Creepy - The Final Recording of Emily Morrison

Episode Date: August 19, 2024

Written by: Chester Rogalski***Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Bonus Episode: "Grandpa's Stories" written by: Nicki Brumback***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.

Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons, Sharon Trask, Amanda Harris, Brittany Alonzo, and Anne-Marie Erickson. All patrons enjoy early commercial-free access to all episodes and all the other bonuses that I mention every week on Sundays. So I'll save you the routine this week. To say you can support the show and be rewarded for it, please check out to donation chairs at patreon.com slash creepypot. And before we get to today's stories, we've been getting a lot of questions lately about the submission deadline for the 31 days of horror this year. Sadly, we don't have a hard cutoff for submissions. We just keep them open until we have enough.

And you might wonder, hey, didn't he say submissions were half full a while ago? Yes, I did. And please remember, on top of the 62 or 64 stories that we read for everyone in October, we also read eight stories every week between the live feed and Patreon, not including the Holder series. That amounts to getting a lot of stories that fit our narration requirements, almost 80 alone across all of October. So we have a lot of spots to fill up. That's it.

Please get them in as soon as possible. I'd say the end of August would be the point in no return, especially since I'm already starting to prep things now. So please get your stories in ASAP. More information can be found at creepypod.com slash submissions. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. The final recording of Emily Morrison. Written by Chester Rogalski and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. It's Emily. If you're listening to this, it's already too late. That's something of a cliche, isn't it? Like something you would hear a wealthy tycoon saying a recording after he dies.

wood-paneled room, family attorney wheels in a television, on one of those carts teachers used to show movies to the class. An ominous introduction starting off with, now that I've got you all gathered, or is that more clue? Sorry, as you probably know from our sessions, I can be a bit rambly when I'm nervous. I should start with saying, it's not your fault. You did your best, and I just want you to know that. But after all these years, there was a part of me that knew he was still out there in those woods, Jack. Maybe that's why I never found anyone. I mean, it's been what, 30 years?

Because of my subconscious, I knew that he would come back for me. The video came in the mail a week ago. A plain, unmarked Manila envelope. After watching it, I knew he wasn't coming back for me. He was sending for me. And I'm going. I've got a couple of hours before I get there. Back to where it all started.

Everyone loves a good confessional, a tell-all. And this one's a doozy. Plus, Dr. Hansen, you are always trying to pry this story out of me, to deal with the trauma, prodding that something happened to me. Well, here it is. It was like something out of a movie. The moody, brooding guy moves to town, mysterious backstory. More like non-existent, but we'll get to that.

And that's who Jack was to a tea. A riddle. An enigma. Long, dark, black hair. Intense eyes kept hidden behind round. sunglasses. A jawline straight out of the Gratian ideal beauty. Always reading. Always often the distance at school sitting outside on a patch of grass under a tree reading Sylvia Plath. I mean swoon, right? Fated and tattered Army surplus jacket with metal band t-shirts that I

never heard of. The fact that he was a loner and seemed to never speak made him even more appealing. The moment he first said something to me is still seared into my mind. I was at my locker. I don't remember which book I was getting. My memory isn't that good. I hear this voice from the other side of my locker door. A deep and smoky voice like a jazz singer.

Or late-night talk radio host. It's him, telling me that I look like a cooler version of Christina Applegate. Today, who cares? But in 1993, I think if he asked me to marry him right there, I would have. I was so flattered. I mean, I was no ugly duckling. But in high school, I didn't have the most confidence.

Who does? I stared at him for like a minute with my mouth open, trying to find the words. And you know what? He stared right back into me. And nothing in the whole wide world could have made me feel so seen in that moment. All he said was, I'm Jack. And I said I know, like Han Solo when the Empire strikes back. We exchanged numbers right then and there,

and then he grabbed my hand and led me out into the parking lot, where we sat in my truck, this rusted white Ford Bronco from the 70s. It was my mother's. She didn't work, really. Collected disability and social security and welfare and whatever else she could. We listened to music while he smoked cigarettes.

I was smitten listening to him talk With such conviction about the cassettes he put on All heavy metal bands I'd never heard of We cut the rest of the day and just hung out And then I drove him home Well, not really home He always asked me to drop him at the 7-Eleven And I just assumed he was embarrassed

Or something over where he lived I was head over heels And I talked to the guy for what? Maybe four hours? But that's teen love, right? It struck quick and fast, like lightning, and spread like wildfire. Jack asked me to be his girlfriend like a week later. You gotta remember this is 1993.

When someone told you who they were, you just had to believe them. There was no, let's get online and double-check someone's story. The internet was in its infancy. Katie Couric was on TV explaining electronic mail. Short Creek Hills is a tiny town in the middle of nowhere of South Jersey. There was just no reason to dig into Jack's past. He spoke in vague answers whenever I asked him something about where he moved from. Like he had a troubled history.

I didn't press. I don't know why. The house I grew up in was always a mess. House. It was a trailer, let's be honest. Set on a little patch of grass that was never mowed. The best part were the woods right outside. Every day my mother would just sit in her lazy,

boy and watched daytime TV until it turned into nighttime TV. She always had a pile of Virginia Slims in a floral print teacup doubling as an ashtray. Married with children was her favorite show, and the only time I ever heard her laugh. She paid zero attention to me or my love life, but she was glad I met Jack. To her, the biggest thing you can do in a woman's life is get married, pop out kids. My dad ran off when she was pregnant. Never met the guy. She told me the story once after begging her to know more. They had a little fling at a resort way out in Pennsylvania called Love Cove. And then she never saw him again.

There was one picture of him that sat on the mantle. Weird, right? You'd think my mother would have gotten rid of it or something. But no, there he was. Long shoulder-length hair, a sleeveless lead zeppelin t-shirt, and jeans, leaning against a tree. Mom didn't want to rock the boat and scare off my big shot at marriage. And besides, she didn't care much that I spent all my time with Jack, encouraged it even. I would tell her all about him.

But not once did she ask to meet Jack. She never interrupted or walked in whenever he was there. Maybe things would have turned out differently if she did. I don't know. There were red flags. Alarm bells should have gone off a couple of weeks after we started. at dating. By dating, I mean we would go off on long drives or sit alone in the wood somewhere. I never saw him in class, only here and there in the hallways, when no one was around.

Or we would have lunch together outside on the bleachers, far away from everyone. But back to what I was saying. So I'm in bed asleep. My room's in the back of the house. A trailer. I loved that room. covered in torn-out magazine pictures of the bands I liked. My little dresser where I put on makeup. I had this full-length mirror in the corner of the room where I'd try on different outfits and looks. For some reason that night, I woke up.

Jack's standing in front of my closet. Once he sees that I'm awake, he takes a couple steps forward and stands at the foot of my bed. I don't say a word. I'm not scared. Weird. I know. You know what he says? I think you're the one.

Then he kissed me on the forehead and climbed out of my window. I thought it was the most romantic thing a girl could ever hope to experience. I brought it up the next day and Jack kissed me, hard, while we were parked at a Burger King. Then dropped it. When you're young and stupid, red flags are like a moth to a flame. And man, was I flying straight into it. Jack snuck in again the next night. and just stood in the corner watching me, nodding his head, not saying a word.

After about an hour or so, he climbed out and left. And that's how he would always come over, walking up through the woods and climbing in my window. Weeks went by and we spent more and more time together. Inseparable. Prom weekend is what you really want to hear about anyway. I didn't care much about school, or social functions for that matter. But I'm not going to lie. I kind of wanted to go to prom.

I had pretty much stopped talking to the few friends I had at that point. Ignored them, cut them off, spent all my time with Jack. Another red flag, if you're keeping score. So when he said he didn't want to go to prom, I was pretty bumed. Until he brought up what he wanted to do instead. We were sitting in my bedroom on the bed together when he pulled out the brochure for Love Cove. A sprawling romantic retreat way out in Pennsylvania. Instead of prom, he had gone ahead and booked a stay for us.

My God, I was so happy. I was almost in tears. A whole weekend get away with Jack? Like we didn't already spend every waking moment together. I told Jack that my mom and dad stayed there when they were young and his eyes lit up. We had to do it. But when I told my mother about it, she flipped out. forbade me from going. Yeah, that wasn't going to work for me. I had to go. I snatched my mom's keys

and picked Jack up early the day of our trip. Six a.m. at the 7-Eleven. He threw his luggage in the back and we were off. He popped in a cassette, black metal. I drove with his hand on my thigh. I had these cut-off jeans shorts on. They were really short. I still have the image of his hand on my bare skin all these years later. Nothing but highway and trees passing us by as we went. I was so happy. About an hour or so in, we hit a rest stop along the highway. I had to pee and we were both hungry.

It was one of those all under one roof food court-style places with the fast food and a little convenience store. I pulled into a spot in front and parked next to a minivan full of kids on the way to a karate tournament or something. It's funny the weirdly specific things you remember. Five or six little kids all in white robes with colorful belts. I went to the bathroom, and then for whatever reason, I decided I wanted to get my camera. What I needed pictures of right then and there, I have no idea.

I walked back outside through the lot and pulled open the Broncos back door. I'm not a nosy person, but I opened Jack's duffel bag. It was like an army-style bag made of... canvas. I looked down, just peaked, really. There was a gun, like a revolver, a bundle of rope, duct tape. I zipped it up quickly and walked back across the parking lot. I remember the sun feeling very hot at that moment, like I was an aunt under a magnifying glass. He was waiting outside the women's room, leaning against one of those old-timey games that rate your grip strength with his arms folded.

Jack asked me where I was with a stern look, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched. We'd never even had a fight before, but I imagined that this was what his face might look like when we did eventually have one. I pulled out my camera and snapped a pick of him and said that's where I was. That camera would eventually go missing,

but I can still see his look now. A big grin spread across his face. We bought a sack of greasy chicken nuggets and hit the road. The conversation went a little darker and stranger the closer we got, and the more isolated our location became. I didn't bring up the things I found in his duffel bag. Did I think he was going to murder me? No, I didn't.

Once Mom realized I left, she would know where we were going. Plus, he loved me. I really believed he did. I was 18. Cut me some slack. I thought a few months of afternoon make-out sessions in my truck with a boy was true love. I'd find out later what they were all for. Something more horrific than I could have imagined at the time. So what did we talk about, right?

Death. Where did we go when we die? Is there something after? Like most angsty teens, I was firmly in the camp of nothing. There was no religion of any kind of my house growing up. I mean, we kind of haphazardly celebrated Christmas. Mom had a precious moments nativity set that she would put out on top of the TV console. Precious moments.

Talk about a throwback. Those big dopey-eyed porcelain dolls. Jack had other ideas about life after death. He told me about how there was this guy out in Pennsylvania, who was very sick at the time. Had cancer, stage four. Death is coming and there's nothing he can do about it. What's he do?

He consults with the local preacher. Praise to God. Jesus. The Holy Spirit. Nothing works. Cancer is getting worse. And the guy doesn't have much time. The man goes out into the woods behind his property, just starts walking. And walking.

Comes to a clearing in the woods. It's a nice day in May. Blue skies, and the forest is thick and lush. Birds chirping, deer running off in the distance. The man figures, if I'm going to die, might as well be here, in nature. He sits down on a fallen tree, closes his eyes. But something comes over him. He speaks to the woods, thanks them. And when he opens his eyes, there's a woman standing in front of him,

in a tattered sack dress. Her eyes are blackened with some kind of soot or dirt. Nails long and uncut, curling around and around. Her teeth are gray and chipped with wrought, in this black hair, wild and unkempt, with a crown of sticks on her head. The man should be scared, right? He's not, though.

He feels an overwhelming sense of peace. She speaks to him, but the sound seems to come from everywhere. all around them. Tells him if he wants to live, he must bring her the lives of three of the wood. Now, the man was an experienced woodsman, a hunter, a fisherman, traps three deer,

finds them up and drags them one by one to the clearing. The man's sick with cancer and somehow finds the strength. The woman appears again and nods in approval. Then she feasts on them. Alive. The screams of the deer fill the forest. Man just sits back on the log and watches. The woman rips out organs, entrails.

Digs into tearing flesh and muscle. Naws on it greedily. Her long fingernails break off as she goes. Once finished, she beckons the man over. To complete the ritual, she says he has to become her husband. Then his cancer will be gone. Sick man agrees. A smile comes across her face.

She hands him a knife, and he slits his own throat. Falls down dead, right? Yeah, he does. But then he wakes up hours later. It's nighttime. A full moon. The full sounds of the woods at night, crickets, birds, owls, all that. Man stands up.

The woman is beautiful now. Blonde hair, white dress, blue eyes. Lucky guy, right? He's indebted to her, though. Sick man goes back home. Feels great. Doctor tells him the cancer is all gone. At the end of the story, Jack told me the most important part.

That sick man was his grandfather. But he didn't tell me what exactly the debt was that his grandfather would have to pay every year. I thought it was total bullshit. some kind of ghost story he made up to seem cool. I told him as much once the story was over and laughed it off. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your grandfather married the spooky woods lady, and his cancer's gone. Sure. Right.

He didn't push back on my lack of belief. Just chuckled a little and smiled as I kept driving down the highway. Trees and more trees passed us by, and fewer cars. The sign for Love Cove was this tacky, black, and pink thing. with one of those white signs with the black letters on it spelling out whatever. I still remember it vividly. Tonight's special, meatloaf. How romantic.

I turned down into the driveway and down a long, narrow road onto the property. There are big painted hearts with cute sayings on them, like those little pastel Valentine's Day candies. Driving range, tennis court. A pond with a gazebo in the middle. Stables with horses. Just activity after activity for couples to enjoy together. Brick building with rows of doors leading into hotel rooms.

Taller white buildings with Roman-style columns out front. At the end of it all was the office where you check in, a big yellow and white stucco building with a giant glass facade and a covered carport with a bunch of those wheeled luggage carts off to the side. We parked the car and got out. There were speakers overhead, playing a loop of a welcome-tenthed, to Love Cove advertisement. We walked inside to check in. Jack took care of that while I walked around. There was a lounge to the right, with a sign for a local comedian. I poked my head in,

rows of seats in a circular shape all facing a red curtain. Next door to that was a little bar, wood-paneled and rustic-looking like something out of a hunting lodge. On the other side of the lobby were signs for the pool, gift shop, restaurant, and glass doors leading outside onto a large patio overlooking a big body of water outside. I went out onto it, lots of tables and chairs. A big red heart with be mine on it. I walked out to the edge of the patio. There were stairs and a ramp leading down to the water.

Up here with a bench on the end and a walkway. I leaned against the railing on the edge of the patio and looked out at the water. Dense forest on the other side. That's when I first saw something a little off. The other side of the lake was pretty far. maybe two football fields. There were two people standing there, though, up to their ankles in water, not moving.

Just standing, staring across back to where I was. I waved at them. Don't ask me why, but I did. It looked like two men. I couldn't really tell. They both waved back. Jack called out from behind me and said he had the keys and we can get into the room. I looked back at where the man was standing, and they were gone.

Our room was cute. It was in the brick building we passed by on the drive-in. The bed was round with a crimson red spread and a mirror on the ceiling over it. I'd never seen a round bed before. Next to it was a little coin-operated thing with the words relaxation service on it. A vibrating bed. Very classy. There was a red heart-shaped hot tub in the bathroom, which I thought was the cutest thing ever. A big window next to the front door overlooked the parking lot. It was later in the afternoon, maybe three or four.

We both wanted to check out the sites, so we dropped our stuff and grabbed a little map that was on top of the wooden dresser where the TV was and headed outside. The grounds were sprawling, with cutely named activities spread out all over. We headed to the driving range first because it was the closest. On the way, Jack just casually dropped that he grew up nearby. about a ten-minute drive away, to be exact. A bombshell. Pretty crucial bit of information, if you ask me. I asked him why he was just mentioning this now,

and didn't bring it up earlier. It didn't seem like a big deal to me, but why leave it out? Jack brushed it off casually. He didn't think about it. How he didn't grow up with the best family. And he didn't really want to talk much about it. I asked if we could take a drive by, you know. just to show me, not get out or meet family or anything.

Even though in the back of my mind, that's exactly what I wanted. That's what happened in the movies and on TV. You met a boy, things got serious, then you met his family, and you all sat around a big dinner table with a stern father and a warm mother. And they all look at you and appraise you like a prize cow to see if you're good enough for their boy. Well, that didn't happen. because Jack turned around with that stern face of his,

like the one he made at the rest stop, and just flat out said no. Then turned around and kept walking. I didn't like that stern face, and seeing it a second time made me put my defenses up a little bit. Strike two. There would be more than three, though. I'm not exactly a baseball girl.

The driving range had this cute painted heart like all the other activities, with hot links painted on it. I had my camera with me in my bag and took it out and snapped a picture. We took turns taking pictures with it, and Jack took one of us by sticking his arm out all the way and snapping it. A selfie. But that wasn't a thing yet. We took a club out of this little painted white wooden cabinet,

and a bucket of balls each. The driving range was a wide open field with numbered markers indicating how far you drove your ball, and wooden silhouettes of wolves painted black to keep birds or geese away. Off to the side were woods, and a way out in the distance were lushy green tall hills. We dropped our balls on the teas and started whacking away, laughing and having fun together. Joking, seeing who could hit the furthest. Of course it wasn't me.

I was terrible at it. The ball went in any direction but straight. The furthest it went was maybe 50 yards after hitting a couple. Then it happened. Off to the far side of the driving range in the woods was a man, just standing right on the edge of them, about a hundred yards away. Then maybe 50 yards or so behind him was another man. They both looked dirty, disheveled. But just standing completely still, arms down.

I dropped my golf club, told Jack to look, and he did. But when he did, they both raised a single. hand and waved slowly. Very slowly back and forth, almost like a beauty queen. Then turned and walked back into the woods. I asked Jack why they waved at us. He just dismissed it, of course, and whacked another golf ball. Maybe they're employees, groundskeepers. Someone has to collect all the balls, right? I looked over at the little wooden shed where the clubs were. There was this lawnmower-looking thing with a front on it. I didn't know what it was called, but I was sure it was meant to collect the balls with.

I told him about the two men I saw across the water. He had an answer. Locals. It's public land anyone can walk on, nothing to worry about. This was strike three in my book. I should have been out. But like I said, I'm not exactly a baseball girl. We went back to the main building after golf for dinner.

The restaurant was in the back of the building, done up in lots of wood paneling and dark greens and reds. Candles on every table. A wraparound window that overlooked the lake and forest right outside. A long salad bar, with brass light fixtures over it, packed with bowls of limp produce. Taxidermian paintings of rustic settings and rustic people fishing and hunting. Very woodsy. We were the only ones in the restaurant. It was when I first noticed that we might be the only one staying at the resort at all.

We both ordered steak. I was quiet the whole dinner, gave Jack short answers while nodding my head. The waiter was an older man, friendly enough. So I asked him. Were we the only guests staying in the resort that night? Yes. We had dessert. By then the sun was setting and it was getting darker and darker out.

ice cream sundays. That sickly red cherry on top stared up at me like a dairy cyclops. I picked away at it while Jack rattled on about all the amenities Love Cove had to offer. I looked out the window. There was a line of glowing orange lights, a line of people holding torches,

maybe twenty or thirty all standing at the water's edge. I wanted to leave right then and there. It was too much. Jack shrugged it off. I wanted to run. The whole thing was just wrong. Weird. Too weird. I told Jack I didn't feel well and wanted to go back to the room. It's important to remember that this was 1993. No cell phones, no easy communication. I had to act cool, but be alert and vigilant. I tried to think of a plan. We finished dinner and left to go back to the room. The path was dark all the way back, lit up by those little solar lights people have in their gardens.

Jack didn't say a word the whole walk. And when we got back to the room, I said it. I want to go home. He nodded his head. Look disappointed, but then a smile came across his face. I sat down on the bed and drew my knees up to my chest. Something was very wrong. I grabbed the remote off the nightstand and clicked.

on the TV. Jack walked over to the kitchenette and went into the fridge and re-emerged with a bottle of wine and two glasses. A little drink to settle everyone's nerves. I took the drink, and I don't know how he slipped it in there. But I was out like a light within minutes. When I woke up, the room was pitch black except the window. There was an orange glow coming from outside. I walked over and tried to peek without bending the blinds. Maneuvered my head around and just got my eye to the hole where the string comes through that opens and closes the blinds. Just a little crack.

A smiling face holding a torch. It was a woman with greasy hair stuck to the sides of her face and a dirty dress with sunflowers on it, standing like two feet away from the window. A man next to her, dressed in mechanics overalls. Jack called my name, from behind me. He was sitting next to the kitchen table with a gun pointed at me and told me it was time for the ceremony. I asked him why he was doing this.

What's going on? What is all of this? What fucking ceremony? I started crying. You know what he said? She commands it. Then he stuck a hood over my head, bound my hands, and pushed me out.

Once outside, it was silent. I mean, dead, silent. Just the whoosh and licking of flames was all I heard. A car door opened and I was shoved inside. Whoever was driving hit the gas right away, sending me flying against the side of the vehicle. I figured it was a van at that point and I was in the back of it.

I called out, screamed. No answer. The sound of a radio clicked on and the volume turned way up. Talk radio. My feet weren't tied, so I tried to orient myself in the van. Thought if I could find the back of it, maybe I could kick the door out. Or if they hit a red light, someone might hear me kicking against it. On my way along the sidewalls of the van, slowly.

The wall turned. I kept feeling. I touched something that felt like a handle. Bang, I kicked. Bang! kicked again. The radio clicked off. I don't think there's anything louder than the sound of a gunshot in the back of a van. It was deafening. I thought I was dead. But then I heard Jack's voice from the front. His voice was cold, detached, someone else. If I tried that again, the next one would hit me.

I laid down at that point and started to cry. The van came to a stop. The back door opened, and I'm told to get out. A gruff hand grabbed me and started leading me somewhere. It was in the woods. I could tell by the sounds of the trees and how many they sounded like. The deep woods have a sound to them at night. A quiet but immense rustling of leaves, especially on a windy night. Glad I was at least in a flannel and long-sleeved t-shirt underneath.

Shorts weren't helping much, though. We walked for what felt like an hour in silence. When we finally came to a stop, I felt heat on my face. The gruff hands cut my bindings and ripped the hood off my head. We were standing in a clearing with about 30 people in a circle around a bonfire. All regular-looking people. One of them was dressed like a cop. Our waiter from the restaurant at Love Cove was there too.

Other hotel staff, but dirty, like they'd been out in the woods for some. some time. Each of them had these makeshift-looking necklaces made of twigs and leaves, with a small effigy attached to it, a stick figure with a flower intertwined. Jack asked the group who his three were. A man with glasses and a New York Giants T-shirt stepped forward. A woman wearing pink-plad pajamas, and an older man with a trucker hat on and a belly hanging over his jeans. The circle of people was more of a you, and these three walked to where there was an opening in the group. They all stood in a line. Jack stood a little bit behind them, pulled out the duct tape and rope, bound their hands behind their backs, and tied each of their feet together. Thundering and

lumbering footsteps came from somewhere within the woods. The ground was shaking. Branches broke and snapped out of sight. It sounded huge, whatever it was, like an elephant big. Boom, boom, boom. These heavy footfalls lumbered closer and closer. It stopped. Heavy breathing from whatever the creature was surrounded us, in and out, panting, snorting, like a bull or a wild horse. Then it appeared. It was an old woman with blackened eyes, long curling fingernails, rotten teeth, in a burlap sack dress. Her teeth chattered and chomped up and down excitedly. She had a crown made of twigs on her head. The woman in pajamas snapped out of whatever trance she was in, asked Jack to shoot her.

She kept repeating, please shoot me, while the old woman stood about 15 feet away. The two men next to her just stood still. stared straight ahead, and then it started. Thinking about it now, they probably knew what was coming. The old woman was on them so quick, biting, slashing with her nails, screaming as she started opening them up with their hands. She ate the pajama woman first, starting at her stomach. Mones and screams of pain filled the air.

The old woman ripped out ropes of intestines and ate grittily and excited. They were each alive for a while, while the old woman tore at their insides, clawing away at their guts. The man in the trucker hat lasted the longest before he finally died. He just kept repeating, oh lordy, oh lordy, while the old woman ate the muscle off his legs and made her way up his body. When she was done, she stood upright. Except she wasn't an old lady anymore. She was young with blonde hair, blue eyes, and an immaculate white dress. Everyone else in the circle immediately fell to the ground, bowing.

The woman stood there, in front of the mangled corpses, staring at me, then beckoned me forward. I stood in front of her, turned to Jack who was standing next to me, except it wasn't Jack. It was an old man, smiling wide. He grabbed my hand and slid this ring on it. It was like a little twig thing, made of vine. Then he said it.

Now you're mine. Forever. Something snapped in me. I fell back and ran, took off into the forest. Feminine sounding laughter echoed up from the woods, coming from all around. I sprinted through bushes, branches, the lower branches smacked and ripped against the exposed skin of my legs, waved my hands in front of me to clear whatever brush was in the way. You'd be surprised how light it is in the forest from the moon and stars, especially a full moon, which it was that night. My heart pounded as I ran blindly ahead over rocks, boulders, and downhill towards where I had no idea.

Stones and chunks of earth tumbled down the hill along with me. I heard them closing in. Shouts and whoops like animals. A gunshot. Nothing but trees in front of me to the side of me. I just kept going, running, jumping over down to trees, more bushes. I was still headed slightly downhill at an incline, which helped propel me forward even quicker.

Zigzagged in random directions, whatever I could do to fool them. I heard them start to sound farther away, shouting weird-sounding words like gibberish, unintelligible. Eventually I came to a river. I kept running along the banks of it. The open ground helped me move quicker, but I was very exposed. So I just said to hell with it, and jumped in the river. It was May, but that water was like goddamn ice.

I let it carry me, praying to God or whoever was up there that I wouldn't go off a waterfall. Or hit rapids and get smashed up on rock. rocks. I got off downstream once I saw a bridge off in the distance. I was freezing cold, teeth chattering cold. I just hoped someone would come along. A cop eventually did. I know, lucky, right? That's when I heard it. In my head, you can go, but you'll never leave. I ran the whole ordeal down to the cops. They took a report. I called my mother and told her what happened. She seemed most upset that I disobeyed her,

that I went to Love Cove. The cops who picked me up called the local police station in town over where Love Cove was at. They took a ride by and spoke with the front desk and staff in the restaurant. I was apparently belligerent and argumentative, yelling, causing a scene talking to someone who wasn't there. How I stormed out of the restaurant. I smacked the waiter in the face apparently too.

The cop who picked me up talked to me about how sometimes life doesn't work out. How it's best to just let sleeping dogs lie. Take a rest when you need it. How they've got real nice facilities nowadays. I still remember him. Forties with a nice head of hair. Very TV, Dad. I'm sure he meant well.

I just kept asking, where's Jack? That's when he put his hand on my shirt. shoulder and told me I came to love Cove alone. The staff said I was there alone. The police escorted me back to my truck and followed me all the way back to the highway. It was a long drive home. Yeah, talk about plot twist, right? I guess we all have that one point in our lives, where things go one way, and you can never go back to the way things were. I had to explain to my mom what I was doing at a romantic honeymoon resort by myself. I told her everything about Jack, what happened, what I saw. That's when she grabbed me by both arms, told me this never happened, never mention it again. After graduation, I was going

to go very far away and never come back. I could never come back. I asked her if something happened to her at Love Cove. She told me to shut up and never speak about any of it. And those friends I had? Yeah. No one remembered me being with anyone either at school. No boy, no guy. They all just remembered me sitting off alone looking like I was talking to myself. I had a lot of problems trusting people after that.

Trusting whether or not someone I met was really there. Am I crazy? That's the litmus test, right? Crazy doesn't think they're crazy. I bet you thought I went someplace to rest, like, and girl interrupted. No. I left town right after graduation.

My mother slept on the floor of my bedroom every night until I left. Joined the army. Did college in Oregon. The GI Bill. Got an okay job. But I never found anyone. Just 30 years of being alone. I had flings here and there,

but always alone in my apartment at the end of the day. My mother died last year. left me the trailer. That's why I was here, Dr. Hansen, taking care of her affairs. The disc. The video. You probably want to know what was on it, right?

It was Jack, sitting on a stone throne, looking like he hadn't aged a day, with a crown of thorns on his head. The camera was recording from about ten feet away. Behind him was just a pair of legs. beneath a tattered sack dress. The rest of the body cut off at the top of the screen.

Whatever it was was very tall. Its feet started jumping up and down, in which I can only describe as excitement. A pair of hands clapped somewhere off screen. Big hands. Wet sounding. Like slapping two thick raw stakes together. Jack flickered.

And then an old man appeared. The hands clapped again. And then he appeared in that Led Zeppelin shirt. My father. The hands clapped again. And then Jack reappeared. He smiled. And then it cut.

The tape is in the mailbox. Proof. Proof that it all happened. I get why my mother kept that picture now on the mantle. It was her proof. Proof that what happened to her was. real and it was all real but i guess somehow she was able to resist going back i'm tired though i don't want to be alone anymore i'm almost there thanks for all you've done for me but i have to go daddy is waiting for me

for your bonus episode creepy presents grandpas stories written by Nicky Brumbach. My grandfather died last week. What was that for an introduction? It certainly wasn't a surprise. The man was 105 years old. So, yeah, it's safe to say that my family and I were all prepared for his passing. Honestly, the guy smoked like a chimney and drank on a regular basis.

It's kind of a minor miracle that he lasted as long as he did. He was tough as nails, that old man. Did his own lawn work until he strained his shoulders shortly after his hundred and first and Aunt Maggie convinced him to let us grandkids take over. It hurt, of course. But I think the whole family is in that quiet sort of grief. The kind that comes when you already pass the denial and anger, thrown straight into the deep end of acceptance. I haven't cried or been on anybody.

to get out of bed. I've just been thinking. Thinking about the stories used to tell me about his homeland. About meeting my grandmother, about his first car.

One story stands out in particular. Of course it does. I'm writing this up, aren't I? Someone only does that when they have something they want to put out into the world. And I do. Because I don't know

what to make out of this. And then maybe someone out there has a more rational explanation than me. It was a summer night, back when I was maybe 10 or 11. There was a big family reunion, and my parents, aunts, and uncles had decided to go out for a few drinks. Grandpa and grandma were watching us kids. There were nine of us total. Me, my two brothers, my sister, and my five cousins.

It was getting time for us to settle down for the night. Well, we were all a little keyed up from too much sugar. My grandparents had this tradition. Sleepovers meant that we were going to make our own Sundays with whatever we wanted on top. You know how it is. The grandparents' job is to let their grandchildren get away with all the things our parents would never agree to. My own parents are the same now that I have children on my own. I'm getting distracted.

Sorry We were keyed up from too much sugar And Grandpa decided to tell us a story We laid our bedding and sleeping bags Around the living room And he settled down in his recliner Grandma had already gone off to bed I'll try to tell this as close

To how he told it to us as possible To prevent any confusion I'll refer to him by his name From this point on Otto was born in 1919, in a small farm in a village surrounded by an overgrown forest. The Great War had just ended the year before, and his father had returned. Whole and body, but not so much in mind. Those early years of Otto's life were hard.

It was in existence marred by hunger and hard work for the entire family. Even the children toiled in the fields and assisted the neighbors for a bit of extra-reacted. food. Otto's mother would walk all over the village to the houses of expected mothers to care for them in exchange for bread and milk, baskets of fruit, or spare wool. On one occasion, according to Otto, his mother was paid in the form of a spare pair of boots after a long labor. That was just the way things were back then. Otto didn't consider himself unfortunate. Every child in the village worked. All of them shared a single room with their siblings.

Where else would they sleep? And how would they stay warm on a dreary night if not for sharing the bad with at least four other children? It's simply practical. Life went on as normal into the late twenties. By that point, five more children had been born in Dotto's family. Two more boys and three girls. The closest of Otto's siblings was his sister Frida. She was just 11 months younger than him, and they did just about everything together.

If Otto was to be sent into the heart of a village to trade for some butter, Frida would follow along with her bare feet, carrying her off the path into meadows, pick flowers along the way. If the two were lucky, whoever they were visiting might give them a suite to share on the way home. It wasn't a perfect existence, but it was a happy one until the sickness came. It crept into the village one night like a thief, stealing the lives of the people one by one. It started with a headache, then a burning fever. Whatever the illness was, because then they had no name for it, it made its victims delirious.

They mumbled and screamed, had conversations with people who weren't there. They lingered for days before succumbing. Otto's household was one of the last to be struck, but it struck hard. He didn't remember much about the next few days. He survived, but most of his brothers and sisters did not. He woke sometimes to the sound of his mother's tears, but when he finally emerged from the pit of fire and dizziness and torment only his parents and Frida remained

the village was in shambles with so many dead or ill there had been no one to care for the animals or the fields that winter was brutal and people starved but the ground was frozen solid and was nearly impossible to bury them the scent of them drew the wolves The pack dragged their corpses into the forest and denied a proper burial. It was said that those souls wandered between the trees and wailed in their sorrow. It was that miserable year that convinced Otto's parents that it was time to make a life elsewhere.

But they knew that it would take some time. But time was in very short supply. Otto wasn't there when it happened. He'd been in the neighboring village helping rebuild a barn for extra money. A few of the boys made the walk out there, sleeping in the hay at night and working during the day. Before the job was done, a family friend approached him on a horse, face grim and told him to run home.

It was Frida. She'd likely not survive another night. Otto ran as fast as his legs would carry him. A wolf had attacked the girl while she was picking big. berries on the edge of the forest. A local boy had seen her being dragged away and ran for help. By the time help had arrived, no trace of the beast had been seen. The boy swore that the wolf had been far more massive than any he had seen before. Otto was horrified by the sight of his sister. Her dress was drenched in blood. She was paler than he'd ever seen her. She seemed so fragile

and small, younger than her 14 years. Everyone said that she would not make it. It was impossible that she'd survive the night. But she did. The next night they said, surely she will die in her sleep. But she did not. Infection will set in. She'll die in two or three days.

A week if she's lucky. Or perhaps lucky is not the word. but Frida opened her eyes on the fifth day. Her health returned remarkably quickly after that, but she was different. Otto's mother told him, sitting by the fire in the middle of the night when it was just the two of them, that it was like when his father came home from the war. Physically he was there, but he was different from the boy she loved who had left. She still loved him, of course.

loved him enough to marry him but he was quieter and there was a shadow in his eyes that hadn't been there before it was like that with Frida there was a shadow in her eyes that the family could not explain and she was ravenous

Otto's parents couldn't seem to feed him enough to satisfy Frida she would lie in bed at night whining with her stomach growling loud enough for Otto to hear So, feeling it was his duty as her older brother to look after her, Otto began giving free to half of whatever he got as well. When that still wasn't enough, he began to skip meals altogether. Her appetite wasn't the only change.

Eventually, she became restless. She tossed and turned at night, eventually giving up all together and pacing. She claimed that she could hear. everything. The animals outside, the foxes and rodents, to the birds overhead. They kept her awake. In her exhaustion, she became snappish and began spending a great deal of time away from the house. She went to the forest where she could be alone, where she could read and have the space to think. There was an incident one night before it all really went to hell. Their father had been teasing his daughter about her appetite around the dinner table. He made a joke about Otto not eating enough

and jokingly reached for Frida's plate. Frida snapped. She launched across the table at her father and knocked him from his chair. She clawed at his face and chest. Their mother screamed to an out across the table to pry his sister away. She turned, slapping at him, snarling, and then she bit him. Everything froze. Then Frida was out of the house and fleeing into the forest before anyone could stop her. A day passed, two. Their mother cried, their father paced.

Friends came to help search the woods, but superstition kept him from going to too far. And they had a reason to be afraid. One of the searchers disappeared. His wife began knocking on doors as the sunset, reporting that he hadn't turned up for his supper. When his body turned up, mauled and bloody the next morning, the search for Frida was called off completely.

Some argue that they should go to the city, a two-day ride from the little village. they could bring back police. Others believe that was useless. Inviting outsiders to their community was unthinkable, especially for something that was so clearly animal attacks. The villagers had always handled problems with wolves in the forest themselves. That was part of life there. You killed the wolves that hunted your sheep and the foxes that ate your chickens.

That was how things were always done. The voices that are the loudest are always those demanding to remain frozen in time. Otto's parents held on as long as they could, but there were whispers. Frida was presumed dead, but there was none of the sympathy and prayers that came when Otto's other siblings died. Everyone lost someone when the illness came, but with Frida, it was different. The villagers spoke of curses and sacrifice. They said that she belonged to the things in the forest. The couple made the difficult decision to return to their earlier discussion of immigration.

The family of three loaded up a wagon with bags of spare clothing. There were no goodbyes. They had few friends left in the village. Otto rode in the back of the wagon. his feet dangling over the edge, movement to the left caught his eye. It seemed to him that there was a wolf just beyond the trees. Its thick brown fur made it hard to see,

but it stayed with him until they left the forest. Otto's journey seemed to carry him into an entirely different world. The world beyond his village had moved on without him. It took two months to reach Ellis Island. another year for he and his father to find stable work three years before they had a home to themselves that wasn't an apartment crowded with strangers war came and auto-enlisted

fought hard and returned to the United States where he was married and started a career he lived a full life but he never forgot what they left behind I don't know how much truth there is to his story but I certainly know what he was implomely The thing that really gets me, though?

If it isn't true, where did the scar come from? On family vacations to the beach, at the public pool and when he'd worked shirtless in the yard. There were two crescent-shaped scars at his shoulder. The make was a bit more ragged than something I'd expect from a human. But the shape and size of it meant that it could hardly be anything else.

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