Creepy - The Keystone

Episode Date: January 5, 2026

The Keystone***Written by: E.M. Otero and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Crossword***Written by: Christian Wallis and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Shedding Season***Written by: unknown***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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. It's Owen. I know something's going on.

You can hear this, can't you? If so, remember our code word. If you don't remember, the code word is debacle. Wait, is that right? Or was that last year's code word? What was the code word we were going to use if we were kidnapped by a cult and possessed by an elder god, but the possession doesn't take all the way?

and some part of you is able to fight to the surface of consciousness just long enough to pass on a message to let us know that you're still alive in there somewhere? Oh, yeah, snuggles. John, if you're in there, just say snuggles. Oh, and don't forget to pay out the invoices. Hey, it's Michelle. I got the station's phone number from Owen.

Just wanted to check in, make sure everything was okay. None of us have heard from you about the January schedule yet. Let me know if you need anything. Hey, it's Rissa. I got the station's phone number from Michelle. She said she tried calling earlier, but couldn't get in touch with you. Everything okay over there? Did you get hit with the flu too?

Looka, I have a great recipe for Levantamuitos. Call her message us when you get this. Hey, it's JV. I got this number from Risa. She said she thinks you're sick. She keeps saying she has a recipe to kill her. you or something. My Spanish is a little rusty.

Just wanted to give you a gentle poke about the invoices. Hope you have a happy holiday. Hey boss, it's Natalie. Just wanted to check in to see if you have a chance to go through some of those story submissions. No rush, but kind of a rush. Hope you're doing okay. Hey, Tim.

It's Danielle. Is everything okay? Because if so, stop f***ing around and pay. pay out the invoices and update our schedule. I mean, unless you're on your deathbed. In which case, make sure to get it done tomorrow. I know where you live. Don't make me.

Hey, John, dude, it's Nate. Are you getting any of these messages? You kind of have some of us worried. Not me. I appreciate getting more air time, but the others seem concerned. Owen is beside himself trying to remember code words and it's pretty sure that Snuggles was actually as code word for you to change your identity and sail to meet him.

The others seem to be going back and forth between bringing you soup and, you know, wondering when they're going to get paid. Anyway, when you get a chance, can you please at least call Owen? He's trying to figure out how to get a pontoon from New Jersey to Salt Lake City. It was funny at first, but just call him, please. For our first story this evening, a lonely farmwife finds a strange black son. stone glowing in a creek. The stone fills her with euphoria and strange dreams she may not be ready to understand. From writer E. M. Otero and narrated by Nicole Goodnight, creepy presets, The Keystone. Something looked up at me from the stream where I liked to walk. It was like a beautiful,

glittering eye belonging to something angelic. I reached down and felt its warmth, despite the cool water. When I pulled the object up, it looked to be just a stone. It was a little. It was a little bit. It was a the size of a potato, its surface a smooth obsidian black, with a soft crease in the center that ended in a knob on one end. It reminded me of something that made me blush, but it also looked a lot like an eye, the knob being the gland at the inside corner of a person's eye. I went to throw it back into the stream, but something compelled me to keep it. I stroked it with my thumb and its smooth, glassy surface shone. It filled me with warmth, and I couldn't help but smile at it. As simple as it was, it was quite pretty. I placed the warm black stone in my dress against my chest as I walked back.

The entire time, the stone's incandescence spread through me in pulsations like the beat of a heart. It felt good to have it as a tonic against the cool autumn air. I went about the rest of my day and chores with the stone far at the back of my mind. That is, until I undressed for bed. It fell silently, muffled by the clothes already on the floor. I snatched it and slid it under my pillow so I could feel its warmth through the night. There was an unexplainable desire to hide it from my husband, Herschel, who was thankfully still outside feeding the cows. I didn't keep secrets from Herschel, so this was both alarming and exhilarating.

That night, I slept with my hand under the pillow, covetously holding the stone, letting its warmth run over me, submerging me into a gossamer cloud rather than my itchy bed. My dreams were vivid and surreal. First I was building an arch of stone. Each rock was handed to me by something smiling in the dark, and they clicked together like dovetailed wood. I barely managed to get the stone knee high when the thing in the dark grabbed my black stone from me.

I darted, chasing the shape until I ran into a beautiful meadow chasing a little boy. The sky was dark, and the moon was red, turning the glass black and the flower's crimson. He had the stone in his hand waving it around, taunting me. We were giggling and laughing the entire time. darting and dashing back and forth. We sent butterflies and bumblebees tumbling away from our frolicing,

until I eventually grab hold of him. With a smile on my face, I tell him it's time to go to his parents, and I take the stone back. He pouts at me and says he doesn't want to go, and then his mouth opens wide, lighter than it should, and a radiant light comes from deep inside him. I feel its heat on my skin, and then I open my eyes to see the sun rising. I stretched and still felt tired despite my husband letting me sleep in. Then I remembered the stone and I searched under my pillow until I found it. I sighed with relief and placed it in my smock to keep it close to my chest.

As I tidied up the bed, I noticed that I had tracked dirt onto it with my feet and hands. I didn't recall dirtying them before bed, but I suppose it just meant I had more to wash. After I cleaned my hands and the caked dirt under my fingernails, I grabbed an empty pail to fill with water from the well and headed outside. My husband fussed about some chickens missing and cursed the possibility of a fox. I didn't pay him any mind and went about my daily chores and filled the bucket from the well. Only the water was foul. I told Herschel and he thought maybe the chickens fell in there and drowned. I skipped the cleaning.

There were plenty of chores on the farm to do anyway. They didn't seem so bad today. The warmth of the stone pulsed through me like a second heart. It was nice. Like I was being held close in an intimate embrace all day. As I picked vegetables from the garden, humming a mild tune, I noticed some leaves had been nippled on again. The fieldstone wall I put up just wasn't enough to keep the rabbits out, it seemed. It never bothered me too much before.

After all, they were cute and they needed to eat. If we fed them enough, we could always trap them and make a stew, even though I hated the thought of one of those cute little bunnies ending up in a pot. Then, as I plucked a tomato from the stem and placed it in my basket, I saw a flash of gray fur. As quick as a snake strike, my hand snatched the animal by the back of its neck, and I held it in front of me. The precious, innocent face which normally would elicit joy only filled me with rage. This darn vermin had been eating my vegetables that I labored to grow. It kicked and bellowed. I placed my other hand around its neck and squeezed.

I felt its heart beating against my palm, and the frantic kick scratched at my arms while it gnashed trying to bite me. I squeezed harder, craving to hear its neck. neck pop and for its body to go limp, to watch life fade from its eyes. And then Herschel yelled for me, breaking me from the trance I was in. The rabbit got loose from my grip and scampered off. He asked what the noise was about, and I explained I'd gotten a hold of a rabbit, but it got away. I looked down at my bloodied arms and wondered what had come over me. Never once in my life had I ever wanted to kill something. I had to occasionally, that is life on a farm, but I never felt joy or a thrill at the thought. It felt like my heart was beating against my ribs, and I realized it was the

stone pressing against my skin. I cleaned myself up, but I couldn't get the sight of the rabbit's fear out of my mind. It's small eyes, so scared and uncomprehending. That night I slept with the stone in my hand again, and dreamt of the little boy in his arch. He told me he wanted to build a castle because he wanted to be a king, so he kept piling them up to build his little arch for his pretend castle. The light was a strange red glow from the red moon. Then he said that there are more things he will need than stones. Because, of course, castles require all kinds of things. I told him I would help get him whatever he needed.

He looked up at the moon and whispered something about the occlusion of the moon. I woke up with dirty feet again, and my hand smelled foul, like the well water. I skipped cleaning yesterday, but even if the well was bad, I would have to just bring everything to the stream and clean them today, or the day after. When I pulled the stone from under my pillow, I noticed something strange. The slit seemed to be open slightly, like the eye of a person on the edge of being fully awake. I held it in my hand as I changed, and strangely, chicken feathers fell from my clothing. It wasn't enough for me to have the stone in my shirt anymore.

I had to hold it. Feel it in my hand and stroke it. I exulted in its weight and touch. It made me feel important like I held something divine. I had never felt that way before. I never had a purpose beyond being a good wife. Now I felt it. I felt the weight of being a bearer of this stone.

It meant something even if I didn't fully understand. I had a taste, and I knew I wanted to be a part of something greater. This stone somehow felt like a catalyst for great things. Herschel had me ride with him to mend fences, which was just an excuse to get me on horseback, which he knew I loved. He tried to talk to me, but being so fixated on the stone, I gave him short one-word replies. I caressed it with my thumb out of Herschel's sight, feeling the pulses of pleasure up my arm and spreading throughout my body.

We rode along the ridge to admire the view, but I barely noticed. Then something spooked the horse, and I grabbed the reins just in time not to fall. I spent a moment calming down the animal before I realized the stone had fallen to the ground below. I gasped, but quickly found it with my gaze. Herschel leapt from his horse to pick up what I had dropped, and not finding anything immediately other than the stone. He kneeled down to pick it up. I nearly screeched at him to stop, but stopped myself, barely containing the panic at seeing another touching it. He studied the stone with passing amusement before asking what I had dropped. It never occurred to him that the stone could be

it. He didn't look at me when he asked. Instead, his focus was on the black object in his hand. His thumb traced the crease tenderly, and I saw the pleasure in his eyes. my heart twisted. And before I could answer, he threw the stone from the ridge and into the woods below. I nearly collapsed off my horse at the sight of the stone disappearing into the canopy below. He saw my face of horror and said that there was no one down there and not to worry. Vivid visions of me thrusting him off the ridge, and him plummeting to his death flashed through my mind. I could see him crashing into trees, the branches skewering him and then snapping off as his weight

and momentum carried him downward until he crashed to the ground, bursting open like an overripe tomato. The image felt right. I could smell the blood and hear the sound. It would be so easy out here. With no one to see, I could say his horse got spooked and he fell. Accidents happen, and then that would leave everyone to mourn for me. I would be the center of attention. And that would be nice. Then it would be just me and the stone after I find it, of course. Without him, I would have plenty of time to search, and I heard my name. And blinking away the morbid reverie, I realized I was standing in front of him with his shirt in my fists. He looked confused and worried.

I embraced him and told him that the horse getting spooked scared me. He wrapped his arms around me, and I assumed he told me things were going to be okay. I wouldn't know. My mind was elsewhere. I was horrified at what I was going to do, and over just a stone? That wasn't like me at all. Still, I couldn't help but plod away to search for it, to get it back. Herschel's embrace was icy. It wasn't for lack of love.

The world turned from a place of color to a muted gray. With the stone gone, the world simply felt colder and darker. After shuffling through the rest of the day in a lackadaisical days, I collapsed into bed. My thoughts were dark, and the impulses behind them were like wires pulling on my hands, willing them to do monstrous things, it was exhausting. I missed the warmth of the stone in my hand, but I still fell asleep in mere seconds. My dreams came to me, disjointed and frantic, images of Herschel's smashed body, bones, and a red sky with black clouds.

The moon glowed a fierce red while the boy, standing in knee-deep water, smiled and called to me. I woke up staring out my bedroom window, the cool night air pimpling my skin. I didn't recall getting up or what had called me to the window. Laying back down, the coolness of the bed startled me. I had to have been standing for a long time. Herschel wrapped his arm around me, but the bed never seemed to warm. I felt like I was lying on ice. Sleep eluded me for the rest of the night.

I dragged myself out of bed but had a compulsion to go to the stream. I didn't know why and thought maybe it had something to do with my dreams. They faded, though. Like water in a cup-tanned? What remained was only a vague sense compelling me to go to the stream, but no tangible reason. I gathered up the clothes, bedding and soap, and walked over there with more vigor than I had the second half of the previous day. With each step, I felt warmer, lighter, and happier, like I was supposed to be going this way. It felt right. The forest around me felt vibrant and brimming with

life and color. I arrived at the stream humming and I started washing. The water, which is usually cool and crisp, felt tepid. almost warm. I found it strange, but it was a warm day, and the sensation wasn't unpleasant. I kept scrubbing and something caught my eye. Along the edge of the stream there was a well-trodden path, a path that I couldn't recall ever being there before. I left the laundry behind and walked towards it, following the earth rendered bare by foot traffic. I thought maybe it was a game trail, but those were far narrower, and there were no animal prints. In fact, as I went deeper into the woods, the sounds of birds, insects, and life faded. The trees loomed over me,

their canopies blocking out the sun. Something crunched under my foot, and when I looked there was a small bird skull broken from my weight. Then I noticed another skull and other small bones, then some larger. I looked up, further down the path, and slightly illuminated by the crepuscular rays, looked to be the beginnings of a stone arch, the curve held together with branches and mud. The hair on my neck stood up and I didn't know why. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place the image. Then I remembered the clothing I'd left by the stream and ran back, worried it would be washed away. Bones crunched like brittle twigs under my first few steps, and as I ran, the trees were seated and light came back into the world. There was a flash

of color down the stream. I panicked realizing it was our blanket caught on a branch. Plotting through the water, drenching my dress, I prayed it wouldn't break free before I got to it. I reached for the blanket but slipped on a moss-covered stone and fell completely into the water. I flailed trying to get up, and as I put my hands on the water-smooth stones below me, I felt something warm. My fingers closed around it, and I got up with a fight. My clothes were sodden and heavy, but I didn't care. I didn't even care that the stream's water turned cold. In my hands was that precious stone. I stroked the crease, which seemed wider now, and said, Oh, thank the heavens you found your way back to me.

I didn't worry about the fact that the ridge was on the other side of our property, or that the stream fed down into the valley and not the other way around. Rationally, there was no way this stone could have ended up there. It didn't matter, though. My stone was back, and its warmth was euphoric. I sang as I finished the laundry and danced my way back to the house. Herschel was pleased to see my spirits had lifted, and even danced with me. The rest of the day went by in a pleasant, giddy blur.

I placed it back against my chest, and it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds. That night when I slept, I had dreams again. I was helping the boy build his arch, but he said he needed more, more than just stone in wood. He needed mortar, and the only thing that he felt would work on this type of stone was mortar made from the heart. He left, and I waited. Soon after he returned and ran a crimson paste between the stone. securing them. The archway was almost complete, and the boy was telling me something. At first, in words I didn't understand, and it slowly changed to English. He needed something else,

an offering for the keystone during the occultation. My eyes opened before he could finish. The dream dispersed and faded like the seeds of a dandelion. I felt the stone in my hand and pressed it to my chest, feeling its warmth. Something felt off in the bed, though, and when I tried to get up the blanket clung to me. I realized it was damp. A metallic smell filled my nose, and when I reached for the curtain, I noticed the dry, crusted blood on my hands. I threw open the curtain to reveal that my side of the bed and clothing were covered in blood. It was too much to be from me naturally, so I checked myself over and noticed no wounds. I looked out the window and Herschel was out in the pasture. I wadded the clothes and blankets up and cleaned myself as best I could. I would have to make another

the trip to the stream. I hurried to gather everything I needed while my thoughts whirled. Where could it have come from? How did Herschel not notice? He was an early riser, but surely he would have noticed. That. I hurried out the door nearly running towards the woods to get this cleaned quickly, but Herschel shouted for me. I froze, panicked at what to do, but I took a deep breath. The stone's warmth pulsed through my body like a second heartbeat, and I set the basket down with the laundry, then walked over to the pasture. I felt, calm, like a sense of peace had washed over me, until the wind carried the metallic smell of blood to me, and I noticed the buzzards circling above. I fought the urge to look back at the basket as I

approached. I met Herschel's eyes and then tried to peek past him. He blocked my view, but I saw a red mass on the ground. He asked whether I'd seen anything alarming in the woods. I went to look past him again, but he moved, locking eyes with me. I told him no, and his look filled me with icy dread. He was scared. A farmhand cursed behind him, and Herschel turned, and I got a full view of the grisly mess. It wasn't recognizable at first, but judging by the size of the exposed ribcage, it had to be one of our cows. I heard Herschel ask if the man was sure, and he nodded. I asked him what was wrong, and he said that the cow's heart was gone. Someone had cut its throat, carved it open, and pulled out the poor creature's heart. I felt my pulse to be a little bit. I felt my pulse

jump at the word heart. It meant something, but I couldn't figure out what. Herschel told me to be careful, and I promised I would before taking the basket off to the forest. It felt darker than usual, and was significantly quieter than I ever remembered it being. I felt like I was being watched. I washed my hands in the stream, watching the rest of the red carry off and curling ribbons. It couldn't have been me, I thought as I scrubbed. I didn't even know how to the rest of the red carry off and curling ribbons. I didn't even know how to slit a throat or pull out a heart. The blood, it had to have been from a nosebleed or something, only there was no blood on my pillow.

I felt my flesh pimple, and I looked around again. The woods felt twilight, despite the early hours. Everything was bathed in a pale reddish gold. Just keep washing, and you'll be back home in no time. The feeling of being watched didn't go away, and it felt strangely like it was coming from the path I had followed, the one with the arch and the bones. I knew I should have brought Herschel or someone else with me. I admonished myself, but every time I got upset, I felt the stone's warmth and my heart

rate slowed. My thoughts went from violence and paranoia to empty bliss. The blanket and sheet were as clean as they were going to get, and I headed home. The path called to me, tugging on a curiosity that I had learned to stamp down as a little girl. Maybe I should just go look, I thought, and then the basket down. I took one step onto the path and everything darkened. Another step, and the stone beat urgently. It felt wrong, but also so, so right. The stone was soothing any anxiety or doubt I felt. It seemed to want me to go this way. Then, like a bellowing horn, Herschel's voice echoed calling my name. I ran back to the main path, grabbed the wet clothing, and went back to the farm. Herschel was dragging the cow carcass away with the horse. I felt like to the main path. I felt

a sharp pain of dread whenever I looked at it. But I approached him. He told me he was going to have the butcher cut up the cow, and we were going to have steaks tonight. I nodded and looked at the poor thing's carcass. Its chest was shredded, the ribs broken and torn out. I felt my palm sweat. How could I possibly do that?

The steaks tasted great, even though I could barely stomach eating them. I fell asleep still able to smell the blood in our bed. I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or not. I dreamt that someone was calling my name from the woods, and I followed them in. As I did, the woods grew brighter, and more beautiful flowers bloomed with each step I took. Then I heard my name again, but this time it was louder, more tangible, as if the person's breath was directly in my face. I woke up standing at the window, my skin cold in my mind completely confused. The moon was almost full and illuminated everything in that ghostly white light.

In the spectral gleam I saw movement, a white shirt moving across the pasture towards the woods, then a flash of movement in a child's voice calling out for me to follow. I felt a familiar surge of warmth, and I looked at the stone in my hand. The crease was opened more, but the darkness hid what was inside. I put on my clothes and ran outside towards the boy. I heard my name behind me, but it was distant in another world. I followed the boy to the stream weaving through the woods as the ghostly, white light from the moon changed. The boy turned from the area where I gathered my water down

the path that led to the strange arch. Following him, the dreams where the boy was having me build the stone arch came back to me. Were they dreams? I looked at the red mortar he used to fill the cracks of the stone. I remembered what he said about making it from the heart. From the heart of a cow, I thought. The stone pulsed against my chest beating faster than my heart. A voice kept shouting my name from a ways off. But I could barely hear it over a word. a rising cacophony around me. It sounded like chanting, like the very shadows were taking shape. I looked up at the moon as it became occluded, and the penumbra turned it blood red. The boy kept yelling for me to follow over the chanting shadows. I did, and I came to the small glade

where the stone arch was. The ground was pale white from the myriad of small bones. But as the moon turned red, so did everything else. I felt the stone squirm against my skin like a small animal, and when I pulled it from my shirt, I dropped it to the ground. The crease was opening, and illuminated by the red moon, it was easy to see what it was. An eye. The boy approached me, kneeling down and gently picking up the stone. The pupil shifted to look at the boy, then back to me. My skin prickled in the night. The boy thanked me and walked towards the arch. It was still held with wood and branches, and at the pinnacle of the arch was an empty space. I screamed asking what this was, and he turned to look at me.

His entire body changed to something horned and monstrous. In a horrible voice, he explained it was adored to the other side. The boy, no, creature, placed the stone in that open space at the top of the arch. It clicked into place, and the branches and wood fell to the ground. It was complete, and the keystone eye gazed outward. The horned creature yelled out to the cacophony of shadows that the right was almost complete. but a scream cut him off. Herschel shouted as I stood paralyzed by fear.

The horned creature smiled a malevolent grin filled with obsidian teeth and announced that the sacrifice to connect the two sides had arrived. The moon's occultation was complete and the spectral chanting filled the night and the shadows reached towards Herschel. Their black tendrils pulled him from his feet and dragged him kicking and screaming to the arch. The creature lifted him as if he were no heavier than a doll and placed him in the center of the stone structure. Herschel's eyes met mine and I saw the terror.

This man who had never hurt a soul was about to experience something that was beyond comprehension, and it was my fault. The eye and the keystone glowed a brilliant crimson light and under the arch changed. The woods behind it were no longer visible, instead of radiant darkness spread, and Herschel disintegrated into the umbra.

Tentacles and grotesque limbs reached out to grab hold of him. I looked around me and found what looked like a broken femur. The bone had snapped, in a way leaving a sharp point. I grabbed it and ran towards the carnivorous dark. The creature still chanting didn't see me coming. I stepped past it, towards my husband, who was not much more than a flayed corpse, and I thrust the sharp end of the bone into the eye within the keystone.

I feared it would be the consistency of the rock, but the bone sank into the eye, popping it like a cyst. The creature screamed and cursed at me, then grabbed my body with powerful arms and threw me away from the arch with vicious force. I tumbled and rolled across the bone-covered ground and came to rest against the trunk of a tree. I watched as the creature tried to pull the bone from the eye, and my husband grabbed it, wrapping his skinless, dripping arm around its monstrous frame. Then, in a flash of red light, the arch imploded. I woke up to the sound of morning birds, and it took me a moment to remember where I was.

The events of the night before rushed into my mind and I sat up. I was still in the glade, and my body ached as if I had fallen off a horse. The remains of the arch were scattered around the glade, but there was no sign of the creature, or my husband. I sheepishly approached the spot where the arch was, not knowing what to expect. There was nothing left, except the black stone with a crease down the center, tightly closed. I picked it up, feeling the familiar warmth, only now it was critical. retest instead of comforting, like a warm breath on the back of a neck in a dark room where there

was supposed to be nobody else. A single drop of blood leaked from the crease and dripped to the ground. I knew what I was going to do. I was going to bring it back home and drop it into the foul well. I limped back to the farm, my mind reeling. I was thinking of lies to tell the farm hands about what happened to my husband. He was a good man, but it was not uncommon for husbands to disappear in the night, leaving families behind. That's what I will tell them. He left, just disappeared into the night, and I went looking for him. After all, that is what happened, right? I tried to recall the events of the night, but they faded, like a half-remembered dream disappears through the day. I tried to hold on to it, but it was like trying to catch the wind. All I knew was that Herschel was a

bastard for running off on me like that. I would figure it out, though. There hasn't been a problem I couldn't fix before. I arrived at the well at the edge of the pasture. I knew there was a reason for being here, but it eluded me. I realized I was holding something. And when I brought up my hand, there was a stone. The stone I found in the river. The one that filled me with warmth and joy.

Only now the warmth had become tepid. I had a faint urge to throw it into the well, but it seemed childish. This thing had brought me such joy. Maybe it would come back. I put it on the stone lip of the well, since I couldn't decide what to do. Why was I conflicted over a stone? I felt compelled to bring it home, but the sight of it filled me with dread. Only, I couldn't remember why.

For our second story this evening, a socially isolated man becomes addicted to solving increasingly elaborate crossword puzzles sent to him by a mysterious group. but each puzzle leads him deeper and deeper down a dark and winding path from writer, Christian Wallace and narrated by Owen McCune, creepy pre sense, crossword. I latch on to specific problems and when I do, everything else around me diminishes into nothingness until I complete the task at hand. I line these problems up and solve them one by one, and I find updating the task list awfully difficult. If I'm on my way to do a job, breaking off to attend to something else is almost impossible.

I once finished buttering my toast before putting out a fire by the stove. I once lost a girlfriend after she trapped her fingers in a food processor, and I quietly went over to the fridge and put the milk away before turning to help her. She couldn't believe that I hadn't rushed over straight away, but, of course, it wasn't really like that. I was unable to review or address my priorities until my mind had freed itself from the current task. I have to manage these tendencies. And I learned at an early age that it helps to focus on discrete tasks that if things get really bad, I can remind myself don't matter.

That at least limits the anxiety of abandoning them. I have my work and that gets me through the day, but outside of those hours, I need other things to pull me through. I can paint and read, and they're involving for sure, but they don't tend to have the same sense of completion that I get from a simple puzzle. Jigsaws, Sudoku, word searches, video games, these all make up part of it,

but oddly enough, it's crosswords that have taken over my mind. It started because they weren't too taxing, and if I was pushed to cheat, then it didn't really matter. They let me say things like, right, I'll do nine across while on the toilet, and that's it. Like most things I put my mind to, I quickly turned the hobby into an obsessive pursuit of completion. The harder they were, the better.

If I had to watch a film, read a book, or even visit a real-life location to get an answer, I would. And I credited it all with pushing me out of my comfort zone in order to experience new things. I never would have watched Breakfast at Tiffany's, read Little Women, or visited the London Museum of Natural History without needing to get answers from them. And they were all new experiences for me, some better than others, but I enjoyed the feeling of expanding my little bubble with each new puzzle.

Crosswords, like everything, have communities surrounding them, and I even found a few friends online. For some, the compulsion to get obscure answers was a vital lifeline to the outside world, and you'd be surprised at some of the cultures lurking at the fringe. A good crossword is more than just a puzzle. It's a curated string of experiences picked to evoke a deliberate journey. A common example might be the kind of things some tourists could use to guide them around a city. Below the phoenix of a blinded saint, ate down.

Risergum, the answer can be found carved on a stone beneath a statue of a phoenix at St. Paul's Cathedral. But what about something like the following? The final song of a thunderous singer, Five Across. The answer was toxic. The final song lip-sinked by a drag queen, Daytona Thunder, at a popular club in Manchester. I went a long way for that one, and had a surprisingly good night,

albeit one a little outside my wheelhouse. But still, I got the answer, and it wasn't like I'd find it just by reading the forums. Posting answers is a big no-no if you want to get into the best clubs. The creator was a well-known queer academic working out of London who has a popular following in the community. I appreciated their work, but perhaps not as much as those by one anonymous Berliner. A companion's lips tasted through the looking glass, six across.

Her name was Alice, and she was an escort for an agency called Intimate Companions. She was wearing cherry lip gloss. something I found through a process of elimination. Over the last few years, I've discovered more about myself than I ever would have at home. I learned that I can lie very well, and that when I know who I'm meant to be, who others want me to be, I can be confident and even charming. I've learned that I'm not a jealous person, that I'm not a vain person, and that there are times when I can be as reckless and adventurous as anyone else.

I just need a reason to, a job, to complete, with roots to success, I understand. The name of a one-eyed watchman's gun, 12 across. There was a policeman, with two eyes, I might add, but the unfortunate Christian name of Dick, and the answer was the serial number of his gun converted to letters. That was an odd one, but absolutely invigorating. The crossword had been made with clearly defined geographical boundaries, which helped many of us attended it as a communal event, although I largely acted alone.

And for a moment, I almost thought the policeman was in on the game, right up until he tried to shoot me. Like I said, the experiences can be invigorating. But the good ones, the really good ones, they can be a struggle to find. You have to be accepted into the right groups. Often you'll be vetted, even tested, but the reward can be worth it. I'll never forget the day I had a hand-delivered envelope deposited at my doorstep, and the anticipation I felt opening it, unnotting the brown twines so delicately tied around the heft. God, some of them even had wax seals.

I like those the most. I found the violet and crimson seals delicious to look at. But they were so, so much more than simple puzzles. A principled affair, five down. The headmaster of the local school was having an affair with her sister-in-law, Sarah. It was hard to find that out. It wasn't exactly public knowledge. Frankly, I had to resort to stalking, and it wasn't a good look.

But it was a new experience, nonetheless, and the few times I nearly got caught were quite exhilarating. But what was truly amazing was that this was at the school just a few blocks from my house. You have to understand. It wasn't just a template handed out to everyone. I still don't know how big any of these communities really are, but I imagine they're quite small and involve people from all over the world. It was truly remarkable to think someone had labored over a tailor-made puzzle just for me. There are quite a few groups I belong to now.

Some aren't even organized online, instead requiring that you ferret them out, sometimes as clues in other puzzles, sometimes as their own elaborate games. But there are always more to be found. and in the best circumstances they find you, choosing you out of all the people in the world to rise to the challenge at hand. The right ones will push you to do things you never thought possible. A Baker's Jewels, Seven Down.

Harriet Baker, who died in 2012 at the age of 86 and was buried with an emerald necklace in the local graveyard. I still have it, kept away somewhere in a special drawer along with news clippings of the crime. It even has some of the soil from the graves still muddying its shimmering gems, and admittedly they do still smell a bit. But I bet that I know something most people don't. And that's what happens to little old grandma five years after being sealed up in a box beneath

the earth. Not just the abstract either. I know the specifics. I know exactly what she looks like, smells like, and even what her cold lump in flesh feels like. I spent years as a child wondering what happened to the many relatives of mine who passed away, but it was as an adult. I finally found the answer.

People have lived their whole lives looking down on me. Teachers assumed I was slow at learning. My parents mourned that I cared more about organizing my war-gaming miniatures than I ever did about girls or friends. Everyone around me treated me like I was a timid mouse in a world of thundering giants. But I've lived the more exciting life than they could ever imagine, and it hasn't been in spite of who I am. Only someone like me could pursue these clues to such dogged ends, and I gladly take the bad with the good.

The color of the tea plates served by the Belie Historical Society, Nine Up. Don't let the name fool you. The society is a private organization for some rather unusual gentleman who served tea after their annual conference is finished. Crazy bastards, I can see why they need a drink once they're finished, and I'm not surprised half of them didn't take a seat during refreshments. I'm just not sure I'll ever be able to look at a farm animal in the eye again. Oh, and turquoise, by the way, that was the answer. I know things very few people know.

That's a rare privilege, and like I said, it comes with a price. It would be ridiculous to think one might look upon the fraying edges of our world without having to face some uncomfortable sights. You might think that the worst of it is a leather-bound orgy in a dungeon or perversions you can safely find on Wikipedia. But there are other lingering truths buried in the earth, and I'm one of the few who have seen them. There's always more to learn,

always another word to find another puzzle to complete. And I've come a long way in my education since I first received that letter on my doorstep years ago. The inheritor of Mason's oldest home, six down. Albert. Albert was the named inheritor of the first house built and designed by obscure architect Harold Mason. It was not, as almost everyone first expected,

the current owner's firstborn son named out Alexander, but instead the old man's male sexual interest, Albert, who was a rather unwilling 17-year-old. Perhaps the old man thought it made up for his actions towards the boy he had kept around as a family friend for years, disguising his abuse as mentorship. Either way, no one could have possibly known what Harold had planned. The will was written up in total secrecy, something I spent considerable resources finding out. Credit where it's due, Harold put up a fight, but his death was the only way I could get my answer. After that, Albert's face was all over the papers, along with the details of the coming legal challenge by Harold's children. I can't speak for others,

but I found the experience quite a revelation. I felt as if I'd learned profound, hidden knowledge, a truth about reality found in the glassy bloodshot eyes of a man violently dying. There's something in there, you know, something that lies just beneath our own reality. I saw a glimmer of it that night, just like I had so many others before it. It's quite beautiful, a confusing, glittering mess of contradictions and unknowable madness. It is, by definition, beyond our ability to ever truly know. But you can still see facets of it, one bit at a time. It's beautiful.

But, well, it's not always so painless. The missing piglet counted right to left, five up. Eight. That was the answer. I spent all night researching fairy tales and children's rhymes, only to fall asleep at my desk sometime around two in the morning. When I awoke, I had been moved to the sofa, and my left foot was raised on the armrest and bandaged heavily.

The hole tingled from anesthesia, and it wouldn't be until noon before I could walk on it again. anxiously I undid the white swaddle of blood-tinged gauze and winced at the sight of my mutilated foot. The middle toe on my left foot had been amputated cleanly, the wound sewn up neatly like a crossed-stitched grin. Counting right to left, I noticed it was the eighth toe missing, and I have to admit, I pumped my fist in the air and rejoiced at having the answer. But the experience caught me off guard. and it might not surprise you to know that I have since looked into slowing down

and maybe even taking a short break from this hobby. Someone had amputated my toe, and the lengths they went to were deeply concerning. But there have been some difficulties in applying the brakes to this fixation of mine. For one thing, they won't stop sending new puzzles, and it's all but impossible for me to ignore them. And there's another thing. The clues are becoming increasingly pointed. A sea of white and flakes of gold to flood a castle of ivory, six down.

I thought the answer was cereal, right up until I discovered a needle hidden in my cornflakes. That, it turned out, was the correct answer, and I was lucky to catch it before it wound up anywhere near my mouth. The thought of that thing sliding down my throat or catching in the roof of my mouth produced some intense anxiety. clubs have pushed things in the past boundaries take a back seat when it comes to pursuing the absolute limit of knowledge but it felt like such an odd inclusion for the latest puzzle one that didn't necessarily teach me anything

if I had the ability to trace it to a single group I might have a better sense of what it was meant to mean but then again anonymity was always kind of the point the currency of a strategic withdrawal three up I initially thought of the military, but in fact the answer was yen, and it turned out that around 50,000 pounds worth of them had been withdrawn from my account, by myself somehow, at the bank. God knows how that was possible, but it happened, and there's not a lot I could really do about it.

I've written to some of the groups, but as far as I can tell, they're playing coy. I am sorry, one replied, but our puzzles are sent out as part of a weekly newsletter via email. We're not sure we've ever offered bespoke crosswords, but we'd be fascinated to hear more if there's anyone out there who does. It had interest quite a few of our members, myself included. I received similar variations to this message from just about every organization I'd listed in my ledger, and frankly, I found the suggestion ridiculous. I'd always assumed those newsletters were part of a front, making it appear as though the focus was on the banal little puzzles about obscure military defeats,

while secretly directing us to brothels and illegal casinos. It made sense, perhaps, that they would maintain the ruse, but an acquaintance I called wasn't exactly reassuring. Well, of course they're affront, he said. Don't you get the packages? I've had a few seedy adventures with those. Oh, that's good, I laughed while breathing a deep sigh of relief. I was beginning to think, well, I'm not sure what I was thinking.

Oh, yes, the package is. are very real, he replied. The spring edition was quite a naughty affair, don't you think? Invigorating, I smiled. I didn't even know where to buy a burlap sack. Strawberry? Can you imagine? The Mrs. and I had a delight trying out the different flavors. What? No need to be shy. It's quite normal to use lubricant. He whispered it like a dirty secret. Agnes suggested we tried on toast. I hung up with his laughter still bellowing down the other line. My spring edition of our shared club was not anything like his.

I told myself that it made sense it wouldn't, that they were meant to be custom-made for each participant, but it alarmed me to hear that his activities were so dreadfully banal. Most of the clues in that edition had direct me to the consumption of a range of meats, including something I scraped off the side of a suspension bridge. Nothing my friend had said to me rang true. Rightly, I should have stopped there. But the thing is, it was never really an option.

Not then and not now. I'm sure you think it's a silly compulsion or anxiety, but it's not. I can't do it. It's simply not in my nature, especially not now that I know God knows what could be lurking around the corner. I've explained this to myself and others before. I'm task focused. I needed to finish the job at hand. P.O. Box 19777.

Open it from within. Nine down. I found the box with ease, but there was no key nor any means to open it from within. Whatever the rationale was behind the puzzle, I thought at the time that the whole affair was beginning to frustrate me. I didn't see any significant. challenged to tracing the address, aside from finding the key, which it would turn out,

was very much part of the clue. In fact, I'm still not entirely sure how they did it. I awoke to a sort of gagging sensation one night, dreaming that I had swallowed a tangle of wet hair. Only the terrible retching sensation wasn't entirely dreamed up. Tied to my canine was a line of floss that I painfully had to pull up from my stomach. It was unnecessarily long, spooling out of my throat in a bloody tangle for a good few meters while I vomited and cried from the struggle. It took nearly half an hour to inch it out, but eventually I regurgitated the key, collapsing afterwards to the floor to heave and sob as I recovered. There was a teddy bear in the locker, and I didn't find it particularly amusing.

And yes, okay, there was a mild satisfaction to getting the answer, but the rest of me was filled with that growing distress. I felt like the punchline to a joke that wasn't funny. A starry orchids window of choice, seven down. The answer was eyeball. And to find that answer, I had to consume a poisonous flower that causes bloody secretions from the tearducts, not to mention renal failure.

The price for that answer may one day be dialysis. The doctors couldn't say for sure what the chances were. At the very least, I got to spend a few days in the hospital, and I hoped that would give me a kind of a break, but if anything, it made things worse. I was not prepared to be incapacitated for so long with the knowledge that the puzzle was just one clue from completion. I was itching furiously for the last few hours.

there would be no rest for me until I had finished the puzzle and I swore to myself, swore, blind on my mother's grave that it would be the last. When I arrived home, it was with the kind of relief I never thought possible. I am forever learning more about myself and those first few steps through the front door made it clear to me I was in the thrall of some kind of addiction.

No matter what the price was, I told myself over and over again that I would pay it and move on. I would change addresses if I had to or pay someone to physically slap the damn pencil out of my hand if I went to complete another crossword. God knows I have the money. I will climb this final hurdle, I told myself, and see it through. The final clue was waiting for me, and it's something else. I half expect there to be some ghoulish double entendre hiding in the words, but for the life of me, I cannot see one. It seems more like a hideous joke, one I don't really understand.

I have a possible word choice, and it certainly fits, but it's been weeks, and I can't bring myself to write it in. This is the final clue, the final step at the end of this increasingly desperate adventure, and I can't figure it out. I'm half tempted to say that I won't see another answer because I don't want to finish it. That might be it, surely. I'm an addict. I'll admit that, all too readily, and this wouldn't be the first time I took things too far. It's just... The hand that has written these clues and led you down this path, for down.

I keep expecting to find a severed hand by my door, or to wake up one day missing most of my fingers. It's a strange thing, but I've come to find myself ruminating often on the look in the old man's eyes. For while I'm sure that I saw something terrible and beautiful deep within the popping veins of those suffocating retinas, it had not occurred to me until now that something was looking back. And it's waiting for me to write in the final answer, though God knows it must be wrong, for it simply cannot be possible that the answer is mine.

Searching archives for unused narration. Searching searching story found and finally a man starts to notice some changes in the other people who live in his apartment building changes that may or may not be welcome

creepy pre sense shedding season the first one peeled in late November I only knew because I lived next door my apartment shares a wall with theirs and the sounds that months were different Not the usual furniture scraping or footsteps. This was dry and repetitive, like paper tearing and slow methodical strips.

At first I thought it was wallpaper. Then I saw the remains in the hallway. Curled flakes, long and pale, gathered along the baseboards outside their door. Thicker than dandruff, too long to be accidental. not quite transparent, more like the husk of something that once needed to be soft, like skin. I left it alone. Everyone did. The landlord said nothing.

The mail kept arriving. The smell of their cooking drifted through the vents like it always had. Cummins, stewed tomatoes, something sharp underneath. I heard movement in their unit every morning. But I never saw them again. Not really. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of someone passing the frosted glass in the laundry room. The shape was right.

The gate was close, but the head tilted slightly when they walked. And their limbs hung too loosely from the joints. They swung out a sequence. By mid-December, we saw the peals outside three more doors. They didn't do it all at once. It wasn't that dramatic. I only knew because the garbage room started to smell faintly acidic. The bins were filled with small, clear plastic baggies, tightly nodded, each holding what looked like shavings.

Or, well, the outermost layer of someone who'd grown tired of the old arrangement. I started keeping track. One floor above me, a man who used to lamp but no longer did. His shoes were new, and the way away from across the street as I looked out the window was too symmetrical. Below me, a woman whose laugh had been hoarse since spring now chuckled lightly, like her lungs had never known strain. They didn't just shed. More like molten.

Not just healing. They renewed. I checked my own skin for signs. Nothing. Then a week later, I woke up with the seam. The seam ran across my lower back. I found it in the mirror. A faint, silvery line dry to the touch.

It didn't hurt. It wasn't inflamed. It just wasn't supposed to be there. It had no depth, no opening. But it flexed when I twisted. tightened when I exhaled. I tried not to touch it. By the third day it had spread.

Not longer, but more detailed. Fine ridges had formed along the edges, like micro-tares prepared to unzip. The skin near the seam was different now, less reactive, more elastic. I could pull it between my fingers, and it would return to place with a slow, sticky resilience. Around the same time I stopped recognizing my voice.

I didn't crack or change pitch. I just misaligned. Recordings of myself felt uncanny, hollow, as if the person speaking had learned my cadence without the weight underneath. I stopped talking altogether. Outside in the halls the building changed with us. More windows began fogging from the inside. Not from steam, but from exhalation.

Every unit on my floor started to smell faintly sweet, not pleasant, but chemical. Like the outer layer of fruit that had been dipped in syrup and forgotten in the sun. The elevator pads became soft to the touch, like cartilage. I passed someone in the stairwell or something. Same height as me, same clothes, same watch on the left wrist. But their skin didn't fold when they gripped the rail. Their eyes were bright, not just color but finish. Glossed, new.

They looked at me without blinking. We didn't nod. We just passed. I could hear them shedding behind me, fibers rubbing against the inside of their sleeves like pages being peeled from a damp book. I started sleeping on the floor. The mattress made my bones feel misplaced. The carpet, though scratchy, helped pull away the dry outer layer each night.

By morning I'd leave behind fragments. Curled, thin, semi-translucent. The pile of them grew under the bed. I stopped sweeping. Every day I woke up smoother. By Christmas, the seam opened. Not torn, not ripped. It yielded a clean, wet line down my spine that split as I leaned forward in the shower.

It didn't bleed. It didn't hurt. I reached back and the skin separated with no resistance. My outer layer peeled from shoulder to hip in one continuous shoe. feet, still warm from my body. It fell to the shower floor with a soft slap. The tile steamed. I sat down and watched the water bead on the new skin beneath. It was pale, featureless, free of hair and blemish. My pores were smaller, my joints looser. Nothing about me ached anymore. I bent my neck and felt the vertebrae shift with perfect calibration, like fresh ball bearings dropped into a groove.

My old skin flushed down the drain. The other tenants had finished long before me. We passed each other in the hall. No greeting, no noise. We no longer had voices. Not silence from fear or secrecy, but absence of need. our expressions have gone soft, smooth, identical. Our clothes and accessories the same.

Our faces still moved, but only to mimic an idea of reaction, not to express any thoughts or emotions. Each of us knew. We watched each other for flaws, loose seams, unpeeled patches. No one blinked. Someone left a note taped to the basement. door. The paper had warped for moisture, but the message remained. Don't fight it. The second layer is always better. I wasn't sure who wrote it, or if it was ever written. Maybe the building

left it for us. The way a body just knows how to heal its wounds and fight its infections. My reflection no longer felt like mine. One day it stopped moving completely. I turned to from the mirror and it remained behind, not trapped, just uninterested in returning. That night I pulled the last piece of myself loose. A strip from my lower leg stretched like the skin of overcooked vanilla pudding, smooth and insubstantial. It crumpled in my hand like onion's skin, leaving a new limb beneath, colorless, uniform, sealed tight without pores, no wrinkles, no pain, no resistance. The air felt right now.

Heavy, warm. The season had passed, and I had remained. Wouldn't you like to join us? To free yourself from the flesh that is bound and restrained you your entire lives? To see the perfection underneath all the flaws the world has inflicted on you. Promise. It only hurts a little at first. Then, you'll finally be perfect.

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