Creepy - The House on Edgemont & Hallow Birth

Episode Date: September 17, 2026

The House on Edgemont (starts at 1:46)***Written by: D.H. Parish and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Content warning: child death***Hallow Birth (starts at 16:45)***Written by: Marisól De La Rosa and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm John Grills from creepy, and I listen to the Be Afraid Podcast Network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or, our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, y'all.

I think it officially feels like autumn for me now. I know technically it doesn't start until next week, and I'm not sure what things are like wherever you all live, reside, or refuse to die. Well, we started to get that little chill in the air here. We're starting to see a few leaves changing colors. Obviously, there are more and more Halloween decorations popping up on lawns. But it's more than that, isn't it? It just doesn't fall from me until I see social media explode

with people complaining that their favorite football team let them down after just the first game of the season. Maybe it's just the calloused emotions of a lifelong Vikings fan. Maybe I'm just evil, and chuckled adults screaming over millionaires playing a game. I don't know. So let's get to things I do know. Scary stories.

First up, from writer D.H. Parrish and narrated by Owen McCune. Creepy Presents. The House on Edgemont. The House on Edgemont Road always looked somewhat different. Not dramatically different, mind you, just enough to notice. In a neighborhood where it was often hard to distinguish one residence from another, no other house had the same bygabled roof and red shuttered windows. No other house possessed a walkway of slate slabs

cutting a serpentine path through the lawn from the sidewalk to the small front porch. Indeed, no other house had an actual Edmont address. The other two houses that flanked it on the north side of this short suburban street belonged to the respective cross streets, and the lots opposite were the fenced-off backyards of the homes that fronted yet a different road.

In addition to the unique architectural features, the home bore a different color scheme, Although that might be the wrong way to explain it, since beyond the red shutters it had the same Tudor-style whitewashed walls framed by dark timbers that characterized many others. Rather, it was if an unusual tint and brightness filter had been superimposed on the property, an almost technicolor effect that reminded one of a well-preserved postcard from a completely different era. That said, nothing about the house's location or layout suggested that it possessed a distinctive history. The first person I saw at the house was the little girl.

It's not that I kept track of everyone and everything in the neighborhood, but I'd been walking Henry after I got home from work on pretty much the same circuit for the past year since I moved here after the divorce, and I'd never seen anyone there. So when the curly-headed cherubic toddler in a powder-blue shift dress stood at the home's doorstep, staring at me as Henry pulled me forward, it was noteworthy. The girl's expression seemed neither amiable nor fearful, more curious. I offered a friendly wave, but she didn't reciprocate. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes locked with mine until I was about to pass the property line,

one well demarcated by a row of closely planted, well-trimmed cypress trees. Then the door opened behind her, and she disappeared through it. When I got home, the neighbor I shared my house. duplex with Joe, a retired widower who'd lived here at least 30 years, was sitting on his side of our porch drinking a can of beer while listening to the ball game on the radio. I asked him if he knew who lived at the Edgemont House, and he said he wasn't aware that anyone did, that had been vacant for some time. When I told him I'd seen someone there, he said he'd look into it, see who bought it. I told him I didn't mean to set him a task, and he replied

that it was no problem, that he'd had a bit too much free time now anyway and, well, idle hands and all that. The same scenario with the girl played out the next evening, and again the next too, such that I came to expect it, almost looked forward to it. Taylor and I had broken up in no small part because I wanted children and she didn't. She said she didn't want the responsibility. Well, that and the in retrospect unspoken premise that she didn't want kids to interfere with her opportunities to sleep with any woman or man with a pulse. The fifth evening, the girl waved at me. It was a tentative wave, a royal wave, if you will, her raised right hand barely pivoting. I mirrored the girl and returned the greeting.

The girl's eyes grew wide in response, her expression more sociable as she felt. followed my progress until once I was past the trees, she beat that same retreat. I didn't walk Henry on the sixth evening. On the seventh, a boy joined the girl in front of the door. He had short-cropped black hair and was several inches taller and likely a few years older. He wore khaki Bermudas and a polo shirt that matched the blue of the girl's dress. The similarity of the color made me realize that the girl always wore the same. dress. A little strange, but didn't kids sometimes adhere to routines where everything stayed

exactly the same, their way of exercising control in a world where they had little? Heck, wasn't I kind of doing the same thing on my walks? The brother, for that is what I assumed he was, followed the girl's pattern, waving and grinning until I'd gone past when both withdrew inside. The children appeared again on the eighth evening. They waved more vigorously this time, their smiles broad enough to bear their teeth, including the gap where the boy's upper incisors had yet to grow in. The kid I'd wanted to have would have slotted in well as their younger third sibling. On the ninth evening, a woman joined the children. She had wavy Auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and perfectly framed her soft, pretty oval face. She sported a dress identical

to that of the young girl. Whereas the outfit the girl wore evoked innocence. On the woman, its effect was alluring. Taylor used to wear a similar pink dress when we were dating, and she looked sexy in it, too. The three of them smiled and waved together. I waved back and offered a tentative, hello, but they didn't return the salutation. On the 10th evening, the three were joined by a man. Just as the woman dressed like a more mature version of the girl, the man sported a hairstyle in clothing the same as the boys, and the four together presented like the cover photo of a preppy spring clothing catalog. They waved at me in unison as I walked by. Before I could wave back, Henry took notice of a squirrel across the street, and the Irish setter's

hunting instincts took over. Henry barked loudly and dashed to chase his prey, tugging on the leash with a sudden force that spun me around and pulled me about ten feet into the road before I regained control. When I looked back at the family, they hadn't reacted. Rather, it seemed that while I was dealing with Henry, they'd paused mid-wave, restarting their greetings only when I was looking at them again. The four retired together inside once Henry and I passed the Cypresses. Except for the interruption, the next three evenings were similar. consciously or not, I'd given up trying to speak to them, just accepting them as part of Henry's evening walk.

Still, each time they all waved, their eyes focused on me for the 15 seconds it took to walk past them. It didn't feel creepy then, just part of my new routine. The following evening, only the little girl was outside to greet me. She waved as now seemed customary, except about halfway through, she lowered her arm. turned her hand palm up and started beckoning, her fingers curling inward to signal me to come to her. I smiled but didn't follow,

and once I'd walked off the property, she disappeared inside as usual. The next evening the girl was alone again. As Henry and I walked past her, she silently mouthed the word, Come, as she gestured to me to join her. I shook my head, and her smile morphed into a frown, a childish pout.

She didn't speak, but she stomped her feet as if throwing an adorable tantrum. I watched her until she retired into the house. I don't know if it was unique to this instance or if I simply hadn't noticed it before, but when she went inside, she didn't seem to be moving of her own accord. Rather, it seemed as if someone or something pulled her in, as if she'd been grabbed by a shepherd's crook and hauled off stage. I avoided the house for a while after that, choosing a different route for several weeks. One evening, however, tired from work and not paying much attention as I let Henry lead me,

I found myself in front of the Edmont House once more. This time it was the woman alone. She waved at me, and I waved back. She motioned with one hand for me to join her. I furrowed my brows and tilted my head in puzzlement. She responded by suggestively lifting the hem of her already short dress while mouthing a seductive, come, punctuating the offer with an air kiss. My mouth opened, and I felt my cheeks blush.

Taken aback and too skittish in the moment, I averted my gaze and walked on. When I peeked over my shoulder as surreptitiously as I could, she was gone. I questioned if I'd imagined the whole interaction, whether that flirtation had really happened or was just some idle wish fulfillment. I mean, the woman had a family and was ostensibly happily married. To a man. Of course, details like that had never mattered to Taylor. When Henry and I got home that night, Joe was outside and his familiar.

your pose, beer in one hand, grumbling to the radio about why some idiot couldn't lay off a slider. He paused his rant to let me know that he'd investigated the Edgemont House, and that, so far as he could determine, no one currently lived at the residence. Hadn't for some time, he said, although the reasons weren't exactly clear why. I thanked Joe, but said his sources had to be wrong, or at least out of date. The house was definitely occupied, and I'd seen the woman that lived there not 15 minutes earlier. He said that's not what he'd discovered, but if I saw something else, I probably had a right to believe my own eyes since they had to be better than those of the incompetence, getting

millions to strike out three times a game and hit a dribbler to the pitcher of the fourth. I said my good nights and resolved that the next day I would actually talk to the family if they were there. The following evening, three of them were outside as I approached the house. The woman, her son, and her daughter stood side by side on the cement porch in front of their door. They waved to me, grinning, their arms swaying in unison. I waved back. Before the first syllable of, hello, could pass my lips, however, the woman reached behind her back and produced a long kitchen knife.

She grabbed her son by the hair, yanked his head back to expose his neck, and slashed him. with the glistening steel from ear to ear. A gush of blood spurred from the wide gash, then began seeping down his chest like a falling red curtain. The woman released her grip, and the boy collapsed to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been severed. She seized the girl by the arm and pulled her through the door into the house.

Heart racing, I dropped Henry's leash and rushed to the fallen boy and crouched by his side. His head was almost detached. Yet his eyes remained wide and bright, and he still smiled, as if Richtus had set in instantly. I fought off a wave of nausea washing over me and had to collect myself. The boy was lost, but I could save the girl. I glanced out at Henry, who remained surprisingly still. The dog sniffed out and sought after every dead and dying animal in a mile radius,

hadn't budged from the sidewalk where I'd left him. I didn't think there was time to call the cops, nor was there anyone on the street, though I yelled for help just the same. I rose up, stepped to the front door, which the woman had left slightly ajar, and pushed it wide open.

Past the doorway, the house was dark, unnaturally dark. Adrenaline, giving me more courage than I thought I had, I raised my arms in a defensive fighter's pose and strode inside. After only a few steps, everything became pitch black. The outside light didn't seem to cross the threshold. I turned in a circle, flailing around, searching for a light switch or even a wall, but found none. Then, guarding my face with my left arm, I reached into my pocket with my right to get my phone

so I could use its flashlight and call 911. That was the last thing I remembered doing before I lost consciousness. I don't remember being hit if I was. I don't remember falling or collapsing if I did. When I came to, it was still dark. Complete darkness, void-like darkness. I couldn't tell how much time had passed, where I was or even whether I was standing up or lying.

down. Was I still in the house? Was I in a hospital? Was I blinded? Was I dead? Then a scratchy voice whispered in my ear. Wait! I thought that must be a rescuer or some emergency care provider trying to see what function I had. I opened my mouth to ask where I was and what that meant. Before I could utter a word, something sharp, an ice cold stabbed into my left flank. The agony was excruciating and overwhelming, but brief. There followed another whisper. Do not speak. Never speak.

Then light replaced darkness. I blinked as the world came into focus. I was alive, standing alone on a doorstep, looking out on a lawn. An S-shaped walkway led out from where I stood to the street in front of me. A woman wearing earbuds and sporting a pink jogging bra and matching spandex pants was walking by on the sidewalk. I raised my right hand and waved slowly. She smiled and waved back.

Next, from writer Marisol de La Rosa and narrated by Risa Montanez. Crippy Presents Hollow Burris. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the trees leaning over. me. They were tucking me in under a blanket of stars and whispering soft lullabies through their rustling leaves. There was a piece resting on me, despite not knowing how I had come to lie in the dewy grass. Just on the periphery of my hearing, there was a faint mulling, only broken by staccato thumps and wet snorts. As I sat up to look over my stomach, I had to look over my stomach, I had

I could see the source of the noise at the edge of the clearing. It was a dull, lying on its side, rising in pain, clouds of dust rising from its flailing limbs. I saw what was interpreting its pained moans as she suddenly lifted her head, stretching her neck until I was certain she would strain the muscles. She slammed it down with earth-shaking force upon the rock just below her head. I could see the bulge in her eyes as the impact forced broken teeth from her blue. leading maw. I tried to look away, but couldn't get my eyes far enough away from the doe to avoid the source of her suffering. Her belly bulged as waves of flesh stretched,

leaving lightning bolts of raw pink flesh that ripped through the soft white fur. The Doe's cries were back, its stomach distending with renewed fervor. I was peering through misty eyes at the suffering of this gentle creature. As she raised her head again, she looked up as if praying to a god she could never know. Her head reached as far as her neck would allow, the striations and the muscles apparent through the skin for just a second before she swung her head down. Her skull hit the rock with a sharp crack.

A trickling of blood ran like a tear drop from the eye that faced heaven. An oppressive silence sat in the air before her stomach began to move frantically again. The stretch mark lines that had formed before, We're now pressed outward until blood began to run out of the fissured skin. I tried to move, but my body betrayed me. I was rooted, watching as the dear stomach finally ruptured, opening to a bloody hollow. The noise that came from within was unmistakable.

It was a desperate gulp of air followed by the telltale cry of new life. I cried then. or maybe I had been crying all along. I found my sobs were strangled as the instrument of the mother deer's destruction reached out from the void. The chubby pale appendage found its way to the ground shakily,

each of its five fingers slayed out and grouping for stability. As the crying got louder, the head finally crowned and pressed out of the unnatural birth canal. The infant crawled towards me. My body shook and I couldn't breathe. Time stood still as it closed the gap between us.

I closed my eyes as I felt the hem of my dress lift, and pressure began to take hold. Mercifully, I opened my eyes not to the voyeuristic stars, but to the ceiling of my bedroom. The dreams have gotten worse since Eric died. In our weekly sessions, Dr. Gatiss assures me that vivid nightmares are common in grief and pregnancy when she asks about them. I shade myself from her sunlight gaze, only telling her about my daytime anxieties, that I am not fit to raise my boy alone, that something may happen to us,

that when there's no movement inside of me, it truly feels as though my baby has left me, the hollowed absence more palpable in my heart than my belly. She tells me this, too, is normal, reminding me of the generations of women who have endured the divinely gifted pain of this little miracle. I thank her for her time and care, holding my breath when she asks if I'm really okay, only exhaling when the silence is filled with one-sided plans to talk again next week. I do not leave our home anymore. The mountains have gathered around us like family, providing all we could need in a sunrise baby shower. Sprinkling gifts of herbs and blessing the hens with health, they whisper encouragement on the wind with the dust from which all life was made,

and the dust to which we will return. Mom calls me every day. The maternal need to relate to me as she remembers the past privilege of motherhood. One she took for granted, a fact she ignores, along with the ashes of our, rickety connection. Still, the olive branch must be offered

even if no rainbow comes after. She shares her horrors with me, nightmares of her inadequacy, of death stealing my breath, she slept, of gravity's truth proving stronger than her sleep-depriped arms. I give her solace by admitting that I have the same fears all the time and that I've been having bad dreams lately.

I just don't admit that in those dreams, the black maw of the well gazed up at me as I held my child like a prayer. Its skin matches the pallor of the moot, the purple umbilical scarf shining wet in the night. The levy of my arms breaks. leaving the last feeling of the motherly connection, as the tug as my placenta is ripped from me. The only sound the child ever made being the distant crash

as the darkness devours its meal. Mom asks about Eric's family the way the wind whistles. Unable to carry the tune of compassion, the toxicity of my reply seeps through the phone line. Those relationships long rotted away in sunless corners of a ghost's memories. She asks me if I'm really okay, and I managed to lie without gritting my teeth. My mind took pity on my heart as it focused on my current reason for existing rather than the one that had just left me. When she offers to visit, the air bolsters my opposing poise.

Our call ends. The goodbyes exchanged miles away, my attention stolen by a fox snooping around the henhouse. I talk to Eric all the time. The breeze carries my words like birdsong through the open nursery window so that the smell won't be overpowering as I paint murals of figgets, trees, and thrushes. My arms are tired as joy finds me, inviting memories and like old friends. My bed calls to me over the screaming of tired feet. I tell Eric just how badly they swell. sharing also how my belly itches as zigzag lines of pink raw flesh are pulled to give space to our child.

Smiling. I leave the window open. Letting the soft air blow tears off my face as I tell him that he will never need my forgiveness. I find pleasure and how well I've prepared this room. The star smiled down on me with timeless wisdom, assuring me that this room has everything my baby will ever need. I pucker my lips and leave a wet kiss, a promised sigel of protection on what the baby will need most. The warm feelings of love are much stronger than the cold my lips leech from Eric's forehead.

A wet slam shook the house. My heartbeat filled the silence, like after an echo. My broken daydream spilled over into reality as horrid images of what might be standing at my door froze my steps. Worse was the sight from the peephole. The emptiness of our porch was dyed in a smeared sunset red. At first, what lay on the doormat was inconceivable. Needle bones jutting out of pink blob, spilling over stretched white flesh. A deflated eye sat in a crushed socket, staring upwards blankly.

A beak, once strong and black, was now crushed. splintered like broken tree branches. The ground saturated in a growing puddle of blood with broken feather life rafts drifting in the flow. The shovel made a fine hearse for the crow's trash can funeral. The only attendees were my grimace. And the fox with the hungry eyes, which sat at the edge of the trees.

I turned my back on it with a shiver. The pale and sponge did little to blot out what remained after. I gave up when my arms leadened and my back screamed at me, threatening to buckle under my shifting center of gravity. The concrete will be forever stained by a rust-colored secret. And our door is forever dented by beak and saturated in death. Truthfully, I don't think I could ever get the crow's memory out of the wood. That night, dinner was chicken.

Eating slowly, I suppressed the comparison of the meat's pink. with what I had scraped for my porch. The meager portion I was able to retain was still cause for celebration. Lately, spices and the slightest overcooking caused debilitating nausea, leaving me to slave to that porcelain hole as it rips the meager scraps I can offer up

so that our child doesn't begin to scrape away at my marrow for nutrients. Though, as the mother's before me, I give of myself to ensure my baby thrives. Spending hours brushing clumps of hair off my shoulders with brittle fingernails as I board rivers of nausea and wrestle with my fatigue. Only herbal tea could remedy my hurt. Another gift from the earth.

I would find what I needed for them in the garden, topped with bows of dew. I can already tell he's strong like his father, sharing that fervor for life and the inability to sit still. traits that once captivated me and Eric now do so again in our sun. Simultaneously filling me with fear and joy as I slip into daydreams of toddling walks in the woods and jumping off logs into creeks.

The vividness of my dreams has only increased. They bleed into my reality, straddling the line between daydream and hazy memory. A sheen of sweat sticks the thin fabric of my dress to my chest. The forest air rests heavy on my shoulders and guides me with gentle hands in between the trees. A deeper darkness than I had ever seen. Prows just beyond a clearing. The wind whispers with a voice that drips like honey into my ears,

giving me understanding beyond words. I enter the forest made night. The trees bending over me with curiosity. Animals lie resting on either side of my path. Those with heads lean down to clean their fawn, look up with loving expressions. A goat couple rests against each other, the girl resting its head against the ram's throat. A grouping of blackbird sits further back in the trees, silent, like judges, taking account of the new being in their sanctuary. Heads turn as I glide into the gnarle of an ancient oak.

Eric must have found me and carried me back. I don't recall anything but strong arms under my. my knees and shoulders and the visions of death. Nearly all the animals, cleaved clean and two from head to flank, each half mirroring its partner on the other side of the path. Only the birds had been saved from the savagery, lying in pairs with the gore. Heads simply turned away at unnatural angles. I woke from this nightmare to a steady creaking. Sure that it was just Eric working on something for a child we had been praying would come. I found Eric.

He had created a human marionette for someone whom he would never be able to introduce himself to. To our answered prayer. Now, I spend my days idly floating around the house to a chorus of mist calls and birdsong. The urge to allow nature in through open windows grow stronger each day. inviting the ivy and to touch Eric like a lover and to rest its head on the crib in anticipation of its occupant.

We finally chose a name. It was one of the few things the awful dreams gifted me. It float down on a scrap of ash and paper as I watch Eric wave at me from the upstairs window before our home was swallowed by flame. Casimir. Since his christening, I have had nothing but peace, finally able to fade into blissful nothingness for hours on end, often waking up so ravenous that nausea coweres from me

as I gorge myself to feed our growing boy. Though my meals grow larger each day, the blessings never cease. The garden is plentiful, the number of chickens only seems to increase with my appetite, and gifts continue to arrive at my door. As I watched the leaves fall, I know it's almost time for our little miracle to come.

I can feel it in each distension of my skin made by his little foot. I can feel it in the soft pressure he puts on my bladder. Each cramp that doubles me over seems like thunder claps before the approaching storm. Mostly, I can tell by my dreams. No longer do nightmares shackle my mind. Instead, I dream of the mundane, the tender moments of love. Warm water baths, where I gently wipe our laughing boy's body with a washcloth.

His father laughs along with us, a deep bellowing sound that seems to shake the house and reverberate off my ribcage. It fills me with warmth, reminding me we will all be together again soon. The fox is in the hen house. Feathered meteors crashed to the snow, trailing arcs of blood. Their death cries choked out before they could echo into the night. I am powerless to stop the carnage. False contractions shackled me to the porch railing as I watched those I had grown to call family, being dragged into the dark spaces between the trees.

Winter bears down with the full weight of its harshness upon me. Fingers of frost wrap around achinging. joints, leaving me a hobbling mass. The house has fallen into disrepair, discarded plates covered in half-eaten meals pile up in forgotten rooms. Nature has curled up like a cat in most rooms. Opening windows I had barely been able to shut hours before. Nature takes my home, but spares my heart. The ivy that had made the nursery lovely is holding fast to Eric's body, holding it tightly now that I cannot spend all day sewing him back together. The cold sucks his smell out the window,

allowing me to leave the nursery door open once more. I no longer talk directly to him, instead feeling his presence with the preternatural understanding that he is here for me. He peeks at me from the forest. He lays his hand on my stomach at night. He whispers comforts in my moments of weakness. The words remind me of what beauty we have knit together and all the wonderful things our boy will do.

Gassimir is similarly excited for his arrival, tossing and turning in my belly with fervor as he drops into place. Each kick of a foot, each twist for position reminds me of his enormous size. Every shift threatens to rupture my skin and scent him spilling out of me. These thoughts come to me now. As the contraction wave builds again, I have begun to amass the necessary supplies for birthing, making sure the tub is spotless, setting aside the kitchen shears for the severing of the umbilical cord and collecting every towel in the house. In the early hours of the morning, I wake to the intensity of my anguish. My body instinctively tries to curl itself inward, twisting the soaked sheets around me as

inhuman noises crawl out of my throat. As I float back up from the contraction, I am aware that my water has broken. By now, the path to the bathroom has been worn into the wood of the hallway, 35 steps that seem to double as I pause every minute to try to weather the waves of pain, in my bleary-eyed determination. I passed the nursery. I wish I could step in for a moment,

moment, knowing that even touching Eric would strengthen my resolve. I tried to get a glimpse of him, assured that even one glimpse of his gentle smile would alleviate my fear. Instead, the shadows play their cruel tricks, making his bed seem empty. I slam my hands down on the edge of the tub, a thin stream of blood on the floor running steadily into the drain. The steam rises from the porcelain as the water rushes to reflect the face washed in the pain of Eve's curse. My scream echoes in the bathroom like cathedral hymns. My body ruptures between my legs as my pelvis shifts to evacuate my baby boy. I sink into the water with a

belayed moan, the heat offering me no relief from the next spasm of pain. Tears and snot stick clumps of my hair to my face as I try to push. My skin stretches until it tears as I bear down on my pelvis, relinquishing my efforts only when stars spin in my eyes. Between contractions, the sweet delirium of my exhaustion seduces me, offering me the forest path I once knew as an escape from my suffering. The black void beyond that clearing, even sweeter than the first. first time I tasted it. The acidic taste of panic rips me from that fairy tale. Another contraction is building, reminding me to gather up the last of my strength. I pray with no words, determining this is the last push I can make.

And then the earth shatters I see crowns. The pain ravages what is left of my nerve, tearing an animal's desperate bleat from my throat. the noise breaks as I force my teeth shut to the point of cracking. Fingernails are torn from my nail beds by my grip on the edge of the bathtub. I swallow air and give in to the savagery of it all. The mulling ache pours from my lips, only broken by the frustrated knocking of my skull against the porcelain rim, as the contraction fades.

It leaches away all that I had left, the warmth of the water, the strength in my bones, the hope and my heart. Sitting in the cold bloody water, it's clear that I can do no more. My body has failed me, has failed us, and now must offer whatever it takes for the sake of Gassimir. The moon has already shown its light on our salvation, and the grinning metal of the shears seems friendly in my hands. I don't feel the blade enter,

and I don't dare look. Something is guiding my hands, doing the work for me. My eyes are locked on the doorway and beyond it. A gathering of animals lines the hallway, watching with blank expressions. Within the shadow of that threshold is Eric. His powerful and gentle presence assures me of our baby safety. His smile conveys a wordless message.

We will be a family now. 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 common sense. Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.