Creepy - The Mark on the Stones

Episode Date: November 24, 2025

The Mark on the Stones***Written by: Simon Bleaken***Content warnings: graphic dead forest animals***Until the Day is Done***Written by: Graham Farrow and Narrated by Michelle Kane***The Howling from the Woods***Written by: Jessica Valerie and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Check out The Gentleman From Hell Podcast: https://rustyquill.com/show/the-gentleman-from-hell/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Gares are back on the air. Not sure if I like that one or not.

Evening, everyone. Let's kick things off by thanking some new patrons for supporting the show. McSwigdie, Steph Gunderson, Alumi, Dorian, Sloan Taylor, Ben Clifford, Ryan DeHart, Chris Hernandez, and Kelly Donald. To find out how you can get rewards like access to hundreds of hours of bonus episodes and logo merch, please check out patreon.com slash creepypod. And our podcast recommendations continue today with The Gentleman from Hell. If you love horror, and if you're listening to this show, I sure hope so.

Check out The Gentleman from Hell. An entire town, gone. No signs, no warnings, just silence. This is Cold Sparrow. 24 years ago, every resident of Cold Sparrow vanished overnight, including the eccentric billionaire Benjamin Veers. No bodies, No clues, only questions.

For decades, investigators have chased every theory. Cults, kidnappings, mass disappearances, but nothing has brought them closer to the truth. Until now. Three renowned private investigators, famous for taking down one of the most dangerous cults in history, have been called in to uncover what really happened. But the deeper they dig,

the stranger the whispers become. Whispers of something far darker than anyone imagined. Something that might not be human at all. Cold Sparrow didn't just disappear. appear. Something took it. Some mysteries should stay buried. The investigation begins now. Check out the gentleman from hell on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. You won't regret it. Okay, well, that's out of the way. I've been listening to the old Eddie Gray's recordings as much as possible, though I'll admit that the older higher-ups at the station aren't nearly as interested in him

as I am. So it's taking me a bit to wade through him. Most of them are pretty basic, so I don't really think you to enjoy them as much as I am. But I did notice the stuff after the last one you heard is a little different. Eddie got a little more toned down, less of his personality and more focus on just getting the music and stories. The part I'm about to play for you comes after Eddie wasn't on the air for over a week, which he very much downplays. A good evening once again, my fellow creatures of caffeine and curiosity, Eddie Graves

back from the Not So Great Beyond on Friars. After dark. Yeah, I know. Been off the air for a few nights. Rumors flying around the phone lines faster than an FCC complaining. Truth is, I wasn't feeling too hot. Doctors said it was exhaustion. Probably from staying up every night trying to raise the dead.

Ha! Ha! ha! You'd think at this point the darkness would recharge me. Huh? Anyway, a few days rest, a few gallons of black coffee, and your old pal Eddie has been sewn back together good as new. And like Papa Bear coming in. Someone's been sitting in my

fucking chair. Not sure why they decided to move everything around in the studio, but whoever picked the cabinet lock and put the Midnight Dairs folder back in the console has a weird sense of humor. And they need to work on their handwriting.

This note they left might as well be in another language. Looks like someone recorded radio static onto a post-it note. Man, I've missed this place. Notched. The hum of the fluorescence, the gentle whisper of the air vents,

the smell of burned dust and poor life choices. The only thing's missing are you wonderful listeners and a good ghost story. So let's do what we do best. Tonight's tale is the reflection that answered back. Stick around, keep your lights low. And if the radio starts whispering while the story plays, well, maybe it's just missed me too.

You're tuned in to After Dark, the show that refuses to stay buried. I don't know. Maybe it's something, but it's probably nothing. Maybe Eddie fell to the excesses of the time and got in over his head. No clue, but it's kind of fun to dig through. Which also might just be for me at this point. But I don't know. It seems weird. Not that a station going from FM to AM is unheard of,

but from what I can tell the station switched to AM, not that long after the tape you just heard, and I can't really imagine Eddie switching over to the. the farm report. I wonder if he's at some other stations still doing his overnight stories. And speaking of stories, let's get down to business. First up, when strange marks begin appearing on people around town, blood begins to seep, thorns grow,

and even the stars twist as the line between nature and nightmare unravels. From writer Simon Bleakon, creepy presents the mark on the stones. Like most of the locals in the small village of Ralston, we'd live close to a stone circle in the woods for so long we barely noticed it anymore. I stood solemnly within a natural clearing, sheltered by an encircling wall of oaks, unveiled by tall clusters of gently swaying purple foxglove.

Other than drawing in the occasional tourist or photographer, and a couple of local pagan groups visited regularly throughout the year, for most of us living nearby, the stones were just a part. part of everyday life. They were like the clouds and the grass, and we paid them about as much attention. That is, until the marks started appearing on people. My older brother Colin was among the first to discover one. It just appeared on his right arm overnight, a strange curving spiral bisected by several other lines at odd angles. It wasn't a scratch or a rash. It looked like it had been tattooed with black red ink. I'll admit at the time I wondered whether he had stumbled

drunkenly into a tattoo parlor on the way home from the pub. Deep down, I knew he hadn't. The symbol was too strange, too unusual, and his denial of knowing what it was and where to come from was too adamant. The following day, the same mark appeared on three more people in the village, seemingly a random. On the forehead of John Drove's, our amiable local postman, on the foot of Trevor Wilson, the surly gray-bearded landlord

of the oxen cart, and on the cheek of Amy Gossard, receptionist at the GP surgery. But it was Liz Samuels who first made the connection with the old stone circle in the woods. As a wickon, she was one of the few in the village

who went out there regularly. She burst into the pub that evening as Trevor was pouring a pint from my brother, waving her phone around like it was a smudged stick at a ritual. She thrust the phone under my nose and told me to look at it. It took a second before I realized there was a picture of one of the old stones in the woods. There on the pale surface, faded and barely visible, was a curious mark that we'd all seen before.

It was the same symbol. Colin even took the phone and compared it to his arm. Liz assured us that the symbol hadn't been there before, nor was it drawn on. She said it went all the way through to the other side. Colin looked unsettled as he handed the phone back. He asked if she knew what it might mean, but Liz just looked uneasy and said it wasn't any simple she'd seen before. Maybe it doesn't mean anything, I protested.

But by then, even I was having trouble convincing myself of that. I knew Colin hadn't put that mark on himself. As my brother and I walked home that evening, there was a strange heaviness in the night air. I thought perhaps it was just my concerns about the odd events happening around us, but Colin seemed restless and agitated too. We stopped for a while,

watching bats circling overhead, framed against the moon, but neither of us spoke. Finally, we carried on in silence to the small house our parents had left us two years earlier. We said good night at the top of the stairs and went to our rooms. I tried flicking through the pages of a novel for a while, but it must have been more tired than I realized because the lines kept going blurry as my eyes lost focus.

I finally gave up, climbed into bed, and switched off the light. I woke sometime after midnight and instantly knew something was wrong. The house was still and silent. The pale moonlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains, etching the room in silver white. At first I lay there trying to work out the cause of my unease. Then I heard the whispering from outside and hurried to the window. Colin stood in the garden, dressed only in a t-shirt and underpants.

His eyes were open but glazed as if in a trance. His arms were raised to the sky and the moon, and I could see his mouth moving, whispering. I pulled on a pair of jeans and trainers before running out to him. Even as I approached, I saw another of the marks that formed on his face, just below his left eye. Colin! I grabbed his shoulders. He didn't respond. I shook him, calling his name again.

This time, the glazed look disappeared as his eyes focused on me. He blinked, and a thin trickle of blood ran from his left nostril. and dripped from his top lip. Your nose is bleeding. I put my arm around him. Let's get you inside. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, anxiously asking me what was going on and why he was outside.

Sleepwalking, I think, I told him. Or waving at the moon. Take your pick. He pulled away, looking around and growing alarm. He told me he remembered dreaming. that he needed to get somewhere or do something. But he said it was all slipping away, the way dreams do. You need to come inside, I urged.

It's freezing, and you've got nothing on your feet. I coaxed him back into the house and made him some strong black coffee. Neither of us felt like going back to bed. Colin's hands were trembling, and he paced the kitchen restlessly. But at least his nosebleed have been short-lived. I didn't tell him about the new mark. on his skin. That could wait until he was a bit calmer. That was when he told me we had to go back to the stones. He wanted to see them. He felt sure that that was where he was trying to go in his

dream. It was still dark as we hurried into the woods. The pre-dawn still mislay like a thick blanket on the world as we pushed through the treacherous angles of bramble and nettle, trying to find the muddy path in the feeble light of a flashlight they needed new batteries. We clumsily stumbled to the undergrowth, tripping over tree roots, finally emerging into the clearing just as the first light of dawn etched the horizon in pink gold. The circle stood as it always had, a wide ring of 26 gray white stones, solemn and strangely sinister in the half-light. The grass never seemed to grow too high around them,

and the woods had never encroached beyond a protective circle of oaks. This place always felt somehow separate from the rest of the world, operating on different laws. Perhaps that's the real reason I'd always avoided it. Something felt slightly off about it, unwelcoming. Where did Liz say she'd seen? I began, but Colin stopped me with a quick elbow nudge, and I realized we weren't a left.

alone. Three people were wandering silently through the fading darkness between the stones, like ghosts haunting before the approaching dawn. It took a moment before I recognized him as Trevor, John, and Amy from the village. They all looked dazed, as though waking from a deep sleep, and each had a single trail of blood running from one nostril. I had the troubling thought that had I not woke in Colin in the garden, he'd be standing among them right now. There was something else on the edge of that circle, too. A hair and a bird, both dead, blood running from their eyes. They lay in the damp grass.

Their bodies coiled in a strange tangle of thorny shoots that had sprouted from the earth. I didn't like the look of it, so I moved as quickly away and said nothing. The other thing I noticed, though, I didn't mention it. was that of the 26 standing stones, five now had the mark clearly upon them. Amy looked around, wiping in confusion at the blood flowing from her nose. She was wearing a muddy dressing gown, her bare feet cut and bloodied, legs and arms scratched by thorns and twigs, and she shivered in the cold air as her senses realigned.

The others looked equally confused, and we answered their questions as best we could. could, not that we could tell them much. Why don't we get you all home? I suggested. We'll figure it out later. I moved toward Amy, intending to offer my coat to her when Colin hissed an alarm and grabbed my arm.

I followed his gaze and noticed what was only now becoming clear in the slowly growing light. The bark of the ancient oaks lining the clearing was splitting and flaking into deep fissures, each forming an all too familiar pattern. It was the same mark that it appeared on the stones and upon the bodies that the people in that clearing. We spent the first part of that morning making sure everyone got safely home. John was especially pale and seemed to be having trouble breathing. So we called the doctor and waited until she had arrived before we returned alone to the stone circle.

It was gray and drizzly by the time we got there. The clouds hung low in the air and the pervasive dampness seemed to soak us to spite our coats. It was far from the kind of weather that harbored any sense of brooding menace, and as we squelched into the circle from the woodland path, I hoped that in the growing light of the day the curiosities we'd noticed would seem less strange, or would reveal obvious and mundane causes. But as we made our way carefully among the stones, the enigmas of the night before only became more bizarre and unsettling. Those strange thorny shoots we had observed around the carcasses of the birds and hair were not just growing around the bodies, but through them, coiled around their limbs and even emerging from out of their mouths. I couldn't help but notice another dozen shoots were also sprouting in dense clumps

at various places around the clearing, like brambles, but growing upwards, perfectly straight, from out of the soil. a curious reddish tinge to the thorns. We took care to avoid them. Liz was right about these marks, I admitted, studying the stones. These aren't drawn on. They run all the way through. I'll have to check some old photos.

I'd like to make sure they really weren't there before. My brother sighed at that, demanding to know how I could think this was some kind of hoax. The truth was I didn't think. that. Not really, but I wanted to try and figure it out, to understand what was going on. That was when I spotted the unusual changes in the trees all around us and pointed it out to my brother. Where the bark had split, the curious fissures were weeping, a dark red sap that looked too much like blood for comfort. Flies buzzed thickly around it, and a smell issuing from it was distinctly foul. He was understandably unsettled, anxious about being an unwilling participant in something so strange.

Why don't we camp out tonight? I suggested. I want to see what happens. As expected, my brother made a retort about me wanting to freeze my ass off out here when we both have perfectly good beds nearby. He also made the reasonable point that even if we saw anything strange going on out here, that didn't mean. we'd understand it. I don't know. We're just gathering evidence, I shrugged. My gaze traveled from those thorn-shouted carcasses to the weeping fissures on the oaks. We have to do something, don't we?

He shivered, and I can tell what he was thinking. Something had put this mark on him, and something also made him go outside last night, against his will. He was worried about what would happen tonight. I'll be right beside you, I told him. We'll face us together. As always, we set off just before dusk, dressed warmly in several thick layers and carrying folding chairs and extra blankets. We didn't have a tent, so we'd have to make do with what we had on hand.

Colin was silent on the walk to the clearing. He knew about the new mark on his face now, and that discovery had almost been enough to make him throw a hastily pack suitcase into the car and take off for somewhere far from here. When we reached the stones, we were the only people there. The place felt still and peaceful. The chill air tainted only by the lingering smell of garden bonfires. More of those thorny shoots had risen during the day,

and several of them were starting to coil around the base of the stones like spiky serpents. We set up our chairs in a spot that was free of them, settled in and wrapped our blankets around us in anticipation of the, sharp drop in temperature that was to come. We were riding the dying cusp of autumn, and the coming bite of winter's approach was creeping into the world. I thought about switching on the electric lantern I had brought, but thought better of it, and save that until it grew darker.

We sat there for what felt like hours as the dusk faded into night, and the air grew steadily colder. Nothing rustled in the undergrowth, and there were no other sounds to break the silence. I cast a glance at Colin from time to time. In the moonlight, I could see the glint of his eyes as he stared out at the stones. Gradually, my attention lifted upward, drawn by a darker movement against the sky. It took a second before I realized what it was. Colin!

I hissed, gripping the arms of the chair. Colin, look! Bats were circling overhead. It's hard to get a sense of just how many, but there must have been 50 at least, more than I'd ever seen. They were all moving in a circular pattern, like a churning ring of darkness, and I quickly realized they were following the outline of the stones below. Colin saw them too. He threw the blankets aside and stood, moving into the heart of the circle as he watched the bats turning above his head. Then he froze, and I heard him swear loudly.

I scrambled out from under my blankets, nearly tipping my chair and my haste to hurry to his side. What is it? What? I fell silent as I saw it too. Overhead, visible in the cloudless sky. The ancient stars burned as they always had. But tonight, I saw new lights flaring to life among them, forming a pattern, a symbol we both knew all too well.

It was in the stars as well, but it can't be, I said, denying what my own eyes were telling me. It doesn't work like that. Stars don't just form overnight. You don't suddenly decide to shift around. Besides, by the time the light reaches us, it's thousands of years old. And yet it was right there before us, in those distant twinkling lights in their new, impossible configurations. We fell silent.

There were no answers here, only a slowly unfolding madness that seemed certain to swallow us up. We spent the rest of the night taking turns to keep watch. With one of us resting in a chair, the other walking the stones with the lantern, keeping an eye on them for any new marks and observing the bizarre changes in the night sky, the bats didn't stop. They kept wheeling the whole time, chittering as they turned, never deviating from their pattern. I sat there for a while, blankets pulled to my chin,

watching the turn of the bats and the light of the lantern bobbing a moment. among the stones as Colin made another inspection. When I next opened my eyes, it was the damp chill just before dawn. I moved painfully, my limbs stiff in my face and nose almost numb with the cold. I wondered why Colin hadn't woken me sooner, as I wriggled awkwardly in the chair, trying to sit up. Colin! I called hoarsely, turning to look for him. My eyes widened at the sight that met me.

There's a group of eight people wandering amid the stones, like extras from a George Romero movie. My brother was among them. They walked, glassy-eyed as though asleep, moving in a lazy circle. All of them had the mark on their bodies, and all of the marks were weeping blood. Many of them were barely dressed or dressed as though they had crawled from bed in the middle of the night, bare feet cut and bleeding, legs scratched by thorns, But it wasn't just people. Three rabbits floundered on the edge of the clearing.

Their bodies ensnared by coils of thorny shoots that were protruding bloodily from their fur as if they had erupted from within. I could see the curling mark on their skin too in patches where the fur had fallen out. A dozen birds also flapped and fluttered on broken wings. Their eyes lost to bizarre skin growths. And beyond them lay the lifeless

bodies of a badger and two foxes, now being cleaned by the thorns. I heard someone call my name and turned to see Liz hurrying toward me. She looked relieved to see I was unaffected, and together we agreed we'd had to try and help these people and get them safely home. They were hard to shake from their trance-like state, each of them blinking in confusion as awareness finally crept into their bodies. We spent that morning making sure each one got back okay. I also took the liberty when Liz wasn't looking of ending the suffering of the trapped animals sneered by the thorns. She would have hated what I had to do.

There was no way of saving them, and it seemed wrong to allow their agony to endure. By the time we got calling home, it was mid-morning. I helped him to his room, cleaned the blood from those strange marks, and left him sleeping as I joined Liz in the kitchen. She'd already put the kettle on and had a welcome couple of things. a tea waiting when I slumped into the kitchen chair. I'm glad you were there. I said weirdly as I hugged the steaming cup in my hands.

Not sure I could have managed that lot on my own. She told me she'd only been going to see if any more stones had the mark. She hadn't expected anyone else to be there. As it was, she'd noticed that over two-thirds of the stones now had the mark upon them, noting it was like a clock counting down. She nervously wondered what would happen when it was on all of them. Well, I don't think we'll be finding out. I said putting my cup down heavily.

I think Colin had the right idea to get away. That's when she told me that the marks had appeared at Avebury, Stonehenge, and Stanton Drew as well. Whatever it was, it was spreading. For all we knew, it was possibly appearing on all the Neolithic sites around the country, maybe even the world. She went home an hour later, and I sat in a lounge staring at the TV without daring to turn it on.

The world was going mad, and I didn't know what to do. At least if I ignored it, I could pretend things still made sense. With everything going on, it was no surprise I felt exhausted. In that moment of calm, I closed my eyes and sat on the sofa for a while,

enjoying the tranquility of the house, a comforting blanket. I must have nodded off because I awoke from the weak embrace of a dreamless nap to the sound of anguished wailing from the kitchen. Colin was sitting on the floor

amid the wreckage of a smashed coffee mug. His hands were shaking, twisted into claws like he was struggling to flex or move the fingers. Trails of blood streaked his face and stained his clothes. He had also vomited

and there were thorns among the remains of his breakfast. I rushed to help him, but he waved me away with a howl of shame and fear. There were fresh marks on his face and arms. They looked angry now, more like raw lesions than tattoos. Each one wept a thin trickle of bloody fluid. We need to get you to a doctor, I insisted. But he shook his head, insisting he was fine and just needed more sleep.

I watched him go, feeling more. helpless than ever before. That feeling of helplessness, of being trapped, grew more intense as the afternoon edged into evening and dusk fell upon the world. I locked all the windows and doors and hid the keys, all the while wondering if I really believed that would stop him. I had to try, though. Maybe I couldn't stand in the way of all this, no more than a person could stop the sun setting

or the tide coming in. But it felt wrong to just surrender with that. out a fight. I made cup after cup of strong coffee as night came and paced the kitchen, trying to ignore my growing fatigue. It was an hour past midnight when I heard the first sounds of movement from Collins' room, far sooner than I'd expected, as if the call of those stones was growing stronger. I hurried to the foot of the stairs, planning to intercept him as he came down. I'll just reason with him, I told myself. wake him from his trance, just like last time.

He came down the stairs like an automaton, eyes glassy and face, an expressionless mask. His body answering the summons while his mind slept. I tried to stop him, but he pushed past me, shoving me aside as if barely aware of me. As I scrambled in my feet, I heard him savagely rattling and fighting with a locked back door, and I darted into the kitchen in time to see him grab one of the chairs and hurl it, through the window. What are you? I shouted.

I tried to grab him and haul him back, but I felt something break the skin on my palm and pulled my hand away. There were thorns under his flesh, just starting to push through his skin from beneath. I stared at him in horror, and that's when he shoved me. I slammed into the kitchen table with enough force to push at four feet backward. I landed heavily, my back exploding with pain where it connected with the edge of the table. Meanwhile, Colin clambered out the shattered window, seemingly oblivious to the shards of glass that sliced into his hands and legs.

Gritting my teeth, I climbed awkwardly to my feet. My head ringing and my back screaming. I retrieved the key I had hidden, but by the time I stumbled into the chill night, Colin had already disappeared on his way to the circle. I ran after him as fast as my protesting body would allow, plunging into the woods and along the old dirt track, tripping and stumbling in my haste, only to stop abruptly at the edge of the clearing where the stones waited. Before me, in a silver spear of moonlight, was a throng of blank-eyed human forms, twisting, writhing, and howling. They lifted their bleeding and scabbed arms to the moon in a frantic and trans-like adoration as the blood from their weeping wounds dripped onto the dark earth.

Around them, wrapped around the stones like constricting serpents, were hundreds of those thorny chutes, spreading from the heart of the circling and ensnaring anything that came near. They had coiled around the still twitching torsos of numerous foxes, hairs, and badgers. Even the ancient oaks had succumbed, having been wrapped so tightly in their barbed embrace that they now resembled little more than towering columns of bristling thorns. Overhead bats circled madly and blindly, as if their bodies were no longer theirs to control. And, from several of the thorn-bound branches

hung the ragged remains of birds and owls, their torn carcasses flapping in the breeze. I stared in mute horror as the alien stars above turned and shifted in new alignments, flickering, blazing like burning eyes in the darkness. Were these the ones the darkness? old gods of this land spilling forth? Or something far older?

Something raw and primal, forgotten and unknown. Was some vast cycle turning within the ancient heart of the cosmos? Some cycle older than the seasons, older than the spinning orbits of the planets, perhaps even predating the formation of anything we knew of this universe? With a frenzied howl, the people shambled towards the stones, eyes still glassy and vacant. I saw Liz and Colin among them. I watched in terror as thorns claimed them too, parting flesh and burrowing through skin as they extruded violently from the tips of fingers

and out of noses, eye sockets, and ears. The raw choking screams that rose into the night air were silenced as Moore shoots clogged their throats. Overhad the stars watched silently as if some terrible moment of pretentious cosmic conjunction had finally arrived. I took an unsteady step back. I'd seen the speed with which these roots could snare their victims, and even now I could see the raised ridges in the soil where more of them were snaking outwards beneath the ground.

That stone circle had become the heart of a spiderless web, and while I couldn't comprehend what strange connection existed between the roots, the stars, the summons, and the mark that had started at all. I knew they had to be linked in some diabolical manner, like some wordless incantation that had cast a curse upon all of reality. There was a gurgling cry as somebody. I barely recognized him as John, slumped against one of the stones, his lacerated body shaking as he vomited blood and thorns onto the pale surface of the

arson. It splattered down like an artificial offering. twin roots had burst like thorny antlers from the crown of his head, and he looked like some strange pagan god as he lifted his gore-smeared face to the night sky. As more people shuffled into the clearing like sleepwalkers, fresh barbs exploded from the soil to ensnare them, savagely piercing flesh and coiling around bone. Those gore-stained shoots grew upwards with an impossible speed,

as if trying to reach the full moon that etched the whole, whole of the grisly scene in silvery highlights. It was a frenzy of life and death, a chaotic orgy of growth, decay, and consumption, as if the natural laws were spinning out of control and response to whatever forces were unfolding around us. I was dimly aware that Colin was trying to scream. There was a lucid clarity in his eyes, as if his consciousness had finally caught up with what was happening.

I wanted to run to him, but was too afraid to get any. closer. Thorns are grown through his feet, pinning him to the ground, and were now breaking through the flesh of his legs like crawling varicose veins. He turned to me, his eyes wild with fear. His attempts to scream were choked off as Morchutes pierce the skin of his distended neck and burst from his lips and nose. His final moments of agony were too much for me to bear. In a blind panic I ran to the village, desperate to find survivors, hoping to lower. anyone that hadn't succumbed to those strange events. But the village was deserted.

The little shop sat abandoned and dark, the front door wide open. The pub in contrast was locked up tight, but somehow I knew there was nobody inside. I got the same feeling from each of the houses too, though I hammered on doors and windows anyway. Everything was too still, too silent. There weren't even any birds or sounds of course. traffic. There were thorns, though, and my heart sank at the sight of them. They burst up through the heart of the village and smothered the war memorial, and her coiling spiny tendrils that started to creep up the walls of the houses and around the wooden picnic

tables of the pub's garden. In a final desperate impulse, I ran to the church. As an atheist, it was the first time I'd been there in years, but I knew many saw it as a bastion of hope, and ironically I now prayed that it might be a place of hope for me too. I should have known better. I darted through the litch gate and up the avenue beyond. The graves on either side were choked by vicious growth of immense thickness as a feeding off all the bodies beneath the soil. The doors to the church were ajar and as I hauled them open,

I realized with a sickening surge of horror that I had found the missing villagers. they sat in the pews, little more than crumbling husks with limbs frozen and twisted agony. They had come here seeking salvation, but there was none to be followed within those walls. Their corpses had already started sprouting from within, and those strange symbols covered their hands and faces. Even more barbed tendrils had broken up through the floor, shattering the heavy flagstones and coiling around the altar, metal cross that rested atop it.

They were smothering the church, just like the village, tearing down the hollow shrines of our creative beliefs. This was no longer the world we knew. It had been swallowed by something older and buried, something in the soil and in the stars themselves, something forgotten and ancient, bound within the very fabric of the reality we thought we understood. I turned away, unable to look any longer.

As I reached out to close the door behind me, my heart jolted as I saw a mark had formed on the back of my hand, like a faint tattoo that was slowly growing darker, more pronounced with each passing moment. All I could do was stare. For a while I wandered the dead village, aimless and stunned. The silent world pressed in around me and loneliness whispered maddeningly into my mind, but I knew I wouldn't be alone for long. As the marks grew darker, and the second one appeared on my other arm, I realized I could feel a pulse from the sky like a throbbing beat of invisible energy, and also an answering vibration rising from the land. It was a summons.

One I was unable to refuse. As the afternoon crept towards dusk, I returned to the stones, though I don't know why. the bodies of the people and the animals that had fallen there earlier were lost from sight, buried beneath fresh vegetation. I sank to the damp, blood-stained earth, my body shaking, and then I waited until night came. Overhead the stars turned, flaring and dancing as they painted the dark sky with alien symbols, and the earth responded in a frenzy of madness. The mark was upon all the stones now, just as it was spreading across my flesh. I could see the blood soaking through my clothes

as those wounds, those lesions, burned and bled. The fragile dream of our domination over the world was coming to an abrupt end. All life was connected. That was a simple truth I have always believed. Everything is locked in a spiral of life growing from death, survival from sacrifice, and sustenance from consumption.

What aspect of life would our deaths feed? What unseen force was growing and spreading around us? What did any of it mean? And where would it all end? I dug my fingers deep into the soil, deep into the blood, and fought back a scream. I felt a sharp bite of the thorns as they burrowed into my knees, warming their way into my veins and through my body. I was lifted into the air as they grew, rising like some monstrous puppet who stringed.

strings came from beneath, higher into the sky, past the torn and heaped bodies of the villagers, past the tops of the stones, held up like an offering to those crazed stars in that churning sky. My skin branded over and over by a mark the meaning of which I couldn't comprehend. A mark that appeared in the stars flickering before me. The star sang and the planet answered, The life of the world was dancing to a different tune now. responding in ways unknown and unexpected. Even our bodies were betraying us. We were so bound to the life of this world,

this fragile spinning orb that obeys patterns and laws more ancient than any civilization. Yet all this one day will pass. The seasons and rhythms that have defined life on earth for so long will break and end. The sun will burn out, but not before it engulfs the planet in its death throes. Then those dead worlds will drift into desolate darkness, cut free from the gravity that held them. This we know.

This we understand. But as I stared into that churning vortex of moving stars, into something that should have been impossible by every law of nature and science known to us, I realized how limited and feeble our understanding truly was. I felt the pull of those stars in my bones, a song older than the ground beneath my feet, older than the worlds that spin and dance in the void. The religions we have created have all tried in their own fumbling way to grasp something of that mystery,

and all have failed. A change was coming. We were midwives to a new age, sacrifices to evolution. And while we would not see the dawn, we would welcome it in. A whisper of adoration left my lips, a sacrament to the greater powers, a prayer of submission to the forces I couldn't fight. I was weeping. But the tears spilling from my face were red.

I knew the roots were working through my flesh. Soon they would burst like a crown from my scalp. As I waited for the end to come, my final awareness. was of those stars dancing before me. Next, on her daughter's 13th birthday, a mother tried to shake off a lifetime of disappointment and loneliness to make the day perfect. From writer Graham Farrow and narrated by Michelle Kane,

creepy presents, until the day is done. Olivia sat looking directly into her dressing table mirror. The reflection wasn't kind to her. She looked tired. drawn. Too many lines on her forehead and too many cross feet. Her black hair was no longer able to hide the first streaks of gray, and her brown eyes looked heavy and solemn. There was a small crack in the glass just below her eyeline, but she shrugged it off. There was a time when it would have irritated the crap out of her, but those days were long gone. She stared deeper into the mirror,

searching for something, unsure what it was exactly. Behind her, she could hear the tapping of rain against the window, and she felt her heart sink. It was cold and dark, and the rain would make the day even worse, but she had to do it, wanted to do it, needed to do it. Her daughter's birthday was always the most special day, the date when she could forget all her problems and just go celebrate. just her and Carrie, the terrible twosome. She didn't need anyone else in her life. She remembered

reading Zampal Sartra at University a long time ago. That made her laugh out loud and he broke the silence in the bedroom. Sartra had said that hell was other people and it's something that resonated with her straight away, something she filed away and never forgot. She had always felt that always thought that she didn't fit, that she was a disappointment. Even as a kid, she was the one never invited to birthday parties or days out when it seemed like the whole area was joining in. She never got to play in the street or sleep over, and she didn't care. She knew it pissed off her parents, and once when she crept downstairs to get a drink in the middle of the night, She heard them talking about her.

She sat on the stairs, her dressing gown wrapped around her, and listened to words she didn't understand, but it was the tone she recognized. She knew the gist of what they were saying. They were disappointed in her. She heard the words that would make her wince in later years when she recalled that night. Words that cut her, bit into her,

words of dismay and distrust. Words like jinx and strange and weird. Words suggesting she was odd, that there was something not right about her. She would cry to herself on long, lonely dark nights when the wind howled outside and she was alone. Her parents would party downstairs and she would hear laughter pierce the night and she would be cut again. She knew they were laughing about her, knew they didn't want her. She allowed the tears to spill down her cheeks, and she roughly wiped them away. She didn't want to feel like that today.

Not today. Not Carrie's birthday. It was a day of joy, a day of laughter and stories, of hugs and plenty of kisses. She felt a shudder as the bedroom dropped a few degrees, and she reached for her robe, slipped into it and sat for a few moments, just thinking, finding it hard to fathom that her girl was 13. She felt fresh tears at the image in her head. Of holding her that first time, terrified she'd crush her or drop her.

She remembered counting all her fingers and toes and staring into Carrie's pig-blue eyes that shone like diamonds. She remembered stroking her corn-colored hair and singing softly to her. She remembered how difficult it had been, those first few days and weeks, on her own, that waste of space jack out of the house and out of her life for good. She didn't need him, didn't need anyone else. She was complete, knew that she'd found herself, found her role, knew that Carrie wouldn't think she was a failure or a jinks or anything like that. She reached for the phone with shaky fingers and checked the time. It was just

after seven, Carrie would still be asleep, and she didn't want to wake her. There was plenty of time to fill the day, so she tossed the phone back on the dressing table and dragged herself into the bathroom. She stepped into the shower and allowed the hot water to caress and soothe her, to untangle all the knots inside her aching body. It always happened when she thought about her parents, especially her mother. She would tense up in every moment. She would tense up in every muscle and fiber would scream at her and set her on fire. Thinking of all the times her crazy mother would drag her through the house by her hair, when she would lash out and hit her whenever she spilled a cup, thinking of the look her mother would give her whenever she saw her. That look,

the look of disappointment, the look that said, you're not a part of me. The look that said, I don't love you. I can't love you. You're incapable of loving. Wrapped in the dressing gown, trying to rid herself of dark thoughts. She sat on the toilet seat, drying her hair with the towel. The rain continued to hammer against the window. It seemed to be getting colder by the minute. She sat there for some moments, concentrating on Carrie, deliberately pushing her mother to the back of her mind. She wanted to go into her bedroom. She wanted to go into her bedroom and watch her sleep, watch the contours of her body rise and fall with every breath, wanting to slip in beside her and drift away for another hour. She dressed quickly,

nothing fancy, heavy tracksuit weather, and she was thankful for something warm. She pulled her hair back and wrapped an elastic band around the ponytail, told herself it would have to do. It wasn't her day. She didn't have to look glam, and she knew Carrie wouldn't care what her mother looked They were a team. They were the A team. That made her smile. It was something they used to say to each other whenever the program was repeated. Hey, Carrie, that's us. The A team, nobody can break us. Carrie would hold up her hand and they would slap them together whilst Jack would sit there grimacing, hating their closeness. The kitchen was the coldest room in the house and she flicked on the heater by the door and stood before it, rubbing her hands together. Thinking she heard movement upstairs and realizing that Carrie must be crawling out of bed, she smiled and moved away from the heater toward the fridge. When she passed the window, she stopped in her tracks, rooted to the linoleum. Her mother was standing in the garden, looking straight at her.

The rain was bouncing off of her, and she looked frozen to the sodden turf. She raised a hand, outstretched a long, bony finger, and pointed. at Olivia. Olivia winced and looked away, feeling a spasm of nausea run through her body. She wretched, steadied herself, and looked again toward her mother. She was still standing there, pointing at her. That accusatory finger thrusting in her direction, Olivia took a step backwards as her mother's lips parted into a huge grin as she began to laugh. Olivia rushed toward the window, yanked at the blind and watched it crash down, blocking the sight from the garden, but not being able to escape the laughter that rattled in her head. She sat down, her heart thumping, trying to regain her

composure, more movement upstairs, the sound of music playing. Olivia knew she'd have to pull herself together and get her skates on. There was no time to dwell on ghosts in the garden and in her head. She had to get breakfast started and get herself into the right frame of mind for her daughter's big day. Still hearing the laughter, goading and mocking her, she dashed towards the counter and reached for the radio. Seconds later, the kitchen was reverberating to George Harrison, telling us, ironically, that the sun was coming. She liked the song, and the fact it had drowned out her mother's laughter was a huge plus, and she found herself humming along as she took plates and pans from the cupboards and set about making a birthday banquet.

The smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee filled the kitchen as Carrie entered. Olivia was sitting at the table, listening to the news and slipping coffee from a mug that said, Don't listen to the other mugs. My mother really is the greatest. It was a Mother's Day present some years back, and Olivia always began her day drinking from it. She rose quickly and lunged at Carrie, almost knocking her over in her excitement. Happy birthday, my darling. Olivia hugged her daughter tightly, and it was reciprocated with equal intensity.

Thanks, Mom. Olivia ushered Carrie to a seat at the table. You hungry? She nodded. You better be. I am, I am. But before that, Olivia broke off and dashed out of the kitchen. moments later she was back, her smile wider than the Atlantic, handing over a huge bundle of neatly wrapped presents.

Carrie dug into the bundle like a whirlwind. Olivia watched her daughter unwrap everything. The same look of love and pride etched onto her face. Carrie would scream with delight and hug her mother as she moved from gift to gift, savoring the moment. Loving every book, trinket, and item of clothing she opened. They ate like kings. There wasn't a scrap left on either plate. Olivia sat back in her chair, holding her stomach and shaking her head.

Now that was a breakfast. And a half. You won anything else? I couldn't eat another thing. I couldn't eat another thing for a month. Olivia rocked back in her seat and the laughter made her stomach hurt. She made a face and Carrie joined in and their laughter tore through the cold kitchen. Don't forget this afternoon, when you get back from school.

All your best friends here to cut a cake and have some fun. Carrie sighed. Do I have to go to school today? Can't I just have one day to do nothing? Olivia reached for her hand and took it warmly, stroking it, looking lovingly into her daughter's eyes. She stroked her hair with her free hand. I'd like nothing better,

but if you want to be a vet when you grow up and save all those full, fluffy dogs, you need to work hard, okay? Carrie said nothing, disappointment clouding her features. Okay, okay. Olivia leaned in and kissed her gently on the forehead. Now go and get your things together. I don't want you to be late, and I won't have them thinking I'm a lousy mother. Carrie rose on legs that didn't want to walk to school. She smiled at her mother. Thanks so much for all the presents. I love them. As much as you love me. me, almost as much. I'll take that. Now go to school and make me proud. Olivia was sitting in the lounge, nursing another cup of coffee. An angry wind had whipped up outside, and a big black cloud hung

ominously in a dark, ugly sky. She yawned, set her muck on the coaster, and looked at the old grandfather clock, which was clanging away beside the bookshelves. It was edging 11 o'clock, and she knew she had to get moving. She had to shop for a couple of dozen hungry teenagers, and that was going to take some time and effort. She tutted and forced herself from the snugness of the sofa, pushed the quilt back fully, before folding it and setting it against the cushions. She went to the kitchen to pick up her shopping list, thought she heard a distant laughter, but dismissed it and walked into the hallway to step into heavy shoes and an even heavier jacket. The elements weren't kind to her.

The cold bit into her as she walked, flaying her cheeks and making her head throb. The howling wind pushed and prodded her as she walked, and the rain spat ice-cold gobbels down her face. It seemed to take longer than normal to get to the high street, and as she walked along the grass, verge along the bridge, she was horrified to come across a dead rabbit, hanging half over the pavement. The body had been crushed and an eye was missing. She wretched and looked away quickly, hoping Carrie hadn't seen it, knowing it would ruin her day. She picked up the pace, trying to forget what she'd just seen, and was soon standing outside Sainsbury's and thankful for the sanctuary of a warm building.

She took out her list and followed the aisles, picking out anything and everything that would excite a gaggle of teenage girls, adding extras as she moved, frowning at the ever-growing trolley before her. She was standing in the cake section, trying to focus when she looked up and found two older women looking at her, watching her even. She felt a chill course through her, playing a symphony on her bones. They were whispering to each other, talking about her. Their eyes were saucers and their mouths were drawn wide like clown grins. One of them began to cackle and the other followed suit.

Olivia dropped her gaze and pushed her trolley in the other direction. The laughter grew louder, taunting her as she moved quickly, her heart thumping in her chest, her underarms clammy with sweat. She reached the end of the aisle, looked back, and both women were pointing at her. Another woman joined them. She raised a skeletal finger, pointed toward her, and began to laugh. Olivia pushed on. Suddenly it didn't see. seemed so important to cross everything off the list. She just wanted to get to the checkout, pay, and get the hell out of there and get home. The bags were too heavy, and she decided to take the bus. Of course, it was late. The driver was in a bad mood, and they got stuck in a traffic jam. Olivia took her seat away from the morons with wires in their ears, set her bags down,

and closed her eyes. The bus shuttled forward and was soon at a stop again. She tutted, looked out the window, and saw the rabbit. It was sitting on the pavement. Its neck was broken and only one eye looked toward her, and it snacked greedily on dewy grass. Olivia rocked in her seat, blinking her eyes and shaking her head. She took another look toward the rabbit,

and it looked like it was dancing and laughing, and it was pointing at her. She turned fully away. away, staring at the floor. Her heart rate picking up again, waiting desperately for the bus to get moving and get her home. The paracetamol seemed to be doing the trick. She sipped from a glass of water as she stood in the kitchen, looking at all the stuff she had bought, looking at cakes and egg and mayo sandwich spread, but seeing only cackling old women and dancing rabbits. She sat down and closed her eyes. She felt nausea sweep through her and she wretched, dashing for the sink,

trying to puke something that wasn't there. She sat back down, took another step of water, and a few deep breaths. The kitchen suddenly felt too hot. Her stomach lurched and she felt tired and listless. She sat, staring at the wall, tears beginning to well in her eyes. It all felt too much, too much pressure on her to have the perfect day, to give Carrie everything she deserved, pressure like a big pan that's been on the stove too long, and it's getting too damn hot. She rose on unsteady legs and took a couple more deep breaths. She looked toward the window and saw a rabbit run across the lawn. She gulped, expecting it to turn and look at her with its one good eye.

feeling tears well again. She sat back down, wanting to cancel the day, admit defeat. Carrie would understand. She's a bright girl. They could tell her friends that Olivia isn't feeling too well and no. She surprised herself by speaking out loud, but she was proud of her defiance. She wasn't going to quit, had never quit anything in her life. Carrie was going to have the best. best day possible, and she straightened herself out, wipe the tears from her eyes, and set to work. She always liked to meet Carrie from school. Sure, Carrie was at the age when she loved to spend most of the time with her friends, but she knew how much it meant to her mother, and she went with it, never wanting to kick up a fuss. The rain had stopped, and the wind had settled, but it was cold.

She felt the chill as she walked toward the school. Beaming, as she recalled all the tables full of party food back home. She had so much work to do she didn't even have time for her daily nap. And although she felt tired as she walked, she felt huge elation at the banquet she created. She knew all the kids would love it. At the school gates, she waited. Pupils of all ages teamed out of the building and into waiting cars. Olivia waited.

unsure as to why Carrie wasn't there. She checked her watch, definitely running late. She looked all around, felt the eyes burning into her. She saw mothers watching her, talking in hushed tones, hurrying their children away. Anxiety gripped her like a vice. She reached into her pocket for her phone, dropped it from shaking hands and eventually managed to regain her composure. She called Carrie's number, voicemail.

She hurried into the building, needing to speak to the headmaster and tell him her daughter hadn't left the building. She needed answers. Something wasn't right. It was Carrie's big day and they had to get home pronto. And if the headmaster couldn't give her answers, then she'd damn well get him herself. He was as useless as everyone else. Half an hour later, head down. walking with an unsteady gate.

She found herself meandering down a busy road, muttering to herself, imaginary conversations rattling through her head. The wind had picked up again, and a light rain tickled her face. Her legs felt heavy. She was walking in quicksand. Her mouth felt dry, and her throat was a crown of thorns. Her pace slowed as she reached the church, her heart picking a quick beat again.

She walked around the side of the church and paused at the neat row of gravestones. She took an unsteady step toward the second row and staggered, holding onto the headstone. She forced a smile and her voice cracked. Happy birthday, my darling. She dropped to her knees on the sodden soil and allowed the dam to the dam to be. open. About to speak again, not sure what would emerge. She felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She jumped, screeched, and turned full circle. Carrie was standing before her, arms wide, a huge smile engulfing her face. She rushed into her mother's arms and buried herself fully

into the bear hug. Mommy? Yes, my love. Can we? Can we go home? Of course, my love. They broke, hooked hands, and slowly made their way back to home. In a rural northeastern town, strange howling erupts from the forest night after night, driving animals mad and spreading panic throughout the community. From writer Jessica Valerie and narrated by Cole Burkart, Creepy Presents, The Howling from the Woods. They say that everyone has a ghost story.

Every small town has some history, but the locals don't care to discuss it. Something that can shatter a community, soak the land in paranoia and despair. Something that reminds us all, children and adults alike, of why we fear the dark. You traveled a long way, so. I suppose I should tell you mine. You see, this town had a time just like that a few years ago. Our little burb is what you would call rural America, hardworking folks who lived on the same plot for generations. Good people, mostly. A few that were less so, but had the best intentions, I'm sure.

This town is located in a secluded part of the northeast, just a couple hours away from one of the largest cities in the world. Here, you won't find any skyscrapers or French cuisine available for delivery on whatever app you might have. Here, you'll find nature spread out in all her beauty and mystery, tall trees that span over hills and hills and, as far as the eye can see. Rivers ripe with fish and forests rich with game for hunting. There are farms, a couple of schools, and a single grease trap of a diner that serves the best coffee you'll ever taste. Now that you have a nice rose-colored visage of my little slice of paradise,

I can begin my yarn. Let me start by thanking you for taking the time to listen to an old fool. It started with the howling. One night back a while, the entire woods suddenly erupted in it. Must have been every wolf for miles just started howling and snarling their heads off. All at once, around one or two in the morning. Woke us all from our beds and set off every dog or cat and livestock for more than half the whole community.

Lasted for hours without end. I remember leaping out of bed with my own hound, that's hutch, and grabbing my rifle. I stood out there staring at the tree line, covered in a cold sweat, had to tie hutch to the fence to keep him from darting off towards the ruckus.

Didn't sleep a wink that night. When the morning finally came, I got dressed and headed down to the town hall to report what I had heard. Turns out, I wasn't the only concerned citizen. Damn near everyone I knew and their mothers were knocking on the mayor's door, demanded an answer. Of course, as you can guess, the officials had no idea what was going on. A couple of police and animal control officers were shouting out reassurances about the moon cycle and pack behavior among the wolves.

They said it was only a random event and nobody should panic. Might have been comforting, if it hadn't started up right then and there. Even the police dogs went wild when that chorus of howls came loud and clear. Sounded like the whole sky would shake the way it came up, sent all of us into a frenzy. People rushed outside, practically trampling each other to go stare at the trees from outside the hall. The combination of barking, howling, and birds taking flight to escape the noise was all like some scene out of a Hollywood horror movie. The cops sent everyone home, telling us to stay indoors and secure any animals on our property.

It kept up all day, and nobody was brave enough to dare enter the woods to see what the Sam Hill was going on. While driving back to my house, I decided to check up on a friend of mine, Travis. He owned a fairly large farm set on 10 acres just a few miles from me. When I pulled my truck into his drive, I could hear the pigs going crazy in their pen, chickens squawking and slamming their bodies against coop wires. Goats were chewing on the wooden posts that held them, desperately trying to escape and flee the scene. I knocked and knocked, but Travis was nowhere to be found.

Looked around back near where his hunting dog was usually napping on the wraparound porch, but all that was there was an untouched bowl of kibble and a couple of rifle rounds spilled on the ground leading to the forest. Now, this wasn't anything to get alarmed over. It was the time of year when Travis would typically be out hunting deer whenever he had the chance and a six-back handy. I figured at the time he would be out there before anyone else, trying to prove himself the bravest man in the county. I left him a note, simply saying, come see me, before I headed back to my house. The howling kept up, the animals kept panicking, life continued among all the chaos for another couple of days

without a moment of peace or quiet. I kept busy with chores, but when the second evening arrived without so much as a word from Travis, I decided to head back into town. The officials still had no information to provide. I reported my missing friend, but as soon as I said, I thought he had been in the forest, all I'd got were grave looks and awkward silences.

Rumors had begun circulating at this point. Some townsfolk were claiming it was a government experiment, something about chem trails or sonic signals or other such craziness. Others were whispering about some sort of creature deep in the caves at the heart of the woodland, something big enough to terrify wolves and bears alike. You could see the mountain anxiety, on the faces of neighbors as they passed by. Worst of all were the swine.

There were around three different family farms, aside from Travis's, that bred hogs for slaughter. After the third day, I started driving out to make sure the things didn't starve to death, feeding his livestock while holding on to hope that my friend would come stomping out of the woods hauling a fresh tail over his shoulder, old retriever at his side.

The pigs were squealing up, at the top of their lungs when I got out of my truck once again. I pulled the bag of feet I had brought with me out of the hatchback, but almost dropped it at the sound. In case he ain't ever been around them, pigs can make a large variety of different types of noises. But the fear in their voices, I swear it was almost human.

It was twinged with anger and pain that shot through me like a bullet. I shook it off and poured out the food into the trough. Not a single one of them went for it, and for a pig that's a damn near apocalyptic sign. Instead, they all just kept squealing and staring at the tree line. They all stared in the same direction, eyes fixed with a sharp focus that unsettled me even further.

I sighed, wrote out a night. another quick note to Travis in case he got back, and headed back home. That night, I managed to get a little sleep between the fitful sounds of the forest. I dreamt of large shadows lumbering around through the trees. They shifted and changed form, becoming monsters I hadn't been afraid of since I was a little boy. I wasn't the only one either. Most people were walking around slower, deep purple bags underneath. their eyes. Dayses shifted back and forth at usatory glances were starting to seem like the

standard. But still, nobody had a clue what the hell was upsetting the creatures so much. A few lawmen and local possemen had assembled to investigate and all came back empty. Apparently they had spotted the wolves, but the critters had run from them on site. The one and only consistent piece of information was that all of them seemed to be running in the same direction. I may not be the smartest, but I had enough sense about me to figure out that it was the same direction the pigs were staring at. After the fifth or so night, I got so fed up. I grabbed my shotgun, loaded it up with sheds, loaded it up with sheds, shells a butt shot, and took my biggest flashlight with me as I ventured into the forest myself.

I knew the woods, like the back of my hand, even at night, so I stamped right on in, deciding then and there I had to know. What I found? Well, that was something far worse than any of the imagined monsters we had all made up. I had left Hutch in his doghouse after checking up on him earlier. I had made a mental note of the direction he was pointed at while he whimpered miserably, and I had walked straight on through the underbrush and thickets. Never once did I stray from the path until about an hour or so. I came upon a horrible sight. It was Travis's dog, Starstey. The poor thing was laying on the leaves in a puddle of his own blood, his hind-pawed mangled. His fur was completely covered in mud, and he was stiff as a bored and cold to the touch.

A blood-stained bear trap was still clasped to his leg, looked like he had struggled desperately, but failed to escape before bleeding out. I nearly cried right there, but pressed on when yet another howling arose like a choir from hell itself. It was another two hours' height before I arrived at a sharp and sudden incline. I bent down, and noticed tracks sliding down through the slick mud, leading into a cavernous opening in the forest floor. Looks like something had fallen into an old mine shaft or bunker from an era long forgotten. I braced myself for what I might find down there.

My imagination went wild, but I swear it was an irritation, not bravery that pushed me to descend. I just couldn't go another night without sleeping soundly. So I got on my back side and slowly slid my way down into the darkness. The incline led to an old cavern deep down beneath the earth. I shined my flashlight to the left and right and shouted out loud as I discovered the source of the great howling that had played our little burb.

They were all there. There must have been around five dozen wolves all gathered together. They snarled and growled as they spotted me. I froze raising my shotgun up and swinging it in a semi-circle. There were too many. I knew there was no way I was making it out of there alive. Suddenly, they all turned and let out another howl as their attention shifted up towards a high ridge below a round opening. The full moon glared through and fell upon a great hulking beast, lights of which I had only seen in my nightmares.

It stood on two legs, covered in coarse, blood-soaked fur, and was wearing the tattered remains, of a camouflage hunter's outfit. As it locked its eyes upon me, I saw the eyes I had known since I was a little boy. I found Travis, or I suppose what had been Travis at one time. He let out a monstrous roar before leaping down and landing on me,

pinning me to the ground. After that, everything went dark. Somehow I woke up outside of the cave, back in the old, familiar woods. The howling stopped after that night, but it comes back around these parts for a few days every month. Now, no need to look so stared and serious. It's still daylight, after all. Oh, wait. Looks like the sun's gone and started to set.

Well, you did say you wanted to hear a tale of the supernatural, so just sit tight and give me a few minutes. My good friend is on his way over as we speak. We would absolutely love to have you for supper. Call it country hospitality. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit. your own story for consideration. Please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube.

All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.