and he felt his body freezing up. The barbecue lid rested against the back of the house.

Wisp of smoke curled up from whatever pale thing sizzled on the grate above the high flame. A large, naked man in a Santa hat stood in the backyard. Moonlight touched his graying temples and glinted off the silvery arms of his eyeglasses. If the weatherman had called it right, the temperature was well below freezing. Yet the whole of the man's hairy body glistened with sweat. Though he had a good-sized belly and a huge ass, he looked strong. He appeared to be studying his toes. Then he bent over and bared all.

Will's eyes strayed to the back gate of the privacy fence. It was wide open. The man stumbled back from the tree, his big ass jouncing. He clutched something unseen in the slain. slick black fist of his right hand, or maybe his left. He opened his arms wide as if to present his handiwork. It was then, Will notice, the tree and the ground around it. As if decorated for Christmas, the tree was strewn with body parts and steaming entrails.

Will's mouth filled with saliva, when he locked onto the neighbor lady's shapely leg, dangling from the blackish-brown mess tangled in the tree. He had told himself a hundred times not to look at the woman that way, but he'd never been able to help it. Not even now. Another private piece of the woman hung nearby. Frantically, he searched for some naked part of the husband. It was only fair. The toenails of a male foot caught his attention.

and near it, what might have been the bobble of his neighbor's testicles. He swallowed. Two headless, limbless torsos leaned up against themselves and the back of the tree trunk. The naked man turned Rita's once pretty head toward the house. Her mouth hung open, toothless. Darkness glimmered within. A pang of some of something. some icy truth spread through Will.

It was all too much to take in at once, but he couldn't turn away. The man appeared to get an idea. He cocked his head as if listening for sleigh bells or police sirens. He nodded. Leaping over the bits and blobs of gore that dotted the sleeping lawn, He dashed to the open gate of the fence. Will hoped he would shut the door on the way out. The man stopped, his muscles tensing, and slowly turned around.

His face was familiar. Will thought he lived a few houses down and across the street. The man's glassy, colorless eyes lifted to his. Will gaped, mesmerized. The man's fist rose, opened. He tossed its contents. Though Will never broke eye contact, his peripheral vision widened and zeroed in

on the black and white fragments bouncing on the dormant grass. Teeth. Even from this distance, with roots attached, he was certain they were human teeth. He remembered the sound they had made on the window. The lowest part of the man's gut was clotted with gore. He covered his mouth with one hand and gawked in mock surprise. He ran the hand up and down his face to erase the expression.

His eyebrows knitted. He placed a finger beside his nose, pointed at his Santa hat, and then it will. He wagged the finger side to side. Nauty boy, you're not supposed to see Santa. As the man took off toward the back door, something shifted in the dark mess beneath his belly. Will noted the deafening shatter of the patio door and the man rumbling through the house and up the stairs.

It all sounded so, close and yet removed, as if the door were made of zoo quality glass instead of flimsy wood. He wasn't sure when he dropped his phone, grabbed the bat, or pushed in the tiny tinny button on the doorknob. The bat handle dripped moonlit sweat. He considered jumping out the window. Instead, he choked up on the bat.

Maybe if he stood there, quiet enough and still enough, he'd be okay. Maybe, just maybe, he'd wake up. 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.