Creepy - The Memories Come Back Darker

Episode Date: February 16, 2025

The Memories Come Back Darker *** Written by: EM Otero *** No Child Left Behind *** Written by: D.H. Parish and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt *** Setae *** Written by: N.V. Norris and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight *** Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod *** Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah *** Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See https://pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Which, listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, a hunter's memories shift darkly after his father's death, unraveling a chilling truth.

Some prey hunts back. Creepy presents. The memories come back darker. Written by I.M. Otero. I find myself in the same spot as that hunt for many years ago. I'm carrying a much more advanced bow, but the same 357 magnum that my dad had passed down to me. The small tree with arrow on it has grown so much, and honestly, I'm surprised it survived. I recall that hunt now standing in the same spot we did all those years ago.

Instead of the familiar warm feeling of nostalgia, I find myself dipped in icy dread. Lately, since the death of my father, when I recall, memories that have sat in the ether of the forgotten for so long, they come back strange. I don't mean an implanted memory, or it's something your family has talked about so much you feel like you kind of remember it, or even a suggested memory by someone trying to retrieve buried trauma. I'm talking about things that were innocuous, or even pleasant every other time I recall them. Now it comes back darker. It's happening now with that bow hunt with my father at this very place.

My father was a great guy despite his faults, of course, but what man is perfect. This brief hunting trip's always been memorable, and I think about it often. It was the first time he really talked to me about his life and the things. that happened to him. I was probably about seven, and when we got to the land we were going to hunt at, I asked him about his service in Vietnam. Like most veterans of that war,

he never liked to talk about it. He saw a lot of things he wasn't proud of, and threw out all the medals he had earned. I didn't know he was a vet until I saw a photo of his unit in storage. I was young and that was the coolest thing in the world. But he always shut down the questions. Until that day. I was trying to be sly and not open up like I did before by asking him if you killed anyone or if you ever shot a bazooka.

Instead, I asked him about his medals. He told me about one of his bronze stars as we walked into the woods. He said he rescued another unit and gave him back up when no one else would. Their vehicle had been disabled and he gave cover fire until the enemy broke contact. Then another time during a sweep operation, he engaged in a 14-hour gunfight when another unit was pinned down. He was proud that everyone ended up getting out alive. This was amazing because it was the first time he had ever told his war stories to me. He continued unprompted as we walked through the woods.

Every so often, he'd stopped to inspect something, but he kept talking. He told me about different battles and how he missed the moon landing. I asked him if he enjoyed it, and it was the most conflicted look he had given me the entire time. What followed stuck with me. My father said that when he was over there, he was a different person. He shut off the part of his mind that thought of home, that was gentle and passive, that he became something he never wanted to be again.

That's when he told me part of why he loved hunting so much. It had a purpose and meaning. It was also a challenge that he welcomed. He pointed out to me different dear signs, such as rubs on the trees where they scrape the felt from their antlers and ways to spot game trails. It was a completely different side of the man I was used to seeing. He was usually goofy, quick to laugh and make jokes. This was serious, contemplative, and calm.

This is where the memory gets odd, and it feels surreal, like two memories overlapping each other, each fighting for which is correct. like a VHS video that's been recorded over. I clearly remember him kneeling and showing me a scraping at the edge of a clearing where a buck marked his scent. I also just as clearly remember him kneeling down at a similar scraping and him muttering about it being strange. I had asked him in this darker memory why it was strange,

and he said that the deer print was bigger than anything he'd ever seen. He looked concerned, though. Not like a man who'd seen a prize buck, more like a man who had seen the mark of a beast. In this darker memory, we kept walking, and he kept stopping to look at different markings. He kept mumbling about the prints looking familiar. And when I asked, I got that icy wall I was used to getting when I asked about the war. He had unclipped part of the pistol holster. That made me nervous.

I asked him how much further and he said it wasn't far, but I felt like we should turn back. While walking, I tried to use my newfound skill of whistling to distract myself when my father turned and placed a hand over my mouth. Then said, you never whistle in the woods. You don't know what's listening or what will answer. His face was hard as stone. I followed him in solemn silence after. He'd never talked to me like that before, and his eyes, they were not like him. There was no joy or fun.

There wasn't even a collected calm I'd seen in him explaining hunting. This was something else entirely. Like his aforementioned switch had been turned off. After getting to a large pine, where he'd set up a couple of. a couple of buckets and gear hung in the tree. We sat. He knocked an arrow and waited. He told me that this was the best and worst part of a hunt.

The anticipation of wondering if all the work, walking, scouting, and time were going to be wasted or not. I lean against the same tree now. The hooks he'd used to hang items on the trees were still there, only far more rusted now. Still, as I recall that hunt, the darker history is coming to the forefront. This was where I'd asked him what was the hardest part of Vietnam. The other memory, the one I thought was real until the taping over of it, he had said coming home. My father said that turning that switch of humanity back on was hard, and it wasn't an instant

click, it was gradual. He told me about riding motorcycles and getting into reckless accidents. Or the time he went skydiving, this parachute failed. Then the emergency parachute failed. He had plummeted and hit the ground only to crack a vertebra. Then he told me about what I thought was one of the most amazing stories I had ever heard. He was walking in line in Vietnam, and it was his turn to be at the back. They were walking through Dent's forest and he heard someone call out his name from behind. He turned, and at the moment he was turned back to see who called him, another from that line stepped on a mine.

It would have killed my father, but the shrapnel hit backpack helmet and back of his legs rather than his chest. He survived because someone called his name. But there was no one there. That story stuck with me for me for his name. years and years after that. It was one of my favorite to tell. But what I'm recalling now while sitting in that same spot is very different. Instead of telling me about a fateful turn that saved his life, told me about an atrocity he had committed. They'd set up a friendly village and were hanging out with the locals. He had said it was far from the front line,

so they didn't worry about much of anything and were pretty laid back. He really got to know the people there and was quite attached to him. Then one of them, a young girl, turned up, torn apart. They thought it was a tiger at first, but her entrails were strewn all over the trees and shrubs surrounding the area. My father was close to her parents and was heartbroken. They all mourned together and the night watches were a little more vigilant. Night after night it kept happening. Something was coming into the town and snatching the villages from their homes and tearing them apart in this dark memory. My father's face retelling this story. I could see that it weighed on him, and the horror he experienced was still with him.

He told me that the kills were more like something that Jack the Ripper did. It wasn't like an animal was eating them. Their organs were hung from branches, and the blood sprayed on the trees looked deliberate. like something was out there finding joy in all this carnage, and it terrified him and his men. Then one night while he was on patrol, he saw something lurking through the village, silent as a cat but large as a tiger. He took his rifle and followed the beast, hoping to be revenge for all the helpless villagers that slaughtered.

Only he lost it in the dark, and when he searched for tracks, he found tracks, but They were strange and shapeless. Still, he searched and heard a soft thud from a hut, and when he approached, the creature was on the ground, pulling a villager away. The woman it had in its teeth was wide awake, her eyes darting back and forth in her head with fear, paralyzed from either fear or some kind of venom.

My father said he took his time with the shot, letting air from his lungs slowly, he needs the trigger. The rifle kicked, and the creature dropped the woman only to charge him. Twenty-five bullets, and he was certain at least fifteen were direct hits before it turned away and fled into the woods. The woman only had superficial wounds, but was paralyzed. My father was silent for a long time at that, and I remember looking away from him. his tangible fear and dread at telling the story was affecting me. I also remember thinking that this felt too scary to be real,

and definitely something my father shouldn't be telling me. After a tense quiet, he continued unprompted and said that they followed the track of black putrid blood, but it disappeared in the woods. The next morning, one of his men's heads had been left on their armored personnel carrier. It was the man who was supposed to be keeping watch. He said he knew the creature was going to be targeting them now. And what was worse, was that the following day the girl he had saved attacked her parents, nearly killing both before being restrained.

When he saw her next after a feral attack, the other villagers tied her to a tree, and she snapped her teeth at him like an animal. Everyone was terrified, saying she was possessed. My father said he didn't really believe in such things until her parents attacked their neighbors in the middle of the night. The next day half the village had gone mad, attacking each other like animals. My father's platoon had to defend themselves.

This led to another haunted expression from my father. And at this point, This version of the memory felt more real, more lived, and the other was drifting away. He told me that the original creature showed back up and gleefully joined the killing. His men were being torn apart, pulled from their positions, and shredded like they were being eaten by a pack of animals. He had to call in an apalm strike, and I could see in his eyes the expression of of horror that the memory brought back. Consigning the village to its fiery fate was the single most dreadful thing he ever had

to do. He had cried, watching it burn. After the napalm finished turning the village in the surrounding forest into nothing but cinders, he and his remaining men walked through the ashes. There were no survivors that he could see, and even though it was horrible, he had hoped they killed that creature. My father and his remaining crew left, but the first night away, he found out that he was wrong. Something was still out there.

It took his men in the night, one after another. There were gunshots and screams, but no one ever saw anything. Two men at night for almost a week, and then someone came out of the woods. The way he said it, I knew it wasn't good. good. I got goosebumps at the memory, and at this moment, remembering my father telling me this horrible story, my heart ached at how much I missed him. I wonder if you'd be proud of who I grew up to be, if you'd be happy with my choices. I missed the hikes, road trips, and random lunches we had together. Then I heard something crunching through the dry leaves in the distance. I strained my

eyes to see, but the woods were too thick. I figured I should let it come to me. My father said the man that came out of the woods was one of his men he thought it died, Ryan, and he was relieved to see him. So was everyone else. And they were shocked too. Ryan said he'd been following him for days trying to catch up, but he wasn't injured, dehydrated, or anything. His clothes were torn and bloody, but there wasn't a mark on him. Now wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, my father let it slide, but something didn't sit well with him. He was an observant man and said that Ryan's eye collar didn't look right. It was a little too green. Not only that, the way he walked was all wrong. Too quiet and soft-footed, where normally he stomped everywhere he went. He pushed those

doubts aside, but that changed when later that day my father said he asked Ryan about his family back home. His wife and kids and this man went on about how wonderful they were. Only Ryan didn't have a wife. This got another heavy sigh for my father before he said he shot him. and it was the hardest decision he ever made, but also the easiest. He knew Ryan was gone, and whatever this thing was, it wasn't the man he served with. It only looked like him, and he couldn't rationalize that in his head easily. And when he pulled the trigger, Ryan moved at the last second. The bullet raised his skull, and he turned with animal rage in his eyes.

then my dad opened up on him Ryan changed into something animalistic and tore through the ranks like paper as he transformed The remaining men emptied their clips trying to stop it But the creature was quick and tore apart the men before they could reload Except that last man had pounced on Right in front of my father He said his name was Kurt

And he'd never forget him and his sacrifice When that creature landed on him He had pulled all the pins from his grenades The thump and shrapnel torn both apart When the dust settled My father said he had shrapnel in his legs But the thing was gone That's how he got his purple heart

Things were quiet again for a long time And I asked him if you ever saw Ryan or the creature again He didn't answer And when I asked again and he shushed me. I looked where he was staring and saw something through the woods. It moved quietly,

and its chestnut brown fur was enough of camouflage that I could barely keep my eyes on it. As it came closer, I could see it was a large buck with a good-sized eight-point rack. I got excited. This was the moment I was waiting for since my father woke me up this morning.

Only, as it got closer, it looked different. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but now I'd simply call it off. It lumbered lazily towards us, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact we were there waiting. Only its eyes kept passing over our location.

It sniffed the air and moved closer and closer after each sniff. The wind was in our favor, and it had gotten close that, even a young me could hit it with a ball. I admired the majestic animal. But the longer I stared, the more I noticed something strange about it. Its eyes looked too smart, and it almost swaggered as it walked.

I saw my father slowly draw his bow from the corner of my eye. The buck turned and looked directly into my eyes, and I felt my blood turned to ice. I wasn't looking into the soft brown continents of a prey animal. I was looking into the hardened stare of a predator. Then my father released the arrow with one of those wrist releases, and it made no sound until I heard it make contact. It was a loud thwack, and I saw the deer's eyes shift from concentration to pain and fear.

I took off running, and I watched it flee into the woods, flashing its white tail at us. Then I heard him curse, and I turned back to the spot where he shot it and saw the bright green knock of the arrow floating in the air. We walked closer and saw that he'd struck a sapling, no thicker than my little wrist. The arrow had passed through the sapling enough to strike the deer, though. The broadhead and two inches were dripping with blood so dark

and almost looked black. He said we had to track it. With an injury like that, it might end up dying, and that it would be merciful to put it out of its misery. So we tracked this thing, following the trail of black drips for what seemed like miles. I felt dread growing in my stomach as we moved. All I could think about was the buck's predatory eyes. I really hoped we wouldn't find it. And we didn't.

Instead, we found a man curled up in the fetal position at the base of a tree. He was completely naked and was bleeding from a wound on his side. My father instantly shifted gears and began to work to patch him up. When he was done, he carried him towards a road. For a few moments I felt in awe of my father, seeing him act completely out of character from how I knew him. It gave me a newfound respect, but as I followed, I noticed something. The man that my father was currently carrying opened his eyes and made eye-concound respect.

eye contact with me. He smiled and I recognized the predatory nature, similar to the buck's eyes. My dark memory of that day ends there, but I feel the oppressive drag creeping in as I sit in that same spot. The arrow is still in the tree, but my father took the broadhead out for both safety and to keep the head. I tried to recall the old memory, the pleasant one. one. But all I can recall is me telling the story, not the memory itself. I don't understand what's happening. Why my brain is rewriting my past. Is this some kind of recovered memory? A false memory? I don't know. But the sound of a twig breaking breaks me from the trance. I knock my arrow, just like my father had before. Only this bow is better.

more powerful, and I had the drawback strength at 70 pounds, completely unnecessary. But it makes the arrow travel quicker and farther. Only this time it seems like it's going to be a repeat of that dark memory. The shape is coming through the trees, masked by shadows, but I can see its head hanging heavy with a large rack of antlers. I feel my palms sweat, but I know the few. feeling and I'm familiar with buck fever and antsy fingers. I draw and hold it, something that would be impossible with a non-compound bow. Tracking the form as it gets closer and I slowly

realize that it isn't a deer. It has deer-like features, but it's not the same. It has broad gorilla-like shoulders and has powerful back legs, but they're thicker and shaped differently. The head is massive, its antlers a basket of sharp and broken tines. I'm thankful for the heavy poundage of my bow as I watch it come closer. My arrow is going to devastate this monster. It passes behind a massive oak tree that has a trunk thicker than my truck is wide. I take a deep breath and start slowly pulling the trigger on the release, anticipating the emergence of the buck on the other side of the tree.

Only the muscular animal with a basket of antlers doesn't emerge. Instead, I see the cloud, like white hair. My breath catches and my hands shake as he walks fully out from behind the tree and from my memory. As I watch my father, or rather the mirage of my father, Because that's the only thing it can be, turn to face me, somehow knowing I'm there. He walks towards me, his familiar warm smile lighting up his face, except for the eyes. My hands shake and my eyes filled with tears.

The arrow rattles against the ball. But I can't think of a damn thing to stop this. His eyes are hard as he walks over from the tree. and I feel my trigger fingers reluctance. I wrap my finger around the release and start to pull back on the switch to shoot the arrow. I remember why I'm here what set these dark memories in motion. It was several years ago. The day my father died.

He was home after a bout of illness but was on his way to recovery. I thought for weeks he was going to die in the hospital and I was relieved. He was okay. My stepmother had run to town to grab something and it was just the two of us in the house. It was amazing. Like a weight lifted off my shoulders. We watched a movie together like we used to, and when my stepmother came home, she asked him to help her find something in their closet. Which I thought was strange since she was the organized one.

A little while later, I heard glass shatter, and I jumped up from the couch and ran towards the back room. I found him collapsed on the ground, blood soaking into the carpet. The bedroom window was smashed and I could see that my stepmother's vehicle wasn't in the driveway. I grabbed the pistol from his nightstand, loaded the magazine, and ran to the back door. When I looked outside, I saw a massive buck standing in the yard. The heat of its predatory gaze on me triggered something inside me. I raised the pistol and started shooting. It ran off into the woods, but I knew I hit it from the blood in the snow.

I also knew it wasn't enough to suggest it was dead. I called the cops and they assumed he got dizzy, fell, hit his head, and shattered the window on the way down. I didn't mention that my stepmother came home and disappeared and also didn't mention me shooting at a massive stag in the snow outside. After that, I remembered things. darker things not just that first hunt but others as well it had killed my father after many years of trying and now it was coming from me

taking a deep breath my hand steadied and the thing that looked like my father took a step closer it didn't make a noise didn't say my name only smiled I knew it would follow me and would want to get even. I counted on it, but I can't seem to make my hand work.

It's like I'm caught to Medusa's gaze. I know it isn't my father. It can't be. And I keep telling myself that over and over. It's not him. It's not him. I saw the body. You know what this creature is.

It takes another step. And this time a branch snapped softly under its foot. And for whatever reason, that sound is enough to snap me out of it, and I release the arrow. The broadhead is one that's designed for killing bears, with a hybrid fixed blade and mechanical. I hear its strike and hit a tree behind the creature. Black blood pours from its chest and the facsimile of my father's face changes to something monstrous and grotesque. I dropped the bow and pull my bow and pull my head. pistol and start shooting. I know for sure I hit it twice before it turns to run in the

approximate form of a deer. I follow running as fast as I can, tracking the arterial spray of the creature. It's easy to track with how much blood it's losing. The blood is easy to spot too because it quivers and moves as I approach it. It almost seems excited by my presence. After a while, I follow the trail for what feels like miles out of the woods and find myself in someone's yard, and I see the body of a person collapse near the road. I run towards the shape on the ground, hoping the creature hasn't claimed another victim. When I get to the person on the ground, they see me and start screaming. I can tell from the wounds that this isn't a victim with a monster.

Its wound is where I struck the monster with the arrow. Now it's trying to warm its way out of death. I raise my father's pistol and smile at the fake man, ready to end its life. Life usually isn't as poetic. Killing the beast that killed my father with his own gun? In the same plot of land, I first saw this monstrosity. It's almost like it's destiny.

Divine to happen by whatever God is above. When bright red and blue lights come aglow and a whoop of a siren. They shout for me to drop the gun. And as much as I want to kill the disguised creature in front of me, I follow their orders. I try to talk to them, but nothing works.

And I watch as they carry that thing on a stretcher into the ambulance. As I'm getting cuffed, I stare at the monster in human form and it smiles at me. Meeting my gaze from the stretcher. I can't mistake those predator. eyes, the unflinching, uncaring, black holes. Then it moaths the words, I'll see you soon. For a second story this evening, as a daycare owner discovers chilling secrets surrounding a boy's mysterious disappearance, miraculous survival, and the eerie tragedies that follow,

her home becomes a sight of sinister revelations she may not survive. Creeplea. Creeper presents, no child left behind, written by D.H. Parrish and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. I'd never been more worried than the ten minutes after I got that phone call from Allison Morgan. By way of background, I'm a childhood education specialist by training, what used to simply be called a teacher. I taught first grade at the local public elementary school for more than a decade, until I didn't. I loved the children. But after years of ever-increasing administrative burdens

and a series of lousy principals who never had our backs, it wasn't worth the hassle. And I quit. Unlike most of my colleagues, I had options. I owned a large Victorian house in the suburbs. It was much too big for just me. Of course, it wasn't intended just for me.

John and I had had plans for lots of kids that were never meant to be. John died in a freak boating accident when a storm came out of nowhere and a wave washed him overboard. At least that's what the two guys with him on the boat said. Neither saw him fall out, and his body was never recovered. John's death devastated me emotionally. Financially, it kind of helped. His life insurance paid off the mortgage and left me with a large settlement.

I initially planned to sell the house, but after I had to have a house, but after I had to had it on the market for a few months. I realized I didn't want to part with it. A psychiatrist might speculate that I was engaging in magical thinking, that since John had never been physically laid to rest, so long as I keep his house, I thought he might one day come home to it. Come back from the dead. Truth be told, that psychiatrist wouldn't be completely wrong. So not too long after John died. I quit teaching at the school and converted the ground floor and basement of the home into a child care center and made the yard a fenced-in play area. While I kept the upstairs space as my private residence. Daycare spots are at a premium in the neighborhood, and my needs are now few.

So I get by quite nicely with this business. We mostly have kids ages four to six. Some are there for the whole day. Others just come after school until their parents can get them. The call came on the Monday of Memorial Day weekend. It was a brilliant spring evening. The kind when everything seemed right in the world. The promise of summer still unspoiled.

I was walking home alone from a barbecue at a friend's house when my phone rang. The caller ID showed Allison Morgan, and recognizing the name, I let it go to voicemail. I figured she was calling to tell me that her son William, she always called him William, although his father and everyone in the daycare called him Billy, was either not going to be in the next day or might be coming in late. I offered differential pricing depending on whether parents want spots for the day,

the week, the month, or the year. Billy was on the day-to-day plan, which was a precious commodity, and for which I charged a premium. After being generous with unexcused absences when I first started, experience taught me to be strict about billing for no-shows so people didn't take advantage. I assumed Allison was calling so she wouldn't have to pay for the next day, so a response could wait. But right after the voicemail notification appeared on my phone, I got a text from her too. Call me now? This is urgent? I called right back. I could hear her crying

when she picked up. She asked what I'd done with William. Confused, I told her I hadn't done anything with her son. She then asked me through angry sobs to tell her who the hell picked up William on Friday. I informed her that I hadn't done the checkout myself that afternoon, that one of my assistants had, so I didn't know. She then demanded I figure the hell out right away who had taken him. Now, I'm pretty calm in these situations. You need to be in the face of overly anxious parents who are apt to blame you for their own failings in raising their child. But I was taken by surprise. And her tone put me on the defensive. I told her to wait on hold while I sorted this out. I wasn't too worried as I went into my house and climbed the stairs to my study to

locate the sign-out lists for the past week. We keep paper records for the children each day, where someone has to physically sign a kid out so there's no mistake who is going home with whom. Kids can only leave with the person or people specifically designated to pick them up that day, unless there's some prior arrangement. Even if it's an emergency, we require verification and don't make exceptions. It's not so much concern about strangers taking kids. The chance of that happening is remarkably slim, although that's what the parents usually assumed when I explain the policy.

Rather, it's for situations where estranged couples or family members might try to steal a child away from one another. Billy's was just such a situation. Allison and her husband Brad were in the midst of a rather messy divorce. I opened my file drawer and pulled out a folder containing the lists. The one I needed from Friday was on top and I scanned it quickly. There was a signature next to Billy's name which looked like the scribble of Brad Morgan in a time of 4.30. I took Allison off hold and told her what I'd found.

Oh, God. Allison yelled in anguish. That's not true. What do you mean he didn't? I asked. His signature's right here. She told me that Brad was supposed to pick up William that afternoon and have him for the long weekend. But when she called Brad this evening to ask when he was returning William because it's getting too late,

Brad said he didn't have him. Brad explained that he'd gotten called away on business on Friday and had sent Allison a message to let her know about the change in plans, except that Allison never saw it. Neither of them had seen their son in three days. My strong suspicion, hearing the story, was that Brad had abducted Billy and was gaslighting her. I tried to gently ask Allison if it were possible that Brad did have him and that he was, well, lying. She said no, that Brad had left town on a flight at 2.30 p.m. on Friday.

And that Brad really had sent her a message, but it somehow went into her spam folder. Despite these explanations, I was still pretty sure that Brad had taken Billy, but had just been clever about planning an alibi. I'd heard about much more elaborate ploys than this. Still, I assured Allison I would get in touch with my assistance to clarify the situation and get back to her right away. I had three women working for me then, Denise, Brittany and Ashley. Brittany and Ashley were local college students going into teaching,

and this job fulfilled some of their mandatory practical hours. Denise was in her 60s, and had been in some form of child care for most of her life. whether taking care of her own or others. She hadn't graduated high school, but she probably knew more about early childhood psychology than most PhDs. At the time in question on Friday,

I'd been meeting with potential new families in my office, so I hadn't seen or heard anything myself. I called Ashley first. She answered right away with an overly friendly greeting that suggested she had a few for the holiday. I asked if she remembered seeing Billy off on Friday. There was a pregnant pause. She then said in a tone now more sober that she thought so.

I asked her what she meant by, I think so. Because it was such a nice day, Ashley explained, they'd let the kids play in the front yard of the house while awaiting their rides. After most of them left in dribs and drabs, the final pickups all came at once as several cars pulled up one right after the other. The remaining kids. excited by this, all dashed off to greet their parents, opening the front gate to get out. The parents were also anxious to speed off and avoid the combination of rush hour and holiday traffic.

Ashley went to each car to get signatures, but one seemed to have just driven off. She was pretty sure it had been Billy's dad's car, as Billy's was the last name remaining. She said she was going to tell me about this, but Brittany had told her not to bother me. that rather than stir up trouble, they could just write in Brad's signatures so everyone could leave for the weekend. Okay, I thought. This is not good. But at least it confirmed my suspicions about Brad. I called Brittany next.

She didn't answer. I texted her that I had just spoken with Ashley about the Friday sign-out and needed to talk to her ASAP. Brittany promptly called back asking what Ashley had told me. I relayed the story I had just heard. Brittany called Ashley a rat and a bitch before saying that yes, she forged Brad's signature. But only because Ashley had been on her phone with her boyfriend rather than watching the kids,

and that Ashley had absolutely assured her that Billy had left with Brad. I thanked Brittany and hung up. Besides dealing with the Morgans and whatever custody games they were playing with each other, over their poor child, I was now going to have to fire two women who'd otherwise been pretty reliable. I called Denise next. Denise said that Billy had been the last kid left inside at the end of the day.

He hadn't wanted to go outside to play, so she'd been playing hide-and-seek with him in the basement playroom. Billy had hidden in the large toy closet. Since the kids liked to think, when they went in there, they'd fooled everyone and discovered the perfect hiding place, she didn't find Billy right away, using the time she was searching to straighten a place. the room. While Denise was pretending to be befuddled, she'd gotten a text from her own daughter

asking her to come watch her grandson. Denise, who was already late leaving and into overtime, called her daughter to let her know she would be there soon. Denise then went outside to let Ashley know Billy was downstairs and to go find him. Ashley had acknowledged this and Denise departed for the day. Wait, I asked. So you left Billy in the closet? He never left the room? He must have. He must the left, just not when I was there. Denise replied. I thanked her and hung up. That was the moment my heart began to sink.

I called Ashley again as I made my way downstairs to the first floor. Did Ashley remember speaking with Denise before she left? Ashley recalled Denise saying that she was leaving but nothing else. Had she and Brittany seen anything in the basement afterward? She said that they had gone in, but it looked like Denise had cleaned up, so they just locked up. Was there something else they were supposed to do or check before leaving? Ashley asked. I hung up on Ashley when I reached the door that separated above from below.

I unlocked it and pushed it open into the darkened entryway. I turned on the lights and called out for Billy several times. There was no response. I ran all around the main floor checking to see if he might be there. I was so hoping to find some trace of him, that he'd escaped and gotten himself into the kitchen area. that this might be a low-key remake of Home Alone, about which we'd all laugh later,

having learned the true meaning of the holiday. But there was no sign of any disturbance. None. I then made my way to the door that opened to the basement stairs. I turned on the lights and yelled out Billy's name repeatedly as I descended. The playroom looked undisturbed. My heart beat fast. My mind raised faster.

Was he somehow still in the closet? Couldn't he have opened it and gotten out? How long can a five-year-old live without food, without water? What would I find? Dear God, I prayed, please let him be okay. Billy? I yelled. I placed my hand on the closet doorknob, but then hesitated to open it.

So long as it was closed, good news was possible. he could be fine. Once I opened it, however, I turned the knob and pushed, the light from the playroom following the path of the door and illuminating the large dark closet. I thought I felt something crawl over my right foot, and I gave a yelp and jumped,

but I didn't see anything. I then scanned the closet. Next to the orderly bins of stuffed animals, construction blocks, and games was Billy. He was lying on the floor. His head resting on his left arm. His eyes closed. His body motionless.

Billy! I called out. He didn't respond. Was he breathing? I couldn't tell. I knelt down next to him and slowly reached out my right hand to touch his cheek. It was cold. I gasped as I recoiled from the uncanny sensation.

But after a few, seconds. Billy's eyes blinked open, and he turned his head to look at me. He was alive. Oh, Billy. Oh, Billy, I was so worried. Are you okay? I asked. My eyes filled with tears as I pulled him up to me and gave him a great big hug. Of course I'm okay, Miss Winter. I was just playing a game, and I won. He said, his voice remarkably calm as he returned the hug. It's time for me to leave, isn't it? I released Billy from my tight embrace and looked at him. He didn't look like a kid who'd been trapped in a closet without food and water for three days.

Billy, it is time for you to leave. But you must be hungry and thirsty. Let's go upstairs and get you something. Billy and I walked up the stairs to the kitchen. I held his hand tightly the whole time, afraid that if I let go, he might somehow disappear. I only released my grip. when I had to open the refrigerator to get him a milkbox.

I sat Billy in a chair in the kitchen while he sipped his milk, and slowly chomped his way through a packet of Oreos, as if this were just snack time, as if nothing had happened. He didn't look dehydrated or sick. I called Allison to let her know that Billy was here with me, and that he was safe and appeared well, and that she could come get him right away.

I didn't say more on the phone. I figured I'd have a lot of explaining to do when she arrived. I tried to get Billy to tell me what he'd been doing for the past three days to figure out how he survived, or even how he'd gone to the bathroom, as his pants were still dry. But in reply to every question, he would just pause, finish eating or drinking, cock his head a bit to the side and say, I'm okay. I won the game. Now I can leave. My investigation was abruptly terminated about ten minutes later by a loud banging on the front door.

I helped Billy out of the chair and we walked hand in hand to the front door. I opened it to see Allison who yelled, William, bent down and picked up the boy, held him close, and kissed him all over his head perhaps a dozen times. I started to blurt out an apology, to say how sorry I was, to explain the unfortunate series of missteps that led to the current situation. I said I understood if Billy weren't coming back, but that I would offer him free daycare for the rest of the summer. Still holding Billy in her arms, Allison cut me off and told me that of course she would never trust me or my daycare again, and that the next I would hear from her would be from her lawyer.

As she walked away toward her car, Billy waved at me over her shoulder. After Allison left, I called Ashley and Brittany to give them the opportunity to quit, letting them know that if they want me to fire them, I would let their schools know what happened. They both took me up on the offer. I kept Denise on, but I revamped the sign-out procedure. I also changed the doorknob on the basement closet to a lever easily opened from the inside

and disabled the lock. I never heard from Allison's lawyer. About two weeks after Memorial Day, apparently while Billy was staying with Brad for the weekend, there was an electrical fire at Brad's apartment. Brad suffered burns over 90% of his body and. died from the complications a few days later. Billy, remarkably, was unharmed. Tragedy struck again, however, at Brad's funeral. It was a rainy day. Billy and Allison were standing next to the open grave, and Allison was preparing to help Billy place some dirt on Brad's

coffin for closure when she lost her footing and fell heels up into the grave. According to the news story, it was uncertain if Allison died when she smacked her head into the casket, or when the shovel she'd been using flew upward, then fell blade down into her neck, severing her carotid artery. Billy was unhurt. I found out from some other parents that he was eventually sent to live with his grandmother who lived out of state. As a consequence, the story of the weekend never got out. I continued to run the daycare for another 10 years. Every now and then I would have nightmares about what happened and wake up panic that there was a child forgotten. Each time I would go down to the first floor and basement to look around, and each time

there'd be nothing. I finally decided to retire from this phase of my life, shut down the daycare, sell the house, and downsize. To get the house ready for market, I was cleaning out the basement closet, taking out all the bins of toys and games so they could be given away. While doing this, I noticed a bulge under the carpet at the back of the closet. On closer inspection, the carpet around the bulge was not tacked to the floor. It seemed as if someone had ripped it up and then shoved something underneath it. I pulled the carpet back, expecting to find some child's hidden stash of toys. What I saw made the blood drain from my face.

There, in a disturbingly neat pile. with a stacked skull and bones of a young child. There were still traces of sinew attached as well, as what looked like bite marks on many. I backed out of the closet in horror, ready to run from the house. Before I could even get out of the basement, however, my phone rang.

The caller ID showed it was Allison, or at least her old number. I stared at the phone. answering it after about 10 seconds. The child's voice spoke. Mrs. Winter, you found me. Now it's your turn to hide. And when I find you, I'll win.

For our final story this evening, after eating a worm as a child, a man is plagued by horrific dreams and a new understanding that transcends all he knows to be true. Creepy Presents C.T. Written by N.V. Norris. And narrated by Nicole Goodnight.

When I was young, my friends dared me to eat a worm. I know, I know, typical schoolyard dare. We were young and dumb. I'm surprised none of us ended up with some brain-eating parasite from some of the stuff we ate. On the plus side, we did max out our immune systems. That worm was the worst. A massive rainstorm had just.

blown through town, and the playground next to the library had transformed. I remember how it felt for our socks to soak through with mud in that horrible squelching of the rubber mulch under the play equipment beneath our feet. The sidewalks were flooded with puddles that could flood our shoes. We pretended to be explorers looking for lost civilizations in the rainforest. At some point, we noticed them. As always, with rain, the worms came. Lots of worms.

The sidewalks are on the playhouse. square were covered in squirming earthworm bodies, big ones, small ones that were fat, skinny, pink or sickly gray. They hauled themselves along the concrete laboriously, their heads wriggling every which way in search of whatever they'd come to the surface to find. Within the puddles, many worm bodies sat bloated and floundering. It was one of these waterlogged worms that my friends selected to be my feast. Honestly, the idea of eating a worm didn't faze me. It wasn't my first bug-eating rodeo. I had even been the only one brave enough to touch a giant wolf spider the week previous.

I wasn't squeamish. But that worm. As expected, it was cold and slimy in my fingers. Its waterlogged body felt wrong. Too soft, too heavy. When it squirmed weakly in my grip, I felt the rough bristles on its side catch on my skin. They hooked at the grooves on my fingerprints, trying their best to tug their body free. It all made me shudder.

Even if I hated it, I couldn't. I didn't give up. The others were cheering, egging me on like any good friends would. If I had chickened out, they'd have never stopped calling me a wuss. I had to go through with it. So I did. I can't describe what it felt like swallowing that thing. I almost puked. Almost. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't be in the situation I am today. You see, ever since I ate that worm, things have been... different. This will sound stupid, but I've become a worm magnet. I'm not kidding. If it rains and I happen to go outside, all worms I pass inch my way. They'll pause, their blind little heads wavering in the air as if searching for something. Then they'll start on their pursuit.

If I stand still long enough, my feet will quickly be surrounded by dozens of writhing bodies. If my footwear allows it, they'll climb up into my shoes to press against my bare skin. There's nothing like having to pause a conversation with your crush to pull a six-inch nightcrawler from your sandal. Over the years, this has led me to developing a bit of a phobia of the rain. My stomach tightens at even the mention of it. It takes everything in me to step out into it. There are only so many sidewalk worms a guy can take, you know? The worst part is, this phenomenon is not limited to just earthworms.

Have you ever been in an unfinished basement and seen one of those freakishly long, two-headed worm slug things? Some are skinny and white, others are striped in fat. They're called hammerhead worms, apparently. I learned that when dad and I were sealing the basement in about 20 of the bastard swarmed me. The white ones squirt disgusting green slime from their heads if you squish them, by the way. I hate them the most. All of this worm business would be fine and dandy if it ended there. A bit gross and annoying, but that's the norm for worms.

Recently, though, that things have been escaping the rainy days. They're invading my dreams. My dreamscape was pretty normal before. Surreal, but normal. Now it's fucked. I'll be exploring an old castle, taking a test, going on a date, you know? The dream progresses normally enough, dragons, anxiety, hand-holding, the works. Then, worms. Worms are crawling out of the castle's stonework, becoming the stonework. Worms cover my desk, replacing even the pencil I grip tight. They come pouring out of my crushes' mouth as he leans in for a kiss. They're there, and inevitably, they end up on me. The texture of the worms in my dreams is the same as that waterlogged worm from my childhood.

No matter what, the sensation echoes. Their bristles burn as they drag themselves up my flesh, the ice-cold bodies breaching the sanctity of my clothing. Up and up they crawl, clinging tight even as I claw my skin raw. They swarm me, flowing over me like acid until they reach my mouth. and force themselves past my clenched lips, their soft, frigid bodies making me gag. They're rubbery under my molars,

swelling even further in my saliva. I usually wake up just as they begin to invade my throat. Usually. These dreams are horrible. I hate them. Unfortunately, I've begun to doubt the concept of them being figments of lingering dreams. Sometimes, when I'm wide awake, I can feel it.

Not a sliver of drowsiness lurks within me, while those slick, bristled bodies seem to slip beneath my skin. If I look closely, I can see my dermis bulge as the largest of them inch painfully along. They crawl through my fat layer just as they would soil. My rational brain tells me I'm imagining it. It can't be. But I cannot deny the sensations. The cold, soft fullness spreading within my core, the itch beneath my skin straining to be set free.

Maybe I should help them with that. When I was young, my friends dared me to eat a worm. Now, the worms eat me. 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 comments share 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.