Creepy - The Forever Experiments

Episode Date: November 28, 2022

Pain. Die. Repeat.***Content warning: torture***Bonus Episode: "In the Order of Galliformes" Written by: Paul Caseley and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. 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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and we'll put a quick call out to see if we can get some more Sunday story submissions. These stories are specifically over 3,500 words with a single narrator. I can't stress that enough for those who've submitted stories that we decided not to go with. We've been trying to do stories that can be told by a single narrator instead of a full cast. Personal stories. The way you tell them to another person. Limited dialogue from other characters, more first person perspective, like how you'd retell it to someone in real life.

Not too much of the he-said-she-said type dialogue that works better in novels and short stories than narrations. If you have questions about this, feel free to reach out and we can clarify what exactly we're looking for. And if your stories for a specific time of year, like, say, Christmas, please account for production and submit them at least a month prior to whatever holiday or time year you'd like them to appear. Okay.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing The most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. The Forever Experiments.

This story was sent to the podcast from an email address that has since been disabled. Let me get the background stuff out of the way. I used to be a highly regarded person in my field. Then I did a bad thing. A bad thing that would result to me going to jail for a long time. But that's a thing about life, right? If you're good enough at a thing that someone else can profit off of, you'll be okay. Suddenly, my charges disappeared and I had a new job.

A job that required a 12-hour-long psychiatric evaluation using techniques I'd never seen before. But a job nonetheless. When you're dragging yourself through the desert, you don't get picky about the brand of water offered you. Especially when it's the last one you'll ever get. Forever. So I ended up at Omega to Alpha. O-A to people who work here. But I'm guessing no one's ever heard of it.

As I understand that they started as a consultant firm that worked on reverse engineering before they stumbled across the forever experiments. O-A found me. They knew what to look for by then. In the end, despite what I know for a fact be a number of red flags, they offered me a job, which was its own red flag. Why would any private sector firm hire a physicist whose track record included highlights of functional alcoholism and negligent homicide while working for the Department of Defense?

Because I fit a very specific profile. My desperation was a big part of it. You need to be desperate to do what I do. Supposedly, they had connections. They could make all my problems go away. So I took the job. In the end, they hired me and I found myself in a black sedan being driven to a heavily guarded compound in the middle of nowhere, Utah. And that's saying something.

I don't know for sure. It was night. We could have been driving in circles. Through two security gates and into a security entrance, passed a retina and fingerprint analyzer, and finally into a 10-by-10 room. The room was empty, saved for the main room. man standing in the middle of it. In front of three doors opposite the door I entered. He looked to be about 40 with a buzzed haircut, a few days of stubble on his jaw that was probably just his style and a suit that didn't particularly fit him well.

The door closed behind me. He introduced himself as Vance, my liaison at O.A., and held out his hand. I stepped forward and shook it, looking over his shoulder to the three doors. Van stood there silently for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small pack of spearmint gum. His thumb pushed a single stick out of the pack and asked if I wanted some. I immediately became aware of our proximity and the likelihood that he smelled vodka from my morning coffee. I took the stick and nodded my things. He put the pack away and told me to step through the door to get started.

I looked at him for a moment. He said the words like I was supposed to know what kind of research he wanted me to do. All I had to go on was the assumption that I've been recruited because of my work with the DOD and the G-Force research I was doing with the Air Force. Then it occurred to me. He said the door, not a door. When I asked him which door, he just grinned softly and said whichever door I'd like, not knowing what to stay and still mildly afraid that they were going to retract their offer. I walked past Vance and grabbed the handle of the door on the right.

I opened it and walked through. What was through the other two doors? Your guess is as good as mine. There was a wall to my immediate left as I opened the door so whatever was there wasn't for me to know. And I'd never find out. I walked down the hall and Vance followed close behind. the soft click of his shoes on the ground drowning out the soft padding of my sneakers. Vance told me I'd be working with Group 3, and that, as he put it,

they're currently working on some pressure testing we know you're familiar with, so you should be able to jump right in. I followed Vance's directions as he guided me through the twists and turns at the sterile white hallway. Occasionally, we passed another man or woman wearing a lab coat, but they never made any motion towards saying hello or even registering we were there. In hindsight, I suppose that's because we're all just ghosts. No, not literally. Just emotionally.

Finally, Van stopped outside of an unmarked door and waved his hand, offering for me to step inside. I turned the knob and entered a surprisingly large room. It had to be in order to fit a thermal vacuum system space simulator chamber in the middle of it. The name explains it perfectly. A 12 by 22 piece of equipment that simulates the vacuum of space. There are 2 35-inch cryo pumps with ball screw activated gate valves. 25,000 LPS designed to achieve an ultimate pressure of 2 times 10 to the minus 7 tour,

and maintain 2 times 10 to the minus 5 tour with a 0.5 TLS in-leaked. It's not some piece of secret machinery. You can buy one on the open market if you have about 700Ks sitting around. I'd used it in the past, except this had a macabre modification. There was a single steel chair bolted into the middle of the chamber, complete with metal restraints. I noticed it right away. Vance noticed me, noticed it. He ushered me into the control room to meet the rest of the team. A man and woman stood inside, who I'd later be introduced to as Cape Brenner and Miles O'Rourke.

there's no such thing as a senior or lead scientist at O.A. Everyone's at the same level and only works towards a solution to the presented problem. And what problem were they working on at that moment? Before I could introduce myself, Kate shushed me. She actually shushed me, waving away my hand like I was some kid in school. She tapped a button on the console and said, Ready for three. A voice on the other end of the comm said,

Bringing three. I stood there silently and watched as they brought in a youngish-looking Asian man, maybe 25 years old. And when I say brought in, I mean wheeled in on some kind of contraption that looked like a wheelchair, but bigger, like it could go off-road. He was wheeled in by another man wearing a white lab coat. When they reached the chamber, he turned the chair around

and backed it into the chamber. The wheelchair then connected to the chair in the chamber, and some sort of hydraulic mechanism slid the man, named three, into the chamber chair, and locked him in place. I asked what they were doing, but no one even looked at me except for Vance, who never stopped looking at me. As a wheelchair was rolled out of the room, Miles tapped a button and said, session number 451, active. Closing chamber door. I began to move towards the control panel. To what end? I don't know.

But Vance's hand was on my shoulder immediately. His grip strong and commanding. I stopped because... Well, because they knew I would. I watched as a chamber closed with a muffled echo. I watched and stood by as Kate counted down. Five, four, three, two. It's not like you think it is.

In the movies when someone is sucked out into space, they explode or make things more cinematic somehow. In reality, when the human bodies expose the vacuum of space, a number of injuries begin to happen immediately. They start out minor enough. The first is the expansion of gases within the lungs and digestive tract due to the reduction of extreme pressure. In the case of explosive decompression, a person could increase their chance of survival by exhaling within the first few seconds. otherwise death is likely to occur once the lungs rupture and spill bubbles of air into the circulatory system. In the absence of atmospheric pressure, water will spontaneously convert into vapor, which would cause the moisture in a person's mouth and eyes to quickly boil away.

The same effect would cause water in the muscles and soft tissues in the body to evaporate, prompting some parts of the body to swell it twice their usual size after a few moments. This bloating may result in some superficial bruising due to broken capital, but not enough to split open the skin. Within seconds, the reduced pressure would cause a hydrogen which is dissolved in the blood to form gaseous bubbles. Scuba divers called the bends. After about 10 seconds, a personal experience loss of vision and impaired judgment, and the cooling effect of evaporation will lower the temperature in the person's mouth and nose to near freezing.

Unconsciousness and convulsions would follow several seconds later, and a blue discoloration of the skin called cyanone, would become evident. At this point, the person would be floating in a blue, bloated, unresponsive stupor. But their brain would remain undamaged and their heart would continue to beat. If pressurized oxygen is administered within about one and a half minutes, a person in such a state is likely to make a complete recovery with only minor injuries, though the hypoxie-induced blindness may not pass for some time.

Without intervention in those first 90 seconds, the blood pressure would fall sufficiently that the blood itself would begin to boil and the heart would stop eating. There are no recorded instances of successful resuscitation beyond that threshold. No, official, record that is.

Welcome to O.A. All those things I just mentioned happened to three. His mouth opened and a scream that I'd know where to go. And the chamber was kept on for five minutes as I stood in horror, visibly shaking of what had just occurred, hoping that it was some kind of prank that I wouldn't know I ever understand. When the chamber door was open, we could fully see the blue-en-blooded corpse of three

slouched as much as his imprisoning chair would allow. Lifeless. I threw up. Vance ushered me towards a bathroom to clean myself up, then back into the hallway where I couldn't find the words to yell. All I could do is repeat a single word. Why? Why what? Vance said in a genuine tone. Why did you kill that man? I asked, the bile still burning the back of my throat.

He told me I didn't understand that what we were doing is singularly unique and the results change the flow of history. By murdering people evidently, I pointed out. Vance took out his phone and texted someone. He took me back into the hall and waited less than a minute for a door to open and the wheelchair to appear. It was a youngest Asian man, maybe 25. I know it's a racist thing to say, but I couldn't be sure if he looked a lot like three or was three. I mean, it was impossible. It had to be some kind of trick, but I couldn't manage a coherent sentence. Long story short

Yes, it was three At that moment what is there to say? What would you say? Actually, I can answer that. If you'd say anything, you wouldn't be where I was standing. They wouldn't want you. They wanted me.

They wanted someone so lost or trapped or afraid that they would be part of the forever experiments. Vance led me to a small, meeting room and sat me down, handing me a bottle of water. I shook my head. He set the bottle down and pulled a silver flask from his suit coat, unscrewing the top and held it in front of my face. I stared at it for a moment before grabbing it and taking a pull without even smelling it. It was vodka. And my brand. Then Vant sat down and gave me the history of O.A. I'll save you the unnecessary sales pitch and give you the abridged version. About 25 years ago, OA made a move to get

involved with human testing of pharmaceutical drugs. There's a pretty big stretch considering their engineering background, but the dollar signs were there. Five or so years into their testing, they came across a participant that changed what they did. He was African American, claimed to be about 40, looked closer to 20. He had no personal history of illness. He was just down on his luck and signed up for a round of testing for the money. The fact that they ever discovered who he was was a fluke. See, the drug they were testing at the time had gone through all the required stages of the testing before it got to human.

But somewhere along the way something was either fudged, bribed, or just downright done wrong, and the batch of drugs they were testing was tainted. Of the six people in the testing round, five died. Only one survived with no ill effects. He would later go on to be classified by the name one, the only name he would ever know again. Vance said that one at a very peculiar anomaly on the genetic level, that they were, as of yet, unable to simulate. They were, however, able to track down five other individuals with the same anomaly. They are the basis of our testing.

In fact, they're the only humans we perform our testing on. We call them the first. forever is. Saving the prolonged back and forth of me saying that I watched the man, three, die, and Vance agreeing that yes, that was what I'd seen. He moved on to the how part. Frankly, we don't know. His body and the bodies of the others have the ability to spontaneously regenerate lost tissue. They can die, and then their body brings him back to life. Pervance, we've done more than I could possibly imagine to kill them at this point. When I asked why we would try to kill them when the forever's could potentially be the answer for every known disease,

Vance just rolled his eyes. He held up two fingers. First, we aren't trying to kill them, at least not anymore. We use them to test the limits of the human body to ensure that the general population is the most cutting-edge research. Then he added under his breath to the people willing to pay for the information. We are a private company after all. And second, to this day, we can't simulate what they do or who they are. And we're trying.

So no. They aren't to cure any diseases or illnesses. But that doesn't make them worthless now, does it? The scientific part of my brain, the part that still functioned and that I hadn't killed, off with booze, refused to accept the words. No. No, it's not possible. He typed something else into the panel and a picture appeared.

It was research footage. I sat there and watched over and over and over again as the six forevers were killed, shot, stabbed, burned, detonated, and much, much worse. I watched as somehow the remains. the remaining tissue from the explosion began to regenerate. Per Vance, the process is much faster if you put the remaining tissue in close proximity, or ideally a pile. It can take days, depending on the blast radius, but eventually it will reform. What happens if you don't?

I asked. Put it together, I mean. Then it smiled. I think you liked that I was participating and press another button explaining that for all intents and purposes, that forever they're tied to their own atoms, and that those atoms will find each other as long as they're allowed to. A video turned on what I can only call a medieval experiment, where forever I'd later call five stood in the middle of a room, when a door lowered, instantly bisecting them like a guillotine dropping and splitting her in half. The two

halves respectively collapsed on their individual sides. They remained motionless for about 30 seconds. Before each side started to twitch and move, jerking toward the divider, toward each other. My stomach turned as each half, almost like a slug, pushed and crawled up the wall. I stared in horror as the two halves managed to make it to standing. perfectly in line with the other half, but divided by a wall. Their eyes, though. The eyes moved independently, spinning wildly in their sockets.

If there was sound, Vance didn't have it turned on, but I can only imagine the sounds of anguish coming from it. He turned off the video and said, as soon as the wall was raised, the two halves started to reform. with some minor psychological damage. Since then, Five was being used to test concussions and extensive brain damage. He claimed their minds seemed impervious to lasting trauma and psychological damage, that they seemed resigned to an almost trans-like state since being brought to O.A. Like, they were waiting for something. If it wasn't so disgusting, it might almost be funny.

I think Van saw that I'd have had to be. enough and he asked me if I was ready to get to work. What if I said no? What if I said no? I have no idea. I didn't say no. I'd seen an unimaginable amount of footage showing people being killed and then coming back to life. What else could I think of besides what they would do to me if I refused to work?

I started the next day. There's nothing special about the forever. in case you're wondering. I mean, besides that one thing. Other than that, they're just normal people. No crazy healing factor like some comic book character or anything like that. If you stab them, they bleed. And they heal about the same as anyone else.

If you give them a disease, it'll run its course or kill them. It's the major trauma that they recover from so quickly. the stuff that can or does kill them, that's when they bounce back. God presses reset. So we could test mustard gas on them, Ebola, food additives, just to see what happens. It's not great in terms for creating cures.

But you'd be amazed what you can do when you see the effects on a human being. I'll refer you to a little something called Project Paperclip that allowed the United States to land on the moon before the Soviets thinks that the Nazi scientists we gave amnesty to for their extensive knowledge of human limitations. If you think that the people at OA are no better than a Nazi, well, I can see the argument. I guess the only real difference is that we're using six people instead of six million. Six people who will never die, no matter what we do to them.

And from their pain, you have... Well, if I told you, you might not be so happy about your lives. And this isn't about you. It took until my third day there to go to the cafeteria and have lunch. Prior to that, I spent my breaks in the bathroom either vomiting or crying. There was only one other man in the eating area when I sat down. His name was Lane, a biologist. A head full of frizzy red hair and a thick beard, cigarette perched behind his ear.

You chose the door on the right, didn't you? Laying asked without me saying anything as I sat down. I asked how he knew and he said that we all did. He assumed that that was our final test. He even added that I probably took the stick of gum too. It all made sense. Then they made me watch what I already knew what happened to someone exposed to rapid decompression.

I knew how bad it was and I watched it all. and after all that I still went to work yeah he said it's just their way to confirm their suspicions that we will do exactly what they expect us to do and they aren't wrong

I suppose if they were we wouldn't know about it maybe those other two doors have some guy with a machine gun on the other side just waiting better off not knowing I guess I asked if we were better off now knowing I mean Lang just shook his head put the unlit cigarette to his lips

grabbed his still full tray and walked out of the cafeteria the irony isn't lost on me that you lose time working a place like OA the days just go by the work gets done the reports get written

the forever's get killed and then they come back over and over and over again. You get numb. Not completely. At least I didn't. But more numb. It's expected.

But it still hurts. You hold on to that idea that they'll come back and the pain will fade away. But you can never shake their screams. They always scream. I was outside in the common area. A large gated off space where employees can go outside, get some sunlight. Remember that there is sunlight to be felt. I was drinking.

That's part of their control. You don't take booze away from an alcoholic and expect them to work. You keep giving them just enough that they keep wanting it. Sounds stupid, I'm sure. but they know what they're doing. Trust me, no one understands control more than O.A. I was sitting there, sipping from the plastic traveler of vodka.

They don't allow glass just in case the work gets to be too much and someone were there to make a rash decision. I told you, they understand. Honestly, I think most of the people at OA are, suicidal, but what happens if you try to die and don't, then you just get added to the forever's, right? Lang walked outside and let a cigarette. He sat down next to me without a word. That was usually the extent of our relationship. We wanted the company. We didn't want to be alone, but we didn't want to talk to each other either. So it almost startled me when Lang spoke

between drags. It's just about the worst thing you can imagine, isn't that? He asked. I didn't get what he was saying, so I went to what I could only assume he meant. At least they survive. Lang took another drag and looked over at me. That's what I meant. I still didn't get it, so I just took another drink, hoping we'd be silent again.

No matter what we do, he said. What we test, they come back. Then we do it again. I took another drink, seeing the traveler was almost half empty before screwing the top on. It was hardly noon. I needed to slow down. They'll outlive us, I said, grasping at straws,

vocalizing the realization walls had built up in my own mind just to make it through the day. No matter what we do, they'll survive. This won't last. No matter how much the company might cover it up, the information will get out. This will get shut down or moved or something. And they'll live their lives again. When the words left my lips, I felt nauseous.

When I let myself think about it later that day, I broke down crying at what sort of insanity I'd let myself be part of. That moment changed. changed me. Yeah, Ling said. But that's what makes me sad. Is that no matter what we do to them, they'll just keep on going? The thing is, we don't really know how old any of them are.

We assume that they just sort of stop aging after puberty ends, but we don't actually know. Or how many more are out there? Could be that someone out there was around to see Rome get built and burn. They just exist outside a time watching empires rise and fall. They survive, I said again. But I'm not sure why. Lange took another long drag and let the smoke pour out of his mouth as he spoke. And when the walls of this place crumble and turn to dust, they could still be around.

They could still be alive in a billion years when the sun goes supernova and the world burns. And then what? Do they keep on living? Floating in the nothingness, constantly dying in a vacuum of space only to come back just to die again? And live that way until the last star goes out? Lang took a long drag and stood up. I don't know how you get through the day. But me?

I hope every day that when I wake up, I'm going to find something that kills them. And they stay dead. I'll never be able to offer him freedom, but maybe I can offer him death. And that's freedom for some of us, right? I watched him walk back inside before unscrewing the cap of my bottle and taking another drink. Well, Lang wanted didn't happen the next day. Or the day after that, or the day after that. Weeks to months, it was the same as it ever was.

And through all that, I thought of Bowling's work. words and thought about my words. I thought about what kind of an abomination I could be to think that my own actions were acceptable because someday it would end. Science had turned to hate without me even realizing it. But the experiments go on. Anything short of extreme medical emergency or total mental breakdown wasn't enough to get anyone off the job. Despite my drinking, I just couldn't manage to drink enough for it to finally kill me. It took me months to hack the company firewall to get this message out. Even then, I'm afraid for this to be anywhere other than the deepest corners of the net

pass where they can see and make things disappear, where they can't find them. But maybe someone can. Someone who wants to help can't do this anymore. But despite their willingness to kill the forever's over and over, they aren't so generous with the employees. No sharp corners, nothing but plastic and safety glass. Even my travelers get taken every day so I can't hoard them. They take Lange's lighters every night too. You know how inmates escape prison?

Time. It took time for me to get the process normalized enough that they wouldn't notice the occasion. occasional missing cap to my bottles. Caps I use to slowly hoard the tiny residual amounts of lighter fluid from laying's discarded lighters. Caps that melt. Time and pressure. Melted plastic cools hard.

Prisoners make shives to hurt others. I made one to end my experiments. And in some poetic irony, thanks. to the experiments, I know the most efficient method to exsinguinate a body. I'll be dead before they find me. But before that, I want everyone to know. The forevers exist. They are not numbers.

It took a long time, but I found out their names. They have names. They're people. Number one is Jerome. Number two is Christine. number three is Han Number four is Joe Number five is Petra

And number six is Da Khasha They are alive If you're looking for your loved ones They might be here Surviving Keys Find them That's all

When I did what I'm about to do to myself To number two To Christine She had this dull, expectant look. Still, I could see the pain. But I don't think it hurt her to die, nearly as much as it hurt her to think that she would come back. Personally, I hope what I'm about to do hurts.

I'm so sorry. That was the end of the story. I don't know what to do with it. I couldn't find any evidence of a company called Omega to Alpha. The police couldn't care. less about some random email. I don't know who these people are, but maybe you do.

Ever since reading it, though. I can't stop thinking about tomorrow for your bonus episode. Creepy Presents In the Order of Galaforms written by Paul Casley and narrated by Heather Thomas. I hate Thanksgiving

and I hate turkeys. I know what your mind immediately leaps to, the idea that there's too much pressure placed on being a perfect family and having the perfect family dinner, and that's probably why I hate Thanksgiving. Or maybe you immediately decided I have a wildly dysfunctional family, and that's why I hate probably not just Thanksgiving, but all the holidays. Or perhaps you figured I don't like the taste of turkey meat, or I don't like the way it's prepared, and that's why I hate that particular holiday in fact. food. If you thought any of these things, you would be completely wrong, dead wrong. I hate the holiday, to be sure, but I hate that damned bird even more, and not as a food, but as a living, breathing animal. These evil birds made my life hell on the last Thanksgiving my family celebrated, and it was not an experience I will soon forget, nor forgive.

I know it is commonplace for politicians to pardon a turkey at Thanksgiving. But if I had my druthers, the genocidal event that I would lose on the misbegotten birds would be epic and result in the extinction of their entire useless species. I didn't always feel this way about turkeys or Thanksgiving. Once it was one of my favorite holidays. It was a time for my family to gather and spend time with each other. My family was close and supportive. The meals were wonderful.

Then my father had the idea to pick out a turkey. I don't know whose brilliant concept it was, but a few different local farmers came up with the idea to go and pick out the turkey you would eat for Thanksgiving. It was like looking in a tank of lobsters and choosing the one you would consume for dinner. It really is a grotesque practice. The idea of looking the animal in the eyes

that you would eventually have killed and prepared for you is abhorrent to me now. But I suppose at the time I was just a kid, and it never really crossed my mind. We were driving out to the farm to choose the turkey that would be slaughtered, dressed, and prepared for us to take home over the next few days. Then we would prepare it the rest of the way in our own home for Thanksgiving dinner, when we came across a huge rafter blocking the road. A rafter of wild turkeys is something to behold.

They are nothing like the domesticated ones you regularly eat. These birds can fly up to 90 kilometers an hour and can run up to 40 kilometers an hour. They are graced with talons and very sharp beaks. Turkeys are omnivores, so when you tuck into your Thanksgiving meal, you are consuming something that not only eats grains, but also meat of various kinds.

As a result of this fact, the wild variety of turkey are skilled hunters and will fight fiercely to defend themselves and they're young. There are also beliefs that the wild turkey, especially, is not as stupid as most people think. We often transpose the visual and make judgment on the mental from it. Because the turkey is an odd-looking bird, we decide that it is stupid. I can tell you from experience, that is not the case. The drive to the farm was a warm one that day.

We were at the cusp of the change between autumn and winter, that time of year when the weather is changeable and could be much warmer than you would expect. As a result, the windows of the car were down as we were allowing fresh air to come in and circulate. As we crested the hill, we came across the rafter which had blocked the road. For the most part, the very large group of huge birds were oblivious to us. It is interesting that back in the 1930s, wild turkeys were almost hunted to extinction. They now have a population approaching 10 million across North America. The rafters have invaded many farming areas around eastern Ontario and Canada, where they have often become dangerous pests.

In lieu of their once almost extinction, the Fish and Wildlife Agency only issue very few licenses to hunt the wild birds, despite their huge increase in population. At any rate, my father, both amused and annoyed by the rafter blocking the road to our destination, stated quite loudly. To hell with going to the farm. Maybe we should just grab one of these guys for dinner. They shouldn't have taken notice or understood. They were animals, and by many accounts, not the brightest of animals. But again, I beg to differ. No sooner had my father's voice pierced the silence

when all of the birds lifted their heads at the same time and stared directly at the car. The scratching and gobbling sounds of the birds ceased and we were treated with the most uncomfortable silence. I could tell it had shaken my father, because even as he outwardly joked about the birds seemingly understanding him, he rolled up his window and used the electric switch to do the same throughout the car. What happened from there was a tense standoff with my father,

wanting to continue driving forward, and the birds standing their ground. He had no desire to drive through them, potentially causing injury to the animals and damage to his car, but the birds simply would not move. As a result, Dad honked his horn and started to roll, slowly at first, through the rafter. It was at this point that the silence the turkeys were maintaining

was broken as the galliforms started making a put-put sound as my father started slowly rolling through the flock. It was at this point that dozens of new tom's seemed to fly in and took position in front of us on the road. Almost in unison, they began to make a red-faced twittering sound, lowered their heads, and started to flex their wings. It was at this point my usually humane and calm father panicked and increased his speed. I am unsure how many birds were injured or killed as we moved through them.

I only know that once he cleared the rafter, our speed increased, and away we went down the road. We were all shaken by the events. We know to give wild animals such as bears and coyotes a wide berth. In Canada, we even know enough to show the self-named Canada goose respect as a dangerous creature. I can honestly say that no one I have ever spoken to considered the potential danger posed by wild turkeys. My mother quietly sobbed, upset both by the aggression shown us, and the carnage my father left behind on the road.

My brothers and I just silently gaped, unsure of how to react. One way or another, we certainly weren't very interested in picking out the turkey we would use for dinner that year. In fact, it was my mother who quietly said, Maybe we'll have ham this year, as my father plotted a course to take us home and away from the hellscape that this farming community had become to us. At that point we thought the horror show we had been subjected to was over, as I'm sure you've already guessed. That was not the case.

My father's cutlist is probably the car I remember the most from my youth. It was the fanciest car we had ever had to that time, including exciting doodads like automatic locks and windows. Outside of that, I can't really tell you how good of a car it was, as often children who aren't of driving age don't notice much when it comes to cars. It was large, probably a major gas guzzler, and felt very safe, at least until the rafter descended on us. Now, I know what you're thinking.

Turkeys don't fly. Well, when you're talking about overly plump domesticated turkeys bound for your dinner table, then you are mostly correct. Generations of inter and inbreeding have created the wobbly birds we are used to seeing wandering on farms. They might be able to get a few feet above the ground before their lack of bodily aerodity aerodynamics takes them down. Wild turkeys, however,

are not encumbered by selective breeding and can fly very efficiently. They flew fast and they flew furious as they dropped down in the cutlass from above. We felt every one of their about 20-pound bodies landing. We could also hear them tearing at the vinyl on top of the car. I could see their claws and beaks.

I would learn later that turkeys are actually descendants of velociraptors. You know the smart and deadly little dinosaurs from those Jurassic movies? Apparently the wishbone of the bird is a remnant of that dinosaur lineage. Now, 45 million years separate the bird from its murderous cousin. But still some genetic behaviors do remain. As the bloodthirsty birds tore into the car, my father panicked anew. Looking back on it, this was probably a fair reaction to a flock. of hitherto comic-looking and benign animals that we regularly ate as food, attacking us. As a result of his resurgent loss of composure, he slammed on the brakes suddenly while we

were traveling about 80 kilometers an hour. The result was immediate and catastrophic, as both my parents shot forward and slammed their heads into the pre-safety measures dashboard. The force of the impact rendered my father immediately unconscious, while my mother suffered. a gout of blood running down her forehead. Myself and my two brothers in the back seat, we were momentarily dazed before we started fumbling with our seat belts to exit the car,

which was currently under siege. As I was the youngest, my mother immediately went to help me after extricating herself, blood running into her eyes, obscuring her vision. During all of this, the sharp talons and beaks of the galliforms

tore at the top of the car, and that haunting put-put-put-put-put sound continued. While she worked with me to release myself, my mother flailed wildly at the onslaught of birds, and I knew they were tearing at her as well. My brothers, being much older, had already freed themselves and had made for a copse of trees, not too far from where we came to our abrupt stop.

Soon my mother and I exited the car, all while she was beating at one of the large and nasty birds that had alighted on her, and was attacking her. Fresh wounds of crimson sprouted in various places on her shoulders and chest, as she shielded me from the maniacal animal. As for my father, my mother kept telling me not to look back as we ran. Still, I couldn't help it.

From our vantage point, I could see several large brown bodies had broken through and entered the car. In his unconscious state, my father didn't stand a chance, as blood in viscera seemed to be torn and tossed about the scene. I could have sworn I saw one of the malignant fowl holding a single brown eye in its malformed beak, but that could have just been the jumbled mind of a child. I like to tell myself that it wasn't real, but I know it was. I also knew that our own trials weren't done yet as we ran to join my brothers.

I could hear that a cursed put-put-put sound behind us, and the sky was full with the sound of the sound. their flapping wings. There was an immediate change from the bright autumnal light to the shadows that only a canopy of trees can create. The result was an ill-boating gloom that now covered what was left of my family. This twilight effect was enhanced by the sounds of the murderous birds advancing on our location. We took small comfort that the trees would slow down their advance and mean they could not as effectively nor quickly fly after us. At this point we were all sobbing, my older brother and myself scared almost beyond reason, and my mother bloody.

All of us were mourning the loss of father. But that couldn't be the single most important thing at the moment, survival coming to the fore. It was while we worked deeper into what turned out to be more a forest than just a small ribbon of green. We started to notice the birds closing on us again. Currently scientists believe that the fastest a human being can achieve running is 30 kilometers an hour.

Our fastest sprinter attained 27 and a half kilometers an hour for a very short duration. Most healthy adult humans run between 10 and 15. Compared to us, those birds with the top running speed of 40 kilometers per hour were damned fast. We only had one logical response to try and escape their attack, run into different directions. While there were more than enough of the galliforms to easily chase us down, We hoped that by thinning their numbers on each of us, it would make the attack less severe

and potentially facilitate our survival. And so we took off in three different directions, my older brothers running off separately, and me still hand in hand with my mother. As we ran, there were several things about wild turkeys that we didn't know that could have aided in our escape. It turns out these birds are a true predatory species, and as a result, their eyesight is.

is unbelievably good. What do I mean by unbelievably good? A wild turkey has vision that is three times better than human 20-20 eyesight, and it also has peripheral vision that grants a field of view of 270 degrees.

As long as we were inside of the feathered monsters, we would never get away. I've also learned since that their hearing can detect distant sounds much better than humans. The area that the galliform falls down is it has a lousy sense of smell. This meant if we could find a way to hide

that broke the line of sight with the birds, we might be able to escape. As we ran, both my mother and I had grabbed branches from the forest floor and had taken to swinging at the misbegotten birds whenever they closed in on us. At one point, I can remember my mother muttering,

we have to get help or hide. And that's when I pointed to the large amount of leaves that had fallen to the forest four. She looked at me for a second and nodded before taking a swing that seemed fairly crippling at one of the turkeys. With our immediate sightlines clear of the birds, we began to bury ourselves in leaves. I won't lie, it was gross. If anyone has ever done this, they know that any number of insects and creepy crawlies exist in the fallen leaves during autumn. The leaves themselves are an ecosystem.

The moistness and stench of the decomposing leaves is something that I will always remember. And still, when taking walks in the autumn, I am assaulted with memories when faced with collections of leaves. Still, though, you do what you have to do in order to survive. At this point, I have no doubt that my mother spared more than a casual thought to my brothers, who had been inadvertently left to fend for themselves. While we remained under the bed of leaves, we can could hear the arrival of the wretched birds and hoped they couldn't make heads or tails of where we had disappeared to. It was at this point we started to hear a most unwelcome sound as the birds began to scratch about the fallen leaves. Another fun turkey fact that I later learned is that a turkey's

sense of touch is so well developed that it can feel an ant under its talons as it scratches on the ground. The one thing we were aware of, however, was that the galliforms were moving closer and closer to us, and if this continued, they would soon find us. As it seemed like all would be lost, we heard a sound that was both unfamiliar to us and very welcome, given this situation, the explosion of a shotgun, and then the sound of several landfowl scattering. We would find out later that my older brother had made his way to a nearby farm, with several of the birds chasing him, and one hanging by its talons from his scalp. The farmer acted quickly to help my brother, grabbing the shotgun used for pests,

and the gun-toting savior was brought to help the rest of us. When medical attention was finally rendered to us, we were a pretty sorry lot. I had come away only with scratches and abrasions. I only needed a couple dozen stitches, and for that I was lucky. My mother had suffered serious wounds and was suffering blood loss, as one of the talons had almost nicked an artery. One of the beasts had torn off her left ear, something cosmetically troubling, but at least she had retained her hearing. My eldest brother had major lacerations to his scalp, and there were sections of it that still can't regrow hair. There were scratches and cuts down

his spine that required four times the number of stitches I had received. My middle brother had lost his right eye and had scars on his face that would never heal. His lower lip had also been torn partially off. You already know about my father. So that's why we don't celebrate Thanksgiving anymore. And we don't eat turkey. I wish the terrible creatures were all destroyed.

However, I also hope that if we don't eat them, they won't try to eat us. 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-like licensing or with written consent from the authors.

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