Creepy - The Hawk & Weed Problems

Episode Date: March 28, 2024

The Hawk***Written by: Joshua Bryant and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Weed Problems***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing 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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents.

The Hawk. Written by Joshua Bryant and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. Headline. Back alley neckbreaker strikes again. Lovely title. A bit long, perhaps. But it surely has strength to it.

Strong names and those who carry them are a dying breed nowadays. As for myself, I think anonymity is greater still, especially in a life such as mine. I read about this back alley neckbreaker for the first time last year. At the time, he hadn't yet acquired the title. He was just an unknown person that had snapped the neck of an 80-year-old homeless woman in the alley between a bar and a broken-down hotel. But for those that know, the signs were already.

already there. He killed five more hobos and bag ladies and streetwalkers in the ensuing months. Then, the newspapers bequeathed him the name. I was intrigued from the get-go. I'm always on the lookout for new marauders and hooligans, and this man surely fit the bill. Not because he was particularly unique. He was actually rather uncreative when you get right to down to it. But because he was so elusive, which is something you wouldn't expect, given the manner in which he dispatched his victims. That being said, the police in this city have always been rather out of their depth when it comes to people of this sort. They spend too much time analyzing, too much time guessing the whys and wherefores. I skip the psychological profiling and get right

down to the nitty-gritty. It served me well so far. After the sixth victim, I hit the streets. The neckbreaker didn't work in just one area. The entire city was his territory. So after making several theories about his pattern, I threw a disguise together, ripped jeans that stink like feces, and a threadbare hoodie go a long way without much effort. I was walking downtown. The summer heat had settled over the asphalt and concrete like an odor. The city lights made the black clouds in the sky look like the underbelly of some vast, hellish life form. Around me I could smell the stink of piss and sweat. The night people were shambling about.

It was far too early and far too populated for the neckbreaker to be on the prowl. But I was quite certain this was the area who would be striking that night. I stopped in an intersection to sip the flask. I kept in the pouch of my hoodie. Peach juice. Thick with pulp. Nothing better. Cars whipped by under changing lights.

Their sheaning forms gleaming green, yellow, and red. I waited there, hoping that my observations and extrapolations would be proven correct. Half past midnight and I was on the move again. The nightlife had simmered down a little, or at least, the area through which I was creeping. I was now trying to remain wholly unseen. I kept my wits

about me and made my way into the alleys. I kept to the shadows, stepping only on the balls of my feet and never treading on the flotsam and jetsam of city life that lay strewn about. The buildings crowded close, their overwhelming weight even more monstrous under the cover of darkness. I kept my breathing calm and my eyes open. I stopped beside a dumpster and quickly knelt behind it. In the alley in front of me, I saw a sleeping vagrant, curled beneath a sheet of cardboard. He seemed more doped out of his head than asleep,

but I wasn't close enough to be sure. At the far end of the alley, there was a brick wall with a portion of it collapsing backward. This was the most ideal place, I thought. And so I waited. It didn't take long for another player to enter the game. He climbed deftly over the crumbling brick. Though he was easily over six foot five,

and dressed in a very cumbersome manner, he didn't make any noise. I knew immediately this was my quarry. And he was every bit as cagey as I had predicted. I ducked behind the dumpster and produced a small mirror to look around the corner with. As I said, He was dressed in a way that the stealth of his gait was in defiance of.

He was wearing black steel-toed boots, denim jeans, and a huge oil-skin coat that fell to his knees. His face was shrouded in a black surgical mask, and his eyes were obscured by a pair of welder's goggles. But, most telling that this was indeed the back-alley neckbreaker were the pair of elbow-length rubber gloves he wore. Just the sight of him was so exciting. I had to work very hard to keep my heart rate in check.

Sometimes these kind of people can taste or smell, adrenaline. The neckbreaker advanced like a phantom on the unsuspecting junkie. He stood over his victim, looked about to assure their selection, then began reaching down. I bit the tip of my tongue and quelled the sweet whimper of anticipation that was yearning to pass my lips. Those huge, rubber hands moved with delicious ease. They hung for a moment, suspended over the junkie's throat like a pair of slick-bodied spiders,

poised and ready for the plunge. Noiselessly, they fell upon the junkie's neck and cut off any scream he'd. could utter. The neckbreaker heaved his victim up from the ground and slammed him against the wall of the building beside them. The sheet of cardboard fell like a broken wing. The junkie only struggled for a few moments. As the neckbreaker used one hand to grip his jaw, the other still clutching his throat and holding him aloft. The neckbreaker gave the junkies head a twist, much like how a chicken's neck is wrung. There was a pop and a grunt, and the junkie's body grew limp. Gently, the neckbreaker set the body back on the ground. His shoulders were rising and falling

rapidly, and I could hear his heavy breath through the mask. An animal stink filled the air, and he once more looked about. Then came the moment I hadn't expected. I thought that the neckbreaker would leave. But instead he removed one of his gloves and revealed a hairy, knuckled hand that glistened with perspiration. He reached into his pants and proceeded to rub one out over the still corpse. Only after that did he retreat the way he came. I waited ten more minutes, just to make sure he was long out of earshot before leaving myself. I walked all the way back to where I had parked my car and got in. One more pull of peach juice and I was off.

It had fallen into place perfectly. Now all that remained was to go home and prepare. The neckbreaker conformed to a loose schedule of killing a person once a month. The police hadn't cracked it yet. But judging by what I had just witnessed, I was in the know. I let life go on as normal, went to my day job, took care of my three children, did the whole up and down back and forth of suburban life. But with each passing day, my excitement was mounting. I would stare at the little red mark I'd put on my calendar, licking my lips, combing my hair. Some find waiting to be the hardest part. But I must say that it has always been the most titillating for.

me. For the moment of truth is always just that. A moment. Whereas the waiting is so rife with sweaty palms and trembling knees that I could never cease to enjoy it. But soon the day arrived. I took a sick day from work and put a new disguise together, a ratty flannel coat, blood-stained pants, and a frayed white wig. I switched gin around my mouth and smoked a pack of cigarettes to really nail the smell. Then I proceeded to the location I knew the neckbreaker would be making his appearance.

I drove to the other side of town where there was a condemned factory. It was a sort of place where the homeless sparsely congregated. The towers there were soot gray and the railings were brown with rust. Glass laid scattered everywhere, and a chain-link fence surrounded the place. I parked my car under a stand of trees nearby and walked inside. I kept my head low and walked with a stagger, never wanting to throw any sort of suspicion

that I might not be as I appeared. The sun had long ago set, and the moon was obscured by clouds. I kept patting my pocket to make sure what I needed was all there. I walked through several of the old buildings before settling into one that had everything I needed. It was wide with multiple entrances. The floor was covered with pieces of fallen ceiling. I made sure that I was quite alone before making a fire with some splintered boards and old newspapers. I squatted with my back to one of the entrances.

And waited. I waited. hours in hours. The night slogging by outside was stifling heat and stillness. I kept my senses wiretaught, fully aware that one mistake would mean death. Of course, this was all part of the game. And I relish the game. He came a little past midnight. Again, I didn't hear him. He was a master at walking silently. No. It was his own excitement that gave him away. I could feel it, like electricity humming in the air. It made my hair rise. It made my heart flutter. As he got closer and closer behind me, I began feeling the vibrations of his heartbeat. I began smelling

his sweat. I remained completely still. One day. chance was all I would get. I felt his hands approaching, felt them displacing the air above the nape of my neck. I knew they were poised. I knew they were almost ready. I knew that the time was right. I whipped up upon the toes of my shoes and kicked the inside of his knee. He grunted in surprise and fell backward. I caught his left wrist in my hand, and there was a brief tussle as we grappled on the dusty floor. He was incredibly strong. But I had the drop on him, and that's all I ever need.

I wrapped my legs around his arm and pulled it tight over my body. He could have been the strongest man in the world. But there was no escaping the arm bar I just put him in. He was still grunting, his voice having gone from angry to frantic within seconds. But I wasn't done yet. With one hand I rolled up the sleeve of his coat and peeled down the rubber glove to reveal the naked arm beneath. It was covered in hair and thick with corded muscle. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the syringe.

I looked at it in the flickering glow of the fire, making sure the needle was unbent. Satisfied, I searched the neckbreaker's arm until I found the bulging green vein at his inner elbow. He was wiggling and straining, but I'd stuck arms that had been struggling harder before. The needle entered his flesh with ease. I pushed the toxin through the syringe, and it poured into his blood. Within 30 seconds, his strength had ebbed. His breathing had calmed. His heartbeat had gone from hammering thunder to a low pulse. I released his arm, finally and stood up. I caught my breath and smiled. I laughed in relief. There he was, spread eagle on the dirty floor, the back alley neckbreaker, in all of his monstrous glory.

I bent down and yanked the mask and goggles off. The face beneath was wide and stumbled. The teeth gapped, the eyes small and pig-like. He was staring up at me, still for me. He was staring up at me, still fully conscious, of course. I waved at him. He was quite paralyzed, even unable to blink. I pulled his arm over my shoulders and grasped him under the other armpit. I stood, dragging him with me. He was heavy, but not anything I couldn't handle.

I took him out of the factory, dragged him beneath the chain link, and dumped him into the backseat of my car. I had to bend his knees to get the door to shut. I discarded my disguise and hopped in the front seat. I put it into drive and began heading home. I couldn't help but steal glances back at my catch. He was so big and so strong. And those eyes?

Seathed with hatred and fear. A hatred and fear you could scoop up with a butter knife and spread it on a slice of toast. And the night was still so. young. The drive was quick. There weren't that many people on the road at that time of night. The moon became visible as a pristine silver pool as the clouds dispersed. I pulled into my garage, and as the door slid shut, I killed the engine. I dragged the neckbreaker's tremendous body out of my back seat and placed him atop a cargo trolley. He was still staring up at me.

Mouth slightly parted, breath soft yet clearly audible. His eyes were very likely burning with dryness at this point. I leaned down and shut them for him. I wouldn't want him to miss what was soon to come. I wheeled him out of the garage, through my kitchen into my basement door. I unlocked it and carefully pushed him down the ramp. I turned on the fluorescent lights and took a moment to appreciate. my lair. The white marble counters that lined the soundproof walls, the pale blue tile

floors with the drain in the center of the room, the stainless steel table that gleamed in the light, as brilliant as the moon had been. A wonderful place to finish the game. I carded the neckbreaker to the table and lifted him onto it. I opened his eyes, patted his cheek, and then and began taking his clothes off. I threw them aside. I'd just burn them in the furnace later. Seeing him naked, further struck home just how massive he was. There seemed not to be an ounce of fat on his powerful frame.

His arms were like tree trunks, his legs like fire hydrants, and his chest bulged beneath a mat of coarse hair. I ran my hands over him. His skin burned warm. I had to take a step back and collect myself before going on to the next stage. I turned around and went back up the ramp. I didn't even bother shutting the basement door. He was utterly helpless, after all.

I went to my kitchen, made myself a mango and peach smoothie. I washed my face and hands in the sink. I relaxed. With the adrenaline gone, I found myself quite a good. exhausted. I drank my smoothie and let the night's memory wash over me. At about 3 a.m., I walked to the entrance of my children's room. I peeked inside and saw in the dim glow of the nightlight, that they were all pleasantly asleep. Their little white-blonde heads resting on patterned pillows. I smiled, and knocked on the door. All three sat upright, as if they were.

they'd heard a gunshot. But they expressed no fear. They whipped their heads about to look at me. And though still sleepy, they were already grinning. Come on, I said opening the door wide. They threw their sheets aside and thrummed past me on their bare feet. They ran to the basement door and ran back. Taking me by the hem of my shirt, they urged me to hurry. clamoring in their chattering voices. Together we went down the ramp. As we did, their excitement became subdued, and they clustered close to my legs.

When they saw the neck breaker upon the table, they gasped and clutched me tighter. I cooed and stroked their heads. They were in awe, perhaps even a little intimidated by a sheer bulk. Yet, I knew their wide, sparkling eyes were filled with procrociousness and greed. They had begun salivating, and I heard their stomachs churning.

I let them wait. I let them tremble. I let them think for those wonderfully stretched moments. And I let the neckbreaker look at us, his eyes revealing his lack of comprehension. I smiled and couldn't help but laugh. A predator should know when they've become prey. Go ahead, I told my children. They squealed with savage delight and raced over to the table. They sprang atop the neckbreaker, and their bodies were so pale and tiny compared to his.

But their teeth were bright and sharp and eager. They chose their favorite portions and began to feed. I walked over, my arms crossed. my eyes filled with pride. I listened to the shredding of flesh, watched the spurting of blood. They cleaved right to the bone, parting sinew with ease. And the neckbreaker, looking down at my ravenous children eating him alive, finally grasped what was happening. He couldn't move, couldn't even make a sound. And yet, he felt all of it. He felt. He felt felt their violent nips and slurping lips. He felt them ripping him open. His death wouldn't be as

swift as his victims had been, but equally as inevitable. Despite the great pride I found in having fed my children, I couldn't help but feel disappointed as well. The game was over. I had won. But it would be another couple months before I had to feed my children again. Another couple months before I had to find the next marauder or hooligan. There was no guarantee that they would be as formidable as the back alley neckbreaker had been. So, it remains that the chase is better than the catch, the weight, the struggle, the capture,

all made a pale thing of the ultimate triumph. And I wouldn't even be graced with a trophy. My children always made sure to eat every last morsel. Creepy presents, weed problems, written by no one of consequence, and narrated by J.V. Hampton, Van Sant. It's something a homeowner is never done with. You can be finished for a day, but it always needs something more. Heaven forbid you live in a neighborhood with an HOA. Then you have the more than your own irritation to contend with. If you don't want that nosy, pain-in-the-ass, HOA fining you for something so

asinine, you had better do the damn lawn. Lawn work is one of my least favorite things. I swear, it's the land's way of taxing you like everyone else does. You either have to pay someone else to do it for you, or you go out and you buy your own lawnmower and weed eater. Then you have to spend an hour or two out in the hot sun and aggravate your back with all of the cutting and trimming. Oh, and if you live in a grand design neighborhood like I do, you have to weed the garland. garden bed, they forced on you. Not only does the lawn have to be under a certain height, but they'll also find you if you've got too many weeds, too. As if that's something I can control.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of different weed killers, and I've found that most of them will kill the damn grass before they kill the weeds. If you haven't guessed, having dead patches of grass will get you find too. The front yard isn't very big, about half the size of my backyard, but it has obstacles. There are the two trees, the garden bed, a second small bed with a bush on the other side of the driveway, and the utility boxes along the property. lines. Every week or two, I have to drag out the lawnmower and maneuver around these things, making sure not to bump into the stone blocks surrounding them. I put those in place to make it a little easier when it comes to edging. Before I put them in, I used to fling pieces of

mulch all over the place because there was no barrier. And, you guessed it. You guessed it. the HOA find me because they were the wrong color stones. Now, in order to do any of my lawn work, I have to make sure the large 40-volt batteries are charged. If they aren't, then I have to resort to using my corded lawnmower, and dealing with the damn cord is a giant pain in the ass. It's the whole reason I bought the battery mower. Believe it or not, the HOA isn't the reason why I have an electric mower. Honestly, I don't want to store gasoline.

I have a slight fear of volatile chemicals. That's also why I have a charcoal grill instead of propane. Well, that and I like the charcoal better. The weeds in the front yard, according to the warning email I got from the stupid HOA, have gotten out of control. I tried my 18th weed killer on it a few days ago, and the stuff was so weak it didn't even kill the grass. I might as well have sprayed it with water for all the good it did. Now I'm on my hands and knees with a small garbage can next to me, and I'm pulling the fucking things out of the ground with my bare hands.

I'd probably be drowning in fines from the HOA if they ever managed to get into my backyard during their inspections. The backyard is lousy with weeds. It's hard to find any actual. grass. Not to say that there are towering stocks of weeds in every square inch of space, but there are a lot. There are also large patches of clover, and it's another thing the HOA will come down on me for. As I'm pulling another large stock of weed from my lawn, a shadow falls on me. making me jump in surprise. It's my own fault for having both earbuds in.

I normally only have one in when I'm not using the mower, but the music helps soothe me. When I'm doing something I really don't want to do. I look up to see a woman in a sundress standing on the sidewalk next to an older SUV. Getting to my feet, I take off my gloves and ask what I can do for her. She introduces herself as Ivy, following it up with, But it's more about what I can do for you.

Oh, great, just what I needed, a salesperson. Before I can tell her that I'm not interested, she starts in with her sales pitch. What would you say if I could guarantee to solve your weed problem? I respond by asking what the catch is. No catch. For the 14999, I can guarantee you won't have another weed problem in either your front or backyards for life. That sounds a lot like money for a weed killer, but there's only two things guaranteed in life, taxes and death.

Not dissuaded by my response, she goes on to explain that she's not selling a weed killer. She has in her possession a rare plant that, once rooted in the ground, will not allow weeds to grow within a hundred-yard radius. It doesn't matter how bad the problem is, how overgrown the weeds are. Within one week, the weeds will be completely gone and the lawn will flourish. The grass will be a brilliant green that will be the envy of all my neighbors

and will get the HOA off my back. My bushes and trees will be healthier, and I won't even have to increase my watering. Okay, seriously, this sounds like a lot for something that only costs $150. Ivy tells me there's no trick, no gimmick. What I'm paying her for is a rare genus of the iricine plant, more commonly known as the bloodleaf plant. At this moment, it is only a small plant, but in no time, will. grow to be a large bush. The flowers are rather unremarkable, only blooming small white or greenish, short-stemmed flowers, but it's the leaves that stand out. She opens the back door of her SUV,

and I see exactly what she's talking about. Take a standard leaf off any tree or bush. You see the dark green of the leaf with a lighter green that looks like veins, and they often match the stems. The leaves on this plant are like that, but substitute green for red and crimson. It literally looks like the plant is covered in blood, and the leaves even look a little on the fleshy side. I want to reach out to touch it, but she stops me. There are certain rules you need to follow when dealing with this plant. She tells me, and I feel the other shoe about to drop. It doesn't matter how mundane or simple the task is. Any time you intend on handling this plant,

you must wear gloves. It's not like poisonous or anything like that, but the nature of the plant will change if it's introduced to certain substances. Don't use any sort of fertilizer or vitamin spray on it. Only give it water. And it will do everything, I promise. Giving my lawn a quick glance,

I decide to fork over the money. If this thing will do half of what she says, $150 is a small price to pay for the amount of backache the blood plant will save me. After handing her nearly all the cash in my wallet, I expect her to place the plant on the sidewalk and leave. Instead, she asks me to lead the way to the backyard. Ivy takes pride in the plant, she's cultivated, and she likes to plant them in their new home herself. I'm just embarrassed by the

state of my yard, seeing how much worse than the front it is. Ivy isn't off put by this. In fact, she seems satisfied with my yard, claiming the iricine is going to be so happy here. I run to the garage for some tools, and when I come back, she's fast. found the perfect spot for the plant. It's about three feet away from the wall of my house, directly in the middle between the fence lines. With the way my house sits, the irisine will get direct sunlight for most of the day because my house faces north. Later in the day, when it's at its hottest, the plant will get more shadow than light because the house on that side is a two-story. I had honestly expected her to want to put it in the middle of the yard.

Once I've dug the hole, Ivy empties a one-gallon bag into it. She spreads the stuff around covering the exposed space. It looks like dirt, but the smell coming off it tells me there's more to it than soil. Maybe her own special compost. but it doesn't smell like any typical compost. There's an herbal scent to it that I can't identify. I let her do what she does, including removing the plant from the pot and placing it in the ground. She fills the gaps with the dirt I dug out

and brings the rest of it around to cover the base. I notice she's wearing hard leather gloves, much more durable than the ones I have. They also come up to her elbow, making sure she doesn't encounter the plant with her skin. Ivy hands me a small booklet, care instructions for the iricene. If I so desire,

I can put up either temporary or permanent greenhouse around it, but specifically not a white picket fence. For some reason, her plants hate those. things and find them disrespectful. I can't help but raise an eyebrow at that. I put up two of those when I first started cultivating these plants, and they tore them down overnight. Perhaps they like think they're tacky. Okay, I just handed over $150 to a nut job. Now I'm thinking my weed problem isn't going to get solved by this plant. What had I been thinking when I agreed to this? Oh, right. Save myself some back pain. The weird thing is, it worked. Less than a week later,

I noticed a drastic change in the quality of my grass. The number and size of the weeds in the backyard have reduced by half, and the front yard is looking better, too. The booklet said to water the iricene every other day for five minutes with a hose, making sure to wet down all the leaves, but not to use a nozzle. Nor am I to hold my thumb over the end to spread out the water like a sprinkler. It says to simply wave the unencumbered end over the plant, making sure to wet every inch of it. Easy enough to do.

By the time the first week passes, every single weed in not only my yards, but my neighbor's yards, are gone. For the first time in ages, all I have to do is cut and edge the grass. Even the stuff popping up in the garden beds and around the trees receded. I figured I'd still have to do at least that, since it's technically grass, but the iricine is taking care of that too. After three weeks, I made the mistake of forgetting to water the plant one day. I came outside to see several weeds started to sprout in the back. It was so strange to see at that point,

that I immediately realized my mistake and set to make it right. Believe it or not, after I was done watering the plant, the weeds that popped up were already looking worse for wear. It was clear that I needed to stick to this routine, so I set an alarm on my phone to keep me from forgetting. If I wasn't home, it didn't matter what I was doing. If the alarm went off, I was outside with the hose in my hand. If I happened to be out of the house, I made sure the hose was my first stop when I got home.

This pisses off my back fences neighbor's dog, and that angry pit bull won't stop barking at me, no matter how quiet I am. I fucking hate that dog. Two months after Ivy stopped by, I decided to host a barbecue with friends and family. For the first time since I moved into this house, I was proud of my yard and wanted to show it off. I'd been getting compliments from my neighbors and even got an email from the HOA congratulating me on a job well done. I think I even made it into the weekly newsletter, but I've never read those, so I can't be sure. I placed a series of red concrete patio stones in the backyard and rolled my charcoal grill onto it. It was a decent way away from the iricene, so I didn't think much of it.

I also set up a ten-foot-by-ten-foot canopy near it so I could spend time in the shade while cooking. I put a small table out with foodstuffs to sit on and an ice chest for cold beer. People are milling about inside on the small back porch and in the yard. Everyone is amazed at the change in the yard, and the kids are having a ball playing. They're even kicking around a soccer ball. Just when the burgers and hot dogs are ready to come off the grill, one of the kids does a dive to go for the ball, trying to get it away from the one running with it. The diver is successful in getting the ball, but trips the other kid.

He goes tumbling, rolling on the ground a few times, and ends up scraping the side of the iricene. I told the kids to stay away from it, telling them it's a special plant, but then this happened. It wasn't on purpose, and the girl that dove for the ball is getting an earful from her mother. The boy that scraped the side of the plant has a huge gash on the side of his arm. I hadn't realized the iricine had any sharp edges. The parents get the boy inside, and with my girl, mitts on, I look for anything that could have been responsible for the injury. It doesn't take long for me to see the boy accidentally broke one of the thicker stems

toward the bottom, and the sharp edge is what cut him. There didn't seem to be any blood on the plant, but considering its coloring, I couldn't really tell. We get the kid banzers up and continue on with the barbecue. The kids sit in front of the TV, watching some cartoons while the adults mill around. Later the next week, I go outside when my alarm goes off and pick up the hose. Looking at the iricene, I notice the broken branch isn't lying on the ground anymore. Giving it a closer look, I can't tell which one had been damaged in the first place. It looks like the plant healed its same.

In fact, it looks noticeably bigger than it had the previous watering day. As I splash water over the plant, I stretch out my shoulders and move my head from side to side. It is so peaceful out this morning, and it's not until I'm rolling the hose back up that I notice why. The neighbor's dog isn't barking. That annoying pit bull is always outside unless it's raining. There isn't a cloud in the sky, and yet there is silence. I move to the fence and notice something new in the corner. The bottom of two fence planks are broken,

and the gap is big enough for that damn dog to get through. Looking up to my gate, I see its close. and still locked from the other side. Getting more and more confused, I inspect the rest of the fence to see if it got out through another hole. However, I didn't find anything, and I don't know what to think.

Something catches my eye as I look for more evidence that the dog had gotten into my yard. Looking at the Iversine, I noticed something underneath. I hadn't seen it when I was watering the plant because I'd been standing over it. Using the long leather glove I bought specifically to deal with this plant, I reach underneath and pull out a collar.

It has the name Fluffy on one side, and the neighbor's address on the backside. Other than that, there's no sign of the dog. I don't know what to make of it and decide to ignore this oddity. That particular neighbor is almost as much of a pain in the ass as the HOA, so to save myself some hassle, I unlock and open the side gate. From there, I go about my usual routine, save for one thing. As I drive out of my neighborhood to work, I casually toss the dog collar.

out of the window. This way, it'll look like the dog broke out through the back fence, went through my open side gate, and somehow lost its collar. Later in the day, I do end up getting a call from that shit-head neighbor, and he berates me for leaving my side gate open. I counter with having no knowledge of what he's talking about. Then I follow up by accusing him of being negligent with his pet, causing the damage to our shared fence, and even threatening to file a complaint with the HOA. Not having a leg to stand on in this argument,

he starts cursing me out, and I hang up. He calls back, but I block his number, and immediately look up the number for the HOA's office. I carry out my threat and file a formal complaint, even stopping by their office as soon as I get into the neighborhood. That asshole is looking at a few different fines for this incident. He already has a bunch of strikes against him, and he's close to getting a lawsuit filed against him, too.

I never thought the HOA would work in my favor. Laying down that night, I drift off to the sounds of silence. For once, there's no pit bull barking into the late hours and I don't have to play music to drown it out. Just as sleep is beginning to claim me, there's a scratching at my window. The closest plant to my window is the iricine. And even if the wind is blowing crazy hard out there,

there is no way it could be reaching the window. The branches on that thing aren't nearly that long. I get out of bed and put on my slippers and robe. Going down to the front closet, I take out the baseball bat I have for home defense. I'm halfway to the back door when the sound of breaking glass stops me in my tracks. If this is a burglar,

they're doing a shit job of being covert. They're making enough noise to wake the dead. flinging open my bedroom door, bat held high and ready to swing, what I see has me befuddled. Instead of seeing a guy dressed in all black, I see the unmistakable red of the iricene, reaching an insanely long branch into my bedroom. It's even reaching for the bed,

the exact spot I'd been lying in only a few moments ago. I slammed the door closed and sit on my couch, not sure what else to do. Throughout the night, I hear the branches moving against the walls of my house. They're looking for a way in. At least they don't break any more windows. I dig in the junk drawer for the booklet Ivy gave me, hoping to find her phone number so I can ask her what the hell is going on. As I flip through the pages, I finally get around to seeing what the instructions are beyond the watering.

The book says, in plain English, if the irisine gets a taste of blood, it will begin craving it like a heroin addict. Once this happens, the plant will seek out any means to satisfy its hunger, including ripping the house apart to get at the inhabitants. From here, there's only one course of action. I have to feed the iricine blood of some kind. It doesn't matter if it's human or animal. It just has to be fresh. This means I can't simply go to the store and get raw meat to toss at it. It's only an hour to sunrise, and the plant starts coughing.

calming down. I guess I'll be calling into work today. I need to get myself a greenhouse and find a pet food store that sells rats for snakes. Otherwise, more than neighborhood pets are going to go missing. Ugh, the things I have to do to keep the HOA off my back.

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