Creepy - The Mall Game

Episode Date: June 29, 2026

The Mall Game (starts at 1:37)***Written by: Ryan Peacock***Mother, I Hunger (starts at 48:29)***Written by: Tanya Pond and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Content warning: dead baby, post-partum depression***The Mechanical Heart (starts at 1:16:28)***Written by: Natalia Plos and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Okay, on to the dark stuff. First up, one man's desire to see the love of his life again leads him to a game with consequences that involve a fate, worst, and death. From writer Ryan Peacock, creepy presents the mall game. Have you ever lost someone you've ever lost someone you've? loved. Someone who is such an important part of your life to losing them ripped everything out of you and left you as nothing but an empty husk. I have. Grief does things to a person. It can destroy them, and the scars will never heal. Not really. Suddenly the world seems like a darker place.

You wish you'd had more time, and you cling to the memory. memories of what time you did have. You wish you could just go back and have just one more minute with them. Just one. That's all you want. That's all I wanted. Abigail Swan believed that the world was a magical place. She'd been obsessed with mystery and seemed so certain that if she looked hard enough,

she could pull back the veil to see things that humanity was never meant to see. When I first asked her out, I did so before Halloween, and our first date was during a local ghost walk. Seeing how excited she was as we followed a group from place to place, listening to the horrific tales of pain and suffering that haunted our lonely city streets, only made me fall deeper in love with her. She had the most wonderful, mischievous grin that made her dark eyes sparkle. And that night led to many others. Abandoned cabins, deserted theme parks, quiet forests. We visited them all together as we grew from a cute high school couple into young lovers, planning our future together.

As time went by, we talked of marriage, mortgages, and even children. She wanted to get married in an abandoned church. Abigail was a force of nature. an unstoppable person who saw magic and beauty everywhere she went. And she made me see it too. Maybe if I'd taken a different route that day, I'd still have her with me. Some local kids decided to mix booze in Daddy's fast car. They ran a red light and hit me on the passenger side before I could react.

The boys were fine. I spent two weeks in the hospital. and Abigail, she didn't even make it that far. The months after her death were the hardest. My body might have healed, but it was the only thing that did. I felt her absence in every waking moment. I poured over her old photographs as mutual friends offered me empty condolences. I knew they meant well, but their support didn't change what I'd lost.

They didn't cushion the pain that I felt. Nothing really could. I would have given anything to undo what had been done, or to even have one more minute with Abigail. Anything. That's why I did it. That's why I played the mall game. I didn't know if it would work.

And I knew that in the unlikely event that it did, I'd probably end up killing myself in the process. But given my state and what it promised, I couldn't say no. As I mentioned earlier, grief can have a profound impact on a person. It sends them to dark places. And in those places, there are often other things waiting. I'd first heard about the mall game through Abigail. It's not a well-known ritual.

I'd never heard of anyone who completed it successfully, but with all the details out there, someone must have. Those who attempted it usually failed to even start it correctly, although if you dig deep, you might find some rumors of people who tried to play it and disappeared. Supposedly, if you managed to beat them all game, you'll be allowed access to another world. There you'd have your choice of prizes,

worldly possessions, riches, knowledge, and if you so chose, an opportunity to speak to the dead. The catch is you can only take one prize, and if you were to beat the mall game, you can never, ever play it again. You have one chance to play and one chance to win. In order to even play the game,

you must have recently lost someone close to you, otherwise it won't work. However, if you have and you're still reeling from the grief, you need to visit any large indoor mall of your choosing. It doesn't matter where it is. It just needs to be a large indoor mall. A strip mall won't work. You need to enter the mall first thing in the morning and ensure that you're the first one to set foot inside that day. Then approach the nearest kiosk and ask the person working there,

what time does the mall close today? Their answer is very important. If they do anything other than smile at you and say, Stay and find out, then you've failed. However, if they smile and say those words, then the game begins. My city is a very large mall near the highway that I knew would serve my purposes perfectly.

I made sure to be there bright and early on a weekday when they might not be as busy in the morning. I thought it might be easier to be the first person. and inside that way. The mall opened at 10 a.m., and when the doors were unlocked that day, I was already inside before they'd fully opened. The underpaid employee who I'd pushed past shot me a dirty looks and made a B-line for the nearest kiosk, a cell phone provider.

Common sense told me that this wouldn't work. Even if the mall game was real, it was such a long shot that I'd actually trigger it. But if I had a chance to speak to Abigail, one last time. I needed to take it. I needed to see her again. The kiosk sat just ahead of me, and the employee there looked over at me as I drew closer. They probably thought I was there to browse or buy.

There was no way they'd have expected the question I asked. Excuse me, what time does them all close? Their initial expression was one of surprise, and I felt. felt my heart sink. I was so sure I'd failed at the first step. And then I saw their smile. Their eyes met mine. Their gaze both knowing and mocking.

Stay and find out. They replied. Their tone was almost condescending. Those four words sent a chill through me. For a moment, I wasn't sure I'd actually heard them correctly. The kiosk employee chuckled and turned away from me, leaving me standing dumbfounded by their counter. Finally, I pulled away as I realized that it had worked. I had successfully begun the mall game.

That knowledge filled me with both elation and quiet dread. Alation, because for the first time, I felt just the slightest spark of hope. Dread because I knew what would come next. The mall game is fundamentally a game of tag. By beginning it, you invite something else into the mall with you. What exactly it is is up for a debate. Most people just call it the hunter, though. Some people said that the hunter would look like any other mall patron,

and they'd be difficult to pick out from a crowd. There'd be subtle things to distinguish them, but it was never specified exactly what those things might be. What is agreed upon is that once the mall game is begun, you cannot exit the mall at any time because the hunter will continue to follow you if you do. The only way to get rid of it is to win the game, which is easier said than done.

In order to win, you need to remain within the mall until it closes. You cannot be caught and you cannot leave. You must avoid the hunter until the officer. hour before the mall closes. And then you begin the next step of the game. The mall I was in closed at 9 p.m. that left me with about 10 hours until the game was finished. I knew that the hunter would be entering soon, and I had every intention of avoiding them when they arrived. I figured that I'd try a pragmatic approach. Obviously, the hunter was going to come straight for me, so why not find a place where I'd be able to see it coming? Somewhere open and central.

such as the food court. I could feel nervous palpitations in my chest as I headed there, keeping a distance from any other shoppers I saw. No one that I passed stuck out to me in any noticeable way. They were just average people going about their business. The food court was more or less empty when I got there. Some of the restaurants weren't even open yet. The few that were didn't interest me.

I doubted I'd be able to hold down any free. that I ate. My stomach churned too much, and I hadn't had much of an appetite in the past few weeks anyway. I found a table where I could look out at the rest of the mall and waited, drumming my fingers impatiently on the tables I watched strangers pass by. I figured that anyone traveling in a group was probably safe. Everything I'd read suggested there would only be one hunter, so I waited for them. I don't think I waited long. either. My fingers drummed anxiously on the table as I saw a pale, bald man in a suit walking slowly past the food court. I expected him to look at me, but he remained stoic and

looked straight ahead before he disappeared from my sight. I spotted a young mother and her two children entering the food court. The children looked at me, but they didn't seem all that threatening. I spotted a lonely old lady with a walker around the corner and didn't linger on her for long. My fingers kept drumming on the table as I eyed a group of teenagers passing by and watched as they entered the food court. They were all pierced and dressed in black, although I noticed that one of them trailed behind the others. They looked at me. As they did, I realized that the air around me felt a little colder than before. My eyes remained locked on the androgynous teenager who frowned before looking at their phone and jogging to catch up to their friends.

I watched them for a moment longer before conceding that they weren't the hunter, although that new chill in the air made me uneasy. The room seemed darker than before, and I looked over to the other side of the food court, hoping to catch sight of any newcomers before I noticed the old woman again. She wove slowly through the tables as she approached me. Her serious eyes never left me, and that intense glare made me feel uneasy.

She couldn't have been more than ten feet away from me, and as she slowly came closer, I felt the room getting colder as the lights around me dimmed. Her very presence seemed to cast a shadow and suck all the warmth from the air around her. My every instinct told me to get up, but my body wouldn't obey. As the old woman closed the distance between us, I could feel the world around me going dark. and in that dark I saw her features begin to change where once an old woman had stood now stood something else entirely

it lurched towards me its skin clammy and gray its eyes sunken and skeletal what was beneath that rotten skin was only barely human I saw blistered lips curl into a grin as fresh pus dribbled from the sores. My nostrils were filled with an overwhelming stench of coppery blood as the hunter drew nearer.

I'd foolishly come in believing that the mall game would be easy to play. I had thought I could easily evade the hunter once it revealed itself to me. No doubt I hadn't been the first to think that. Running sounds simple in concept. But when faced with what hides behind the veil, your body doesn't respond. You sit there like a deer in the headlights, watching it come for you, throat full of gnashing, rotten teeth and the stink of rotting flesh wafting from its threshing maw. I knew at that moment why others had gone missing. Either they hadn't seen the hunter coming, or they'd been paralyzed with fear when they saw it, just like I was. I sat in that seat in the food court, pulled into whatever cold darkness the hunter abroad with it as it advanced on me.

I knew that when it took me, no one would notice. I'd be dismissed as another disappearance, and I would be forgotten. In what I was sure would be my final moments, I pictured Abigail and hoped that maybe I might see her on the other side. I imagined her mischievous smile and her sweetly. laugh. A laugh I would have done anything to hear again. Even that game, with the hunter only feet away from me, skeletal hands reaching from my throat to snatch me and drag me into its mouth. I found the strength to move. At last I screamed and launched myself backward, off the chair.

As I put some distance between myself and the hunter, I saw the world around me get brighter. A few strangers noticed me and looked over in my direction, but I paid them no mind. As I stumbled away from the hunter, I saw that it seemed more human. The further I got, the more it looked like a harmless old lady. The effect was similar to those images. You see sometimes where movement causes the image to change into something else. Lenticular printing, I think it's called. Yet even with its harmless disguise back up,

I knew what that creature really was. I suppose in a sense my plan had worked. In fact, it had worked too well. I knew what was after me. I knew exactly what it was. And even once I'd turned to run, I could still smell the rotting flesh of the idiots who tried and failed to play the mall game before me.

I must have looked like an idiot myself, taking off at top speed out of the food court and away from that harmless-looking old lady. But I didn't care. No one else would have seen what I had seen. If they did? God helped them. I looked back only once as I left a food court,

and I saw the old lady several feet behind me. She'd moved faster than I expected, but I'd still put some distance between us. I rushed up one of the nearby escalators to the second floor, where I was sure I'd be safe for the time being. From the second floor I watched the old lady following me toward the escalator. She kept a steady pace. Her gaze was always fixated directly at me.

I looked back at her before turning to leave. I didn't run, but I kept a brisk pace, intending not to let her catch up to me again. The first hour was only barely done. I had nine more to go. Part of me considered heading for the mall door, catching the bus and heading home. But the warnings I had read had been clear. Leaving the mall at any time would not get rid of the hunter. The game would end, and the hunter would continue to pursue me until it inevitably caught me.

To leave would be to die, plain and simple. Judging by what I'd seen behind that harmless old lady facade, It would be a very painful death, too. No. I wasn't going to leave. Not at all. Hiding was out of the question, too. The hunter would know where I was immediately,

so I'd only be wasting my time and possibly cornering myself as well. On the subject of cornering myself, going into any of the stores would probably also be a mistake. Mall stores generally have one entrance, which is also the exit. I didn't know how smart the hunter was, but if it happened to catch me in one of the smaller stores, all it would need to do is wait by the entrance for me to come out,

and it would have me. A better strategy seemed to be to simply keep moving. The mall had a circuit I could follow. I could move between the upstairs and downstairs, and it would allow me to stay ahead of the hunter. I'd just do laps around the mall for the day until it was time to find a store and end the game. I could do that, right?

For the first couple of hours, things went well. I kept a close eye on the hunter, who I kept at about a 30-foot distance. It followed me up and down escalators, keeping it steady pace as it pursued me. Its eyes never once left me. Despite its appearance as an old lady, I figured that I moved just about as quickly as I did,

Despite how terrifying my first encounter with it had been, I caught myself feeling confident that I might just win this after all. By the time noon it rolled around, my confidence was starting to wane. I'm not exactly a health knot, but I consider myself at least somewhat in shape. Keeping a brisk pace to keep the hunter away from me, though, was far more trying than I'd expected. As I felt myself starting to tire, I made myself get further ahead in the vein. and hoped that if I put some distance between myself and the hunter, I might just buy myself

some time to rest. It didn't take long to leave her behind as I headed back toward the food court. I was hoping that I might grab a drink or something to keep myself ready to go. There were no rules in a ritual explicitly forbidding you from stopping to eat or drink at any point in time. I'd even heard some people encouraging you to eat or buy food during the game. There'd be no opportunity to eat for some time once it was all over. I was on the second floor and was getting close to the escalator that led down towards a food court when I felt a familiar drop in the temperature around me.

I paused and looked backward, expecting to see the hunter behind me, but there was no one. The lights around me were starting to dim again, and I remained frozen, unsure of what was close to me. Was there something else nearby? A second hunter, perhaps? The descriptions I'd read hadn't said anything about that. And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her. I'm not sure when she got down to the lower level or when she'd caught up to me, but there she was. That same little old lady was riding the escalator up to me.

Her eyes were fixated on me like they always were, and I could see something shifting behind her human facade. I recoiled on instinct away from the escalator and broke into a run, putting some distance between us. Not too much this time. I didn't want to lose track of her again. I watched as she reached the top of the escalator and resumed her steady pursuit of me. I could hear my blood pounding in my ears, and I could have sworn I saw a wry smile on her lips. Suddenly I wasn't very thirsty anymore.

Over the next few hours I kept moving. Whenever I got tired or wanted to stop, she was there. I learned very quickly that if I got too far ahead of her, she'd find a way to get close to me again. About five hours into the game, I saw her come out of a store in front of me when I was sure she'd been behind me. Not long after I saw her coming straight for me, when again I'd last seen her 20 feet behind me. As the day went on, she became more and more aggressive. The mall itself began to feel wrong. I was sure I'd followed the circuit that led around the mall exclusively.

However, every now and then I'd find myself disoriented. Routes that had looped around the last time seemed to end it in doors out. Stories that I'd passed before began to pop up in the wrong places. Maybe it was just exhaustion, or maybe it was something else entirely. Through it all, that goddamn old lady behind me kept up her brisk pace, and so did I. I made myself move just a little slower, choose my paths more deliberately. Near the end of it, my legs felt sore as if I'd been hiking all day. I was thirsty, hungry, and tired.

Every little group of benches or chairs I passed looked so inviting that I considered resting for just a moment. I only actually tried it once. As soon as I sat down, I felt the air grow colder and saw the lights around me growing dim. The first two times it had frightened me. This time, it angered me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the hunter approaching, and I growled in frustration. Something deep, primal and angry in me made me want to lash out at it. A far more rational part of my mind told me to run.

Despite my mind telling me to fight, I chose to run anyway. When I finally heard the announcement, I can't tell you how tired I was. Attention shoppers, a voice said over the intercom. The mall will be closing in one hour. I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be able to keep moving. It had been ten hours at that point, but it felt like days. At the sound of the announcement, I looked back towards a hunter behind me. The old lady just continued her stoic march towards me,

and I moved away from her with a renewed vigor. Just a little bit further, a little bit further than I could rest. To win the mall game, you need to find a store, preferably a large one with a bed, although in theory you could probably use any store. Once you get there, you'll need to tell the employee that you are invited, and no matter what they tell you or how much they plead, you must answer their every question with yes. After that, they'll take you to a safe place where you can sleep,

and you can finally claim your prize. Thoughts of Abigail filled my mind as I made my way. way to a local department store. It was large, and I knew they sold mattresses. It seemed like the ideal place to go for the final part of the game. As I stepped inside, I looked back towards a hunter behind me. It had kept up at steady pace, and though I've been told I wouldn't have to worry about it for much longer, I was still worried.

They were still about 40 feet back by the time I entered the store, and with the last to my energy, and made myself jog over to a nearby customer service counter. The kid working there couldn't have been older than 16. He was tall and plain-looking with glasses and acne. He seemed a little annoyed that I'd come up to him. How are I help you? He asked crossly. I am invited, I replied, my eyes meeting his and hoping desperately for a reaction.

He stared back at me and frowned before. he nodded. Okay, he said. His voice was softer now, understanding even. He left the desk and headed further into the store, gesturing for me to follow. I looked back. The old lady had followed me inside and still tailed me, although she seemed slower than before. She seemed to be watching me instead of hunting me now.

I let the young man lead me to the bedding department. where several mattresses waited. He stopped in front of one of them and looked back over at me. His expression was dower and uncertain. Are you sure about this? He asked. If you accept, you might not like what you find. Yes, I replied.

I kept my tone even. The kid didn't seem to like that. I don't think you understand, he said. There was more urgency in his voice now. Look, you won. That's obvious. Why don't you take the win and go? I really don't think this is worth it.

Are you really going to accept the invitation? Yes, I replied again. I saw frustration rising in the boy's eyes. Why? What could be so important did you actually accept. Do you actually know how much danger you're in? Are you fucking stupid? Suicidal? What? If you do this, you may not come back anyway. Those prizes have a price, and one day they must be paid back. Are you really going to accept the invitation? Yes. I replied again, as I saw the boy's frustration

and turn into rage. I wasn't offended by it. It was all a part of what needed to be done. The final test to resolve before I could claim my prize. It was trivial compared to what I'd already been through. Fuck you! I hope you get ripped apart. What do you think is so important that you go this far?

Money, knowledge, something else? It's not worth it! His expression hardened. Abigail is dead, Michael. The fact that he said my name sent a chill through me, and he knew he'd caught me off guard. Oh, yeah. I know who you are, Michael Warren,

and I know you're wasting your time. Why would you torture yourself by going down to see her? What do you think she'll say? Is this worth it, dipshit? Huh? Is it? Are you going to accept the invitation? Yes, I repeated. Fuck you!

Angry tears began to stream down the kid's face. Don't do this. Please don't do this. Don't... You don't need to throw your life away. I'm telling you, you're going to die if you accept. He grabbed me by the shoulders. His tearful eyes meeting mine.

I stared back without emotion. This too was part of the test. And when all was said and done, the kid probably wouldn't even remember a word he'd said. Are you going to accept the invitation? He asked one last time. Yes, I said. He looked into my eyes.

Tears still flowing before wiping them away. Fine, the kid spat. Fine. Do what you must. With that, he pulled away from me and took off. From the corner of my eye I saw the old lady standing there. She was close enough that I should have felt the drop in temperature. But instead, she just stood still and watched me calmly. Her expression was stoic and impossible to be.

read. I stared back at her and she let out a huff of approval. Decently played, I suppose. She said, her voice was deeper than an old lady's should have been. There was a coldness to it. I didn't reply. I didn't know how to. And I suspect I didn't need to. Without a further word, the thing that looked like an old lady turned and walked away from me. I was alone with the bed, and there was only one thing left to do. My body was exhausted

from the day. Bed was soft and welcoming when I lay down on it. And as the mall closed, I shut my eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep. When I awoke, the world was quiet. The lights were off, but I could see a pinkish twilight shining through the windows of the department store. When I sat up and got out of bed, I noticed a stale smell in the air. I knew that it had worked. I was in the other world. I made note of the bed I'd been in before I approached the door at the department store. I didn't dare open it. Leaving the mall while in the other world would prevent me from ever returning home. I saw a few idle cars waiting in the parking.

lot and on the street beyond them, I thought I caught glimpses of dark figures moving about. I didn't try to look too closely at them. The sky above looked to be an ominous pink. I stared up at it and felt as if it was staring back at me before I pulled away from the door and headed back towards the interior of the mall itself. The whole place seemed to be in a state of disrepair. Broken glass and debris littered the floor. Food I passed in some of the aisles was spoiled, and silence enveloped a place like a cloud. I could hear my footsteps echoing off the walls as I walked through the hallways of the mall and looked for a pathway down to the treasure.

I so desperately sought, it didn't take me long to find it. Over the past several hours, I've become very familiar with the layout of the mall. It was easy to tell when something was out of place, and the stairway on the ground level that inexplicably led downward was, certainly out of place. I approached it slowly, and I could see a dim red light shining from down below. It pulsated like a heartbeat. I began my descent, unconsciously holding my breath as I did.

My footsteps echoed off the marble floor beneath me as I set foot down into the lower level. I'm not exactly sure what I expected to see down there. Another mall level wasn't it. In fact, what I found seemed mundane compared to what I was expecting. I could see countless storefronts. Most of them recognizable. The only catch was that they were empty. Neon signs and posters advertised video games and movies.

I spotted what looked like some sort of kitty ride in one corner and some sort of massage parlor in the other. This is what I had come so far for? No. No, not. Not quite. The accounts I'd read of the mall games said that there were a few different prizes one could choose. The first was worldly possessions, and everything I saw before me certainly seemed to fit the bill.

While there were things that tempted me, shallow things like games, rides, and movies weren't what I'd come so far for. These prizes have a price, the kid had said before I'd slept. No doubt if I touched anything, I'd need to give it back at some point. I looked straight ahead and began to walk again. In the distance, I could see another staircase leading down, and I jogged towards it before I began to descend again. The next floor was more drastically different. This one only barely resembled the mall I'd been through.

Delaya was the same, but the storefronts were gone. In their place where alcoves filled with things, have made me pause. Great golden statues with jeweled bodies watched me like silent shopkeepers. I saw golden coins and ingots scattered about and piled up amongst the nooks where the stores once were. Jewels as large as my head were dotted amongst the gold, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, even diamonds.

Just one would be enough to see me set for life. and I caught myself approaching one of them before stopping. I didn't let myself lay a hand on anything there. Like the kid said, there was a price, and as wonderful as those treasures were, I suspected it would be higher than I'd care to pay. Besides, this treasure, marvelous as it was, wasn't what I'd come for.

If I took anything, I wouldn't be able to go deeper. I wouldn't be able to see Abigail again. It took more restraint than I'd expected to pull myself away from some of the treasures I saw and look straight ahead again. Sure enough, I could see another stairway in the distance and I made myself go to it. I wanted to take one final glance at the treasures behind me, but didn't let myself. I just forced myself to go down the next set of stairs. The fourth level was truly... massive, larger than it appeared at first glance.

It bore no resemblance to them all above me and barely resembled any library I'd ever seen. Massive shelves jam-packed with books seemed to spawn onward into infinity. As I passed them, I skimmed some of their titles, and many of them gave me pause. They promised secrets, truths about the universe that anyone would want to know. Are we alone? Why were we made? How did the universe begin? How will it end?

If I were a weaker man, I would have given into the temptation. But I'd already come so far. I could stand to go a little further. As before, there was one final set of stairs up ahead. I knew what was waiting for me beyond them. I tore my gaze away from the books as I approached the stairs and began my final descent. and there I found myself on a city street

the street was a familiar one I'd seen before it stretched onward into the night and when I looked up I could see the stars above me when I looked back when I looked back I could see stars this place made no sense but after all I'd gone through I can't say it surprised me much

the street looked just as it had on that Halloween night several years ago. The night that Abigail and I had taken that ghostwalk around town. Our very first date. There must be someone very important to you if you've come all this way, a voice said, and I turned to address it. The old woman who'd hunted me through the mall stood patiently before me. Her expressions seemed a little softer than before.

Yes. I said. Yes, she's very important. The old woman cracked a knowing smile. Very well, then. I'll leave you to it. But know that of each reward here, you may only have one. One luxury, one treasure, one secret,

and one more hour with the one you've lost. My heart sank for a moment, but I nodded. I understand. I said. The old woman nodded back at me before she took off down the street. I watched her go. I didn't realize I've been holding my breath until I heard her voice. Mikey?

She was behind me. I knew that voice. I knew her. Slowly I turned to face her, and when I saw her standing on the sidewalk, dressed as she'd been the day she died, I broke. Tears filled my eyes as I ran to her and scooped her up in my arms, holding her so tightly that I was sure I'd never let her go.

I felt Abigail's arms close around me in turn. And in that moment, I knew I was home. I looked up at her and cupped her cheeks as I kissed her. Mikey, what are you doing here? Did you... No, you're not... I'm alive, I promised her. I played the mall game, and I won.

I get to see you again. I saw her eyes widened for a moment. Disbelief, fear, and finally excitement crossed her face and culminated in that smile I loved so dearly. That smile made everything worth it. You actually played the mall game? She asked. Oh my God. You dumbass?

You really did, didn't you? I really did. I said. I had to see you one more time. I had to say goodbye. She caressed my cheek, her smile fading slightly. She didn't speak.

She didn't need to. I could see the tears welling up before she kissed me one last time. We talked. For one last time, she and I sat at the place where we'd begun, and we talked. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was enough for me. I told her I loved her. I told her I was sorry. I told her that I didn't know what I'd do without her.

And as I spoke, as I cried, She held me close. You're going to be all right, she promised me. Death is scary, but it's peaceful too. I'm okay. You don't need to worry about me. So just worry about you. All right, Mikey?

She brushed my hair from my eyes. I know it's going to be hard, but when you get back up there, keep going. You've still got a life to live. Don't waste it. I'll be down here when you're done. I promise. I almost laughed at that.

She giggled a bit too. I promise. I just don't know if my life will ever be the same without you though. I said. She shrugged. Who says that's a bad thing? Look, I... I...

I know we didn't get to do everything we wanted to while I was up there, but that doesn't mean you should give up on it. It's okay if you need some time, but when you're ready, find someone. You deserve to be happy, Mikey, and I don't want you lingering on me. Like I said, I'll be here, and when we see each other again, I want to hear all about the things you did. Go out and live your life, baby. Do it for me.

Her cold hand closed over mine. I squeezed it affectionately. All right, I promised. When I'm ready, I will. She kissed my cheek as she wrapped her other arm around me. We could look close as our time ran out. In the distance, a clock chimed and I looked up. Our hour had passed.

We both knew it. Abigail let go of my hand and stood up. You should go. I'll see you soon, I guess. Hopefully not too soon. She forced to smile and I did the same. Hopefully, I replied. Take care of yourself, okay?

I always do. You too, Mikey. You too. She walked me to the stairwell. I gave her one last parting look, and she offered me a reassuring smile before she let go in my hand. Part of me wanted to beg her to come with me, but I knew it was impossible. There was no one doing what was done. All I could do was live with it.

I began to ascend the stairs, tears still in my eyes. At the top, I found the first floor of the mall, not the library. I looked back down towards the stairs only to see they were gone. It was only a plain tile floor behind me. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I still found it in myself to smile. Whatever price I'd have to pay one day would be worth it for that one moment I'd gotten. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

But it was better than what I'd had. I returned to the department store where the bed waited for me and lay down once more. I wiped the tears away one last time before I drifted back off to sleep. When I woke again, the mall was opening for the next day. As the door was unlocked, I stepped out of them and looked up into a familiar blue sky. The cool air was crisp in my lungs as I walked away from the mall. My grief still felt heavy in my soul, but the burden felt a little light. lighter. As I left them all behind, I walked towards an uncertain future. I didn't know

will lay ahead of me. But for the first time since Abigail died, I felt hopeful. And I knew that one day I would be all right again. And next, a grieving mother living beside a haunted winter forest is drawn by the nightly cries of what sounds like her deceased child calling from the darkness. From writer Tanya Pond and narrated by Heather Thomas. Creepy presents, Mother, I Hunger. Everyone knows better than to heed the voices calling from the woods.

When the night is dark and the snow is thick, I know better. But no mother is able to ignore the cry of her child. I know he's dead. I know it's not him crying in the woods. I know that. I stand on my threshold, one hand on the door frame, and the other balancing a basket of kindling on my hip, staring into the trees where the low quarter moon's weak light can't penetrate.

He cries so loudly. Every night he cries for me. Only me. His father never hears. His sleep heavy and dreamless when he's home. He isn't home much since the baby was born, less since the baby died. Something other than my child.

child waits in the woods. Nothing good will come of following that cry. Not for my dead child, not for me. I step backwards into the empty house with its cold hearth and spider-webbed corners and stale air. The door slams closed, leaving me alone in the shadows. His cries are barely muffled. I should have gone to him. It's been snowing for days without surcease. The wind's howling almost loud enough to hide his cries. He's been crying for me for weeks. Every night, his cries get sharper, more desperate, more accusing. Even when exhaustion forces my body into uneasy slumber, his cries pierce my dreams.

His father has been gone for days out of town, to a market or to help a brother. The excuse doesn't matter. It's not true. I can't say anymore if it's day or night. The sun barely peaks over the horizon, and the snow lies heavy over the windows. Neither sunlight nor moonlight, if there is any, shines through the cracks in the battered shutters. The hearth is unlit, despite the half-full basket of kindling beside it. I cannot bring myself to invite the warmth of a fire when my child is dead and cold.

The flush around my ragged nails is tinted blue, like the best of the sun. baby's lips were. I wish the chattering of my teeth could make me deaf to his cries. I begged his father to take me with him, away from this cottage with the stench of a dried-out stew poisoning the air, away from these woods, and the things that haunted. He refused, told me the cries were in my head. I know they're not. If I was going mad, his cries would not be muffled by the shut door and heavy snow. Sometimes the child in the woods is silent for a minute or an hour. I get no relief from his silence, because when there are no cries coming from the woods, different cries echo from my memories. Thinner cries, desperate cries, hopeless cries. The cries from the woods have pulled me to the

door. I know better than to go out when I can hear the wind screaming, a discordant heart. A discordant harmony with the cries. I've sunk to the dusty floor by the door, curled in around myself. My shaking hands clamped over my ears. They do nothing to muffle his crying. I've screamed, banged pots, thrown plates, anything to make noise. Sometimes I can drown out the cries from the woods for a moment. But it never lasts. I've even tried crying, but I haven't spilled a tear since the baby died. It felt as if between the baby's first breath and his last, I didn't stop crying. No mother can ignore the cry of her child forever, not even when she knows better. A flutter of peace settles my staccato heart when I make the decision. I pull myself off the floor,

using the door as leverage. The snow has frozen the latch and it resists opening. If I had thought the house had any love for me, I'd have suspected it was trying to protect me. But any love this house had to give, died with the baby. The door gives way, swinging it inwards as the weight of a small avalanche of snow shoves it against the wall. Sharp, clean air rushes in and cuts against my exposed skin. I was already cold, but the snow that dusted me the moment the door opened melts fast on my in. My shivers shake my bones, and my jaw hurts from the rattling. My thin house dress offers no comfort against the winter night, but I can't put on a coat, gloves, and shoes,

when my child was buried late in summer, with nothing but a thin blanket. If I'd known he'd be able to feel the cold come winter, if I'd known he would cry so hard, I would have wrapped him in the thick wool quilt, my mother wove for my wedding bed. I have to scramble over the hill of snow outside the door. My fingers and toes scrape at the ice hidden beneath the fluffy surface layer. It hurts, but no more than my shaking bones or stinging eyes. I'm surprised to find clear skies and still air.

I remember the wind howling in accompaniment to my child's cries. The woods start on the far side of the field, past the empty chicken coop and abandoned goat corral. The moon is full and fat, giving the snow-laden field an ethereal glow. Last time I had seen a night so coldly beautiful, I'd been full and fat with my child still inside my belly. The memory makes me touch my belly now, empty and flaccid. My child cries for me across the field. I drop my hand and finally go to him. It takes a long time to cross.

the field. I keep stumbling and falling into the deep drifts. Pain flares in my bare fingers and toes and then fades until I cannot feel them at all. My breath comes out in uneven clouds that dissipate as fast as they form. The moon's distant light cannot reach into the shadow beyond the first trees, and my eyes cannot pierce the gloom. I brace a hand against the frozen trunk closest to me, and rest my head against it. I can still turn away, keep ignoring my child, go back, back to the empty house, an empty bed, and empty crib. His cries quiet and stop. I don't feel relief.

I know he will cry again before I am ready to hear him. I've ignored him this long, for longer than he's been crying in the woods. I know better than to heed the voices calling in the woods. I don't have the strength or a reason anymore. Not to walk back across the field. Not to face his father. Not to ignore his cries. Better to face what haunts the woods.

To die alone and cold following his cries than live alone and cold in the house. I push off the tree and stumble through the woods. The snow is thinner on the ground under the trees. trees, but the air is no less frigid. I think my blood is frozen. Otherwise, I'd be dripping blood from the scrapes and cuts I've collected from the trees that jump in front of me and the roots that trip me. I walk, stumble for an hour, maybe a night, before a rock catches my bare toes and throws me into the clearing. The bare branches of the tall, straight trees bordering the clearing's scrape at the night sky. The moon has found a way to the wall.

to pierce the woods gloom, lighting the bare ground and giving it the same silvery glow as it had given the snow. In the center, I see my child. I'm on my battered feet and have taken two aching steps before I realize what my eyes have been trying to tell me. The baby isn't on the cold ground, wrapped in a pale blanket with spring flowers embroidered around the edges. He's naked and held in age-spotted, thin-skinned arms. He's crying, screaming, wailing, and it pierces my ears. The woman holds him close to her chest, her stringy white hair hiding her face from me as she bends over to him and croons softly.

I make a sound, a wretched wine, and she looks up at me. She has no eyes. Her nose is crooked. Her smile is thin and doesn't hide her sharp teeth. Her dress is made of decaying rags held together, by a sash around her waist. A soft breeze brings me the stench of stagnant water and rotting leaves, of cattle dead in the field. Her skin sags beneath her empty red eye sockets.

Everything about her makes me flinch. I know what she is, but if I don't think of it, I can pretend for a moment longer. I can't keep looking at her emptiness, so I rip my gaze. to my child. He lies limp and crying in her arms. The moon's silvery light does not hide the way his bones protrude through his blue-tinted skin. He's cold, I tell her, forcing the words past my chattering teeth. I keep my eyes on my child so I don't have to look at her. Even though I know better, I take another step closer. He's hungry. The eyeless woman corrects me. Her voice like rope frayed from too much time and use. Of course he's hungry. A flare of anger warms my

chest for a moment. Any mother can hear the starvation in his cry. I've been listening to his hungry howl for weeks. Let me take him. I can feed him, I offer. I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. I reach out to him, to them. If the witch of the woods knew how much I want him in my arms, how much I need to take him away from here, she'll bury me where I stand. The witch throws back her head and cackles at the moon. The noise silences the baby's cries and forces me to look at her again. Her eyelids are closed. The moon caresses the sunken flaps and the smooth, taut skin of her cheeks. Her hair flows down her straight back, lush and dark. This baby needs a mother to feed him. Not a lost girl. Her voice is like a melody, but it tears at my gut. I'm a mother, I say.

I'm hit... A mother. I stop myself from claiming the baby as my own, though I recognize my child. She might keep him just to spite me. The witch tuts at me. You're no mother. I know a mother when I see one. And you've never fed a child. That's not true. I've fed a child.

My child. I did feed him. I remember the pain of his suckling at my breast, the weight of the milk, the resentment for the demands he continued to make of my body, even after I gave birth to him. I fed my child. I take another step closer and dare to brush my fingers against the baby's limp, cold foot. I can feed him, so close to the witch, I can see the rough edges where a hunter in ages past

had used a knife to gouge her eyes out. She still looks at me, though, her mocking obvious in her empty gaze. You think so, do you? She's not really asking. The hair at the back of my neck stands up even though her voice is warm with the echoes of meals well cooked and hems well sewn. The fine lines at the corners of her thin lips and empty eye sockets deepen as she smiles wide, showing me every one of her serrated teeth.

She's missing three on the left side of her mouth. A maiden stole them from her while she was sleeping long ago. The witch throws her thick, gray-streaked locks over her shoulder with a toss of her head. I'd let you feed this child. But I'm hungry, too. I'm reaching for the baby even before she finishes her sentence. I know the stories, and even though I know better, I offer. I'll feed you, too?

Me first. The witch shifts the baby in her arms so she can hold him in the crook of one elbow, and I can't help but suck in a sharp breath at the thought that she might drop him. She pulls a knife from the sash around her waist with her freed hand and holds it out to me over the baby's head. I snatch it out of her hand. The moon reveals as much about the knife as it did my child. The knife's edge is dull, dirt is caked along its entire length,

and the handle is made of yellowed bone. Once I have the knife in my hand, I freeze. I don't know what to do with it. I look helplessly at the baby as if he would tell me what to do, because I don't want to look at the witch. She doesn't need to be looked at to offer instruction. Give me a finger to chew while you feed the baby. Sickness swirls in my belly.

I regard the blunt, dirty knife again. The baby had stopped crying while I wasn't paying attention, but starts again when I hesitate. No mother can ignore the cry of her child. The witch hushes and rocks the baby. I kneel. Even willing, I don't think I can keep my feet while cutting off my finger. It should be a difficult choice, which finger to sever from my hand.

But it's not. The wedding band is dull in the cold moonlight and the knife aligns with it easily at the base of my finger. I press down. The knife's blunt edge catches and tears up my skin and flesh as I saw through my bone. The pain makes my vision waver and fade, and I have to cut blind because if I stop, I won't be able to finish. I have to finish. I have to feed my child. His hungry cries bounce between the trees bordering the clearing.

Finally, finally, the knife bounces off the frozen earth and my vision clears. though I'm panting like I've been running from a bull. I can see now my blood wasn't frozen as I believed. It puddles red and glistening below by my hand. The ground refuses to quench its thirst, and the bitter tang of iron perfumes the freezing air. It should have been the baby's cries that gave me the strength to pull myself to my feet, but I've been turning away from those cries for so long it's not enough.

It's the witch crooning a lullaby with an age-cracked voice, to my child that solidifies my bones and envy that gives me the energy to stand up. I tuck my bloody hand against my stomach, the wound where my finger used to be throbbing and still weeping blood. In my other hand, I hold my severed finger and her knife. I offer both to the witch. I can feed him now. I tell her. My voice is shaking. So is my hand. The witch grabs my offering and pushes the baby into my uncertain arms with no ceremony. I nearly drop him as I move to hold him securely. The baby is so very thin, almost weightless.

His eyes are scrunched clothes and his bird-thin arms are curled into his chest. He doesn't smell soft and sweet like I remember. He carries only the witch's grave scent. He cries so loud. I undo the buttons holding the loose bodice of my dress up and hold him to my naked breast. It's not as full as it was in the days after he was born, but it'll be enough.

It'll have to be enough. I'm his mother. I have to feed him. The baby latches on as soon as he's close enough, and immediately it hurts. The stinging of my cut-up feet and the throbbing in my mutilated hand now press tightly against the baby's back.

should have been enough to numb the pain at my breast as the baby suckles. But it hurts like it always has. Worse now, because it's been so long. For the first time since my child died, I feel tears gather at the corners of my eyes. It can't be from the pain. It must be from the relief of holding him in my arms once more. Blinking hard, I look away and up at the pain.

the moon, far away and distant, so I don't have to look at the baby pulling at my breast and making contented noises. I've never heard him sound so satisfied before. The witch watches me, her eyes empty and mocking in her young face as she chews absently on my finger. Her knife, nowhere to be seen. Even though his feeding hurts more than any of the other pains, I feel a warmth fill my chest at those wet, satisfied slurps. I've never felt that before. I look down at the baby in amazement. The skin of his head is looking pinker.

Against the bare skin of my cold arms, he feels warmer. Where his little lips are working at my nipple, my skin is red and tearing. I can feel something dripped down the underside of my breast. I frown, and even though it sends acid shooting down my arm for where I cut my finger off. I shift my grip to get him off my breast so I can get a better look. The baby grumbles unhappily and nozzles closer, sucks harder. No, not sucks, bites. I gasp as fire ignites under his mouth. He's too little to have teeth. I know that, but I can feel them grinding into my flesh now. Blood is running. Blood is run.

running thicker down my chest. I can feel it, even if I can't see it past his chubby body. He uses his fat hand to pull at my breast, to pull himself deeper into my flesh. I try to bite back a whimper, but I know I fail by the witch's soft chuckle. I want to pull him off of me. But he's warm now, and his skin glows healthy in the moonlight. Even though it hurts, I'm feeding him, and he's not to. crying. I'm feeding my child because I'm his mother. I swallow back the whimpers and tears and pain

and I hold my baby close as he consumes my body. After an hour or maybe a day, the teeth he shouldn't have scrapes against my rib bones. I feel that scrape vibrating through my entire frame and I have to swallow back a choking gag. I pull him away from my tattered flesh with relief and joy. I fed my child. I look into his round face painted with my blood as he smacks his lips, and I think he is content. But instead of the sleepy glazed look I'd heard well-fed babies should have,

his little brow is folded into a frown above his still-closed eyes, and he's reaching for me again. My heart races behind my exposed rib bones, and I can feel the cold air stir against them. The blood flows faster from my wounds, and I look up at the witch in panic. He's hungry, she tells me, licking her fingers clean of my blood. Hurry up now. We have places to be. But I fed him, I plead.

Not enough. Not yet. Now I am the one crying. I remember these tears, silent and hot, from before the baby died. I shift him in my arms so he can reach my other breast. I keep my eyes closed and my teeth gritted as much as I can while my body shakes and shivers with cold and pain. The baby chews and slurps and sucks.

I try to recapture the feelings of satisfaction and contentment I had been feeling at finally feeding him. I concentrate on the feeling of him in my arms, weighty and solid. But I can't forget it's my body giving him that weight, that as he becomes more, I become less. When he finally scrapes against my bones again, his head lulls away from my chest, and he makes drunk, contented murmurs.

I open my eyes and find his two are finally open, just a slit. But there's nothing behind the lids. I can't look at his missing eyes, so I use my battered blood-splash skirt to wipe the blood caked and drying on his mouth and chin. I did it. Even though it hurt,

even though it still hurts, I did as a mother should, and I fed my child. The witch reaches down and plucks the baby from my arms. I cry out. and surge to my feet, or try to. My legs are numb, and my dress is heavy with my blood. I collapse ungracefully back to the ground.

No! He's mine! The witch pats my head with a thin, wrinkled hand, her rough skin catching against my loose hair, as she cradles my child against her with one hand. No, dear, he's mine. Your baby is dead in the ground. I shake my head violently and ignore the way the black spot swim across my vision as I claw at her tattered skirt.

No, no, I fed him. He's healthy now. I fed him. Yes. Thank you for providing such good meat for my baby. The witch's condescension hurts almost as much as my baby. missing finger, almost as much as the gaping holes where my breasts used to be. He's mine. I'm his mother. I fed him. I plead, my voice cracking. The witch shakes her head at me and

mock sadness. No, dear, I fed him. I laid the trap. I lured the prey. I prepared the meat. You have never fed a child. If you had, you'd be a mother, and I would never harm a fellow mother. Pity you let your baby starve in his crib. Her skirt dissolves in my hand, and the witch is free to walk away from me, deep into the shadow of her woods. Grave rot stays heavy in the air where she had stood.

I'm alone in the clearing. I know it's cold. I can still see my ragged breath on the air. I can feel how hard the ground is underneath me. But I can't feel the cold. My whole body thrums with pain, but I've stopped bleeding. The woods are quiet. No baby cries in its depth.

But in my head, a desperate, Then cry echoes. The shadows under the trees remind me of the shadow on the wall of my house, of little limbs kicking and flailing while I watch from my bed. I feel now as I felt then, like my body is too heavy to move, like even closing my eyes requires more from me than I have to give. I know better, but I lie down on the frozen earth above my baby's grave.

His father will find me here when he returns home, if he cares to look. In the echoes of my memory, my baby cries for me. Only me. And finally, a gifted but deeply troubled young woman works obsessively in her late father's workshop on a strange mechanical project while reality, memory, and grief begin to blur around her. From writer Natalia Plas and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. Creepy presents, the mechanical heart. Alice softly hummed a tune under her breath.

A song her father used to sing to her in her childhood. The lyrics fit perfectly with the melody drifting from an old music box sitting on the table beside her. Occasionally, the pleasant sounds were interrupted by a flickering lamp that emitted a piercing hum. Alice would wince almost imperceptibly when she heard that noise. With great care and dexterity, the girl's slender fingers turned in twist and intricate

patterned object that gleamed faintly beneath the desk lamps dim light. Alice hunched over the ornate piece, examining it through a magnifying monocle, another heirloom she had inherited from her father. She recalled how he was constantly tinkering with old clocks, alarm clocks and various mechanical contraptions, how she used to love sitting beside him for hours on end, watching as yet another mechanism transformed into a marvel beneath his skilled fingers. The girl smiled and swept her dark careback. Strands of green flashed into view. The only defiance of convention she allowed herself amidst the dream monotony of her daily life. She straightened up and turned her head to look at her guest. Dean sat upright and silent. His brown eyes were fixed on a point just past her. Alice tilted her

head slightly in the lamplight. A bright green pupil flashed. Well, why are you so quiet, Dean? I'm working hard here for your sake, you know, she asked in a tone of mild annoyance. The boy remained silent, though he seemed to shift his gaze, letting his eyes slide briefly over his hostess. You really are a grouch. If you keep acting like that, I'll drop everything right this instant. Do you hear me? Alice pouted her lovely lips in mock indignation. The boy smirked, his brown eyes flashing with amusement.

Alice smiled instantly. Of course, I'm joking, you silly thing. I won't let you go until I'm finished. She waved her hand and laughed. Then she wagged a finger at him and returned to her. work. Now, let's just tighten a couple more screws, pop in the gears, and it'll be a true masterpiece. She sighed in the corner of her lips drooped. Father would have liked this. You know, Dean, we are in his workshop after all. It's a bit neglected, of course, but I'll have it tidied up in no

time. You can count on that. Her slender hand, clutching a tiny screwdriver, shot up in a playful salute before descending once more to the mechanism. She tinkered with the delicate contraption for a while, then suddenly straightened up and looked at the boy. Oh, how silly of me. Would you like some tea? Or maybe some toast with jam? The boy smiled and averted his gaze. You don't want any?

The girl frowned. Fine then, I'll have some myself. She bustled about the room. Her long cardigan, splattered with red stains, flashed in the light of the single lamp, while her short skirt billowed like a sail. In the darkness, cups and saucers clattered. Finally, she slowly emerged from the shadow,

corner and set an ancient, grimy, cracked and stained mug upon the table, along with a small jar of jam. Alice sat down at the table, picked up the mug, and with a flourish, dipped a piece of toast into the jam before beginning to chew with evident delight. Her eye, the one not obscured by her monocle, remained fixed on Dean. But he waited in silence. Having finished her toast, she washed it down with tea. Then, after a moment's thought, she spooned a little jam from the small bowl smearing her lips and cheeks. What a messy eater I am. Father always used to say that, didn't he, cat? A huge gray cat reclining on the table like a sultan turned his large head and stared at her. Alice winked at him and the cat winked back. The girl burst into laughter and returned to her

work. For several long minutes, the room was immersed in silence until finally, the girl leaped up with a joyful cry. I did it. I did it. Did you hear that cat? She removed her magnifying monocle, revealing a bright blue eye, and tossed it onto the table. The huge cat looked at her with his violet eyes and smiled. Look and envy, cat.

You definitely don't have anything like this. Ella stuck her tongue out at him and then held the finished piece forward, displaying it to her fluffy companion. Resting in her slender, tanned skin, with jam and machine oil, lay a genuine mechanical heart made of brass. Look, Dean. It turned out great, didn't it? The happy girl turned towards the boy and showed her creation as well.

The boy nearly smiled and waited. All right, all right, I'll put it in now. Alice waved her hands at him dismissively, grumbling. She walked over to the table and reached out toward the cat, intending to give him a pet. He dodged her hand and broke into a wide smile once again. Alice playfully shook her finger at him, picked up her tools, and approached the boy. She leaned down towards the gaping cavity in his chest, and began fitting the mechanical heart into place.

She hummed an old tune under her breath once more as she connected the wires and gears. A few moments later, everything was ready and she stuck back. I think it fits. It looks absolutely lovely overall. What do you think? Alice surveyed her creation with a critical eye. She turned towards the ubiquitous cat, but as usual, he merely offered a wink and a broad grin. Right, I actually have to start it up.

Alice slapped her forehead, waved with a little bit of the little bit of the little. dismissive hand at the fluffy creature and rubbed her chin. The girl dashed headlong towards the table, snatched up an exquisitely crafted brass key and returned to Dean. With the solemnity of a pioneer, she inserted the key into the tiny keyhole and turned it several times. A series of rhythmic clicks rang out, and moments later, the mechanism sprang to life, accompanied by a resonant ticking. Hooray! Hurray! It worked! It's working! Alice jumped up and down, clapping her hands. She executed a graceful pirouette on the spot, then froze, gazing at Dean with rapturous delight. At that moment, a door on the far wall burst open with a thunderous crash, and the beams of

tactical flashlights illuminated a tableau frozen in the center of the room. One after another, special forces operatives stormed into the workshop, weapons trained on the girl. Ten people swiftly encircled the girl and the armchair holding the boy. A gruesome sight met their eyes. In the middle of the room stood an old dental chair with tattered green upholstery. Seated in it was the same boy the entire district police force had been hunting for a week. His chest was mangled, his clothes drenched in blood.

Through the gaping wound, strange mechanical components were visible. Standing beside him was a petite girl, in a baggie, smeared with blood, oil, and who knew what else, sweatshirt, and a short skirt, and delicate stockings, one of which was shorter than the other. She stared at the operatives with a look of utter bewilderment. Then Alice heard not to move, and to raise your hands and say, step away from the corpse, slowly. For a few moments, silence hung in the air. The only sound echoing through the workshop was the rhythmic ticking of a mechanical heart. Alice stretched her blood-stained

lips into a ghastly grin. Madness swirled in her mismatched eyes. This isn't the end yet, is it, cat? She slowly raised her blood-caped hands into the air, turned her head and winked at the cat sitting nearby. The fluffy creature did not deign to answer. Instead he winked back with a violet eye, grinned broadly, and as always, dissolved into a wisp of lilac smoke. Alice turned towards the police officers and winked at them. The ticking cut off, and the very next second, a blinding explosion engulfed the workshop. 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 creepy pod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so

through creative common share-a-like 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.