Creepy - The Puckheads & Night Watcher 2: Guardian Of The Dead

Episode Date: September 8, 2022

The Puckheads***Written by: RadcliffeMalice and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Content Warning: Child abuse***Night Watcher 2: Guardian Of The Dead***Written By: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warning: discussion of rape, kidnapping, mutilation, stalking***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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 books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The Puckheads. Written by Radcliffe Malice and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. I don't know why I'm bothering to post this story here. But a memory I have from when I was a kid has been eating at me for weeks. I won't waste too much of your time with details of my current life. but I guess a few things wouldn't hurt.

I live in the Midwestern United States, nowhere special. My job is normal, and my life is boring. But my dreams are... Odd, to say the least. It's not just that their subject matter is weird. No. It's that they seem so real. I can feel and hear and smell

and even taste things in ways I should. shouldn't be able to. When I wake up, it's like whiplash, you know, going from such a vivid romance to bland, mundane reality. I've been having these dreams since around 10. But back then they were more narrative? I don't know. They just had a continuity to them. Reoccurring dreams. There were these things, creatures that visited me periodically in my dreams. They were small. and they could fit in the palm of my hand. They had beady eyes and sharp teeth, and their heads were wide and flat like hockey pucks.

I told my mom about them, and she jokingly called them the puckheads. I'd talked to them about my 10-year-old trifles, you know, school bullies, homework, having to go to bed early, normal kid stuff. There was also the abuse. I didn't realize it at the time, what it was.

I don't know if I didn't know it was wrong, or if I was too scared to tell anyone. Mr. Tim was a family friend. He'd lived in a house across the street from us since before I was born. He and my dad hung out most weekends, and when I got old enough to walk, he'd take me along on their activities.

Swimming, fishing, bowling, all that good stuff. Mr. Tim was touchy with my dad, so I thought it was normal for him to be touchy with me too. One day when I was nine, he started actually touching me. I didn't know what to do or how to react. I just laid back and let it happen over and over and over again. Then the dream started, and I had an outlet. My mom wouldn't listen, and she called me rude when I wouldn't hug Mr. Tim goodbye. The puckheads understood. My dad left me alone with Mr. Tim at the pool for too long.

The puckheads let me scream until I could feel my vocal cords tear. I got older, and Mr. Tim got older, and my dreams got more and more vivid. I understood everything and nothing when I turned 14. I understood that what Mr. Tim was doing to me wasn't normal. I understood how much I wanted to hurt him. The puckheads would goad me to describe what I'd do to him in vivid detail. Sometimes, on those rare good nights, my mind would create a perfect image of Mr. Tim. Every gross, oversized pore on his oily skin, every wiry hair on his beard,

the putrid stench of his breath, and the rasp of his voice, I'd tear into him without hesitation every time. The puck heads would screech something awful from the sidelines while I bit and scratched and stabbed and strangled. I always remember the warmth I felt when I was satisfied. Dream Mr. Tim, nothing but a lump of meat at my feet. Then I'd wake up, and the cold would be unbeatable. I came home, exhausted from school one day. I'd had an algebra two test and a mile run for PE that I'd forgotten about.

There was some draft or sports thing on TV and Mr. Tim had come to watch it with my dad. He eyed me when I walked in, and at that moment I knew. I'd had enough. I went to bed, sore from P.E. and from other things. I took three sleeping pills and squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted it so bad to hurt him. but when I opened my eyes again, I was still awake in my room. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I pressed the heels of my hands into them. I sat there for minutes or hours and sobbed until I felt like throwing up. Then a glint in the corner of my eye.

It refracted to the swollen tear that had fallen out of my eye, and I turned my head toward its direction. On the windowsill, they were there. The puckheads, or at least two of them. The light from the street lamp outside reflected off their beady eyes. Their quiet chatter started when I noticed them. I stood and wiped the snot from my nose on my sleeve and crossed the room to the window. I kneeled and cupped my hands together and they hopped off the window cell into them. Their huge mouths spread into displays of their needle-like teeth.

They both turned to look out the window and across the street, Mr. Tim's house. Maybe I was dreaming after all. I set the puckheads on my shoulder and crept out of my room. The stairs creaked under my weight, and I winced until I reached the bottom. One of the puckheads leapt from my shoulder and onto the kitchen counter. It skidded to a stop on the gray granite in front of the knife block and looked at me. The one on my shoulder tugged at my hair, and I swallowed. I reached for one of the black handles,

my pulse throbbing as I curled my fingers around it. I pulled it out and stared at it for a moment. It was clean, spotless, sharp, and beautifully mundane. The puck had jumped on my shirt sleeve and climbed back onto my shoulder. I brought the knife down to my side and headed toward the front door. The night air was perfect in a way that made me want to stand on my front porch forever, just breathing it in. But I didn't.

The puck had snickered and chittered on my shoulders as I crossed the street. The yard was overgrown and filled with weeds, but Mr. Tim was never one for home maintenance or personal hygiene. Every step I took made my heart crawl further up. my throat, and my stomach sink lower to my feet. Stepping up to the stoop, I stood in front of the door, listening to the puckheads chattering on either side of me. I looked at the one on my right, and it was practically foaming at the mouth waiting to see

my next move. It tugged on my hair again, and I reached for the silver door handle. It opened, smooth and quiet, to a dark foyer. I stepped inside and for a moment I considered turning back. It wouldn't be worth the trouble. The police would question me, and they wouldn't believe my reason for doing it. My parents would disown me,

and I'd spend the rest of my teenage years in a detention center. But then, I remembered. I remembered the pain, the shame, and the guilt. I remembered all of the times my parents left me alone with Mr. Tim in his disgusting hands. I remembered staring at the water stain on the far side of my bedroom ceiling, gritting my teeth and waiting for it to be over. I remembered the sound of a belt being undone, and clattering to the hardwood floor of our kitchen.

I don't remember how I made it upstairs and into his room without being heard. but I do remember everything else. I knew I didn't want it to be quick. So I started with this Archilles tendon. His eyes shot open as the blade sliced through his skin and into the muscle, and he scrambled to get up only to fall flat on his face. The puck heads were screeching wildly on my shoulders, jumping down to dance on Mr. Tim's back.

I smiled at them and shooed them out of the way. Distantly, I registered his begging and his apologies. The puckheads had grabbed their own instruments from around his house and began digging into him wherever they could. One gouged his eyes, and the other snapped his toes. I heaved him onto his back and kneeled at his side, examining his chest. It rose and fell sporadically. still alive.

Ribs are hard to cut through, as is the sternum. It only makes sense. The most important parts of our bodies are housed underneath, after all. I remembered from biology that the femur is one of the hardest bones to break, and that actually fracturing it is one of the worst pains a human can experience. Nocicepters in our toes and fingertips are one of the worst. what causes us the most pain when we stub them or slam them indoors.

Our spinal discs have the consistency of a loose jello, and our nerves look like an angel hair spaghetti. Our intestinal track is long enough to cover the length of a tennis court. I was waiting to wake up the whole time, and I was warm all over by the time I was done. The puckheads grinned up at me as I stood up and headed toward the bedroom door. sunlight filtered through the windows on either side of the front door. I remember the puck heads jumping off and not crossing the threshold as I walked outside and back across the street.

They each pushed the door to Mr. Tim's house shut, and I turned to walk back across the street. There was never a missing person's report filed. No cop cars pulled up across the street, no ambulances. Nobody heard from Mr. Tim again. I never saw the puckheads again either. Be presents, Night Watcher 2, Guardian of the Dead, written by known of consequence, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. My name is Lindsay, and I'm the Night Watcher for the Shadow Hills Mortuary. Basically, I'm the night patrol for the cemetery, but I've always liked the way Night Watcher sounds.

It's way better than security guard, especially with. with all the weird shit that goes on in our cemetery at night. When I first started, I only patrolled the grounds on the weekends. One summer started, Miss Langford asked me to come on full time. No school means that dumb-ass teenagers will be up to their late-night shenanigans all week long. With some of the things I've seen, that's a very bad thing. As soon as school let out, graffiti and discarded beer cans have a very bad thing. increased on the grounds. While patrolling, I still carry my pepperball flashlight, but the items on my

belt have increased. Now, I have a small trash bag tied on for cans and various trash I inevitably find, a pouch with rubber gloves to pick up used condoms, and a salt gun. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not carrying a firearm. The salt gun is a plastic pump action toy that is loaded with ordinary table salt, and is used as a non-toxic form of insect killer. Advertised, it claims to be a fun way of killing flies, and more effective than using a fly swatter. It comes in a variety of colors. But since I carry it at night, and the local police don't really like me, I opted for the bright yellow and green. I bet the creators never thought it would be used for paranormal purposes.

It's cliched to say a cemetery is haunted, but stereotypes like that exist for a reason. Miss Langford used to tell me stories about the cemetery I thought were just to scare me, but I've since then discovered they're true. Having a personal encounter with a dead eater and protective spirits kind of open my eyes.

In early June, I came across a girl passed out in one of the few crypts we have on the grounds. She had been partying with some boys, shooting tequila with lime and salt. Those assholes drugged and raped her, then left her behind. When I got there, a ghoul was closing in to kill and eat the poor girl. Salt is a major deterrent for all kinds of undead and spirits. Thankfully, the douchebags left their salt shaker behind, and I used it to scare off the ghoul. Don't worry, I got the girl help, and the police arrested the dicks responsible. The sheriff couldn't protect his son that time, because the fucking idiot left DNA evidence all over the girl.

She was also 16. So those assholes were sent up for a long time. In the last few weeks, things have only gotten stranger, and not just at the cemetery. There isn't much to our small city, nothing that would bring unfamiliar faces around. Yet that's what I've been seeing. I still have a few shifts a week at a bakery close to the mortuary, so I do actually get to interact with people. There are the usual faces that come in and buy their typical goodies.

Occasionally, a local or two that doesn't frequent the shop often, comes in for donuts and cookies. These days, people I've never seen before are coming in and asking for the weirdest crap I've ever heard of. We're in the Midwest, and these oddballs are asking for gluten-free baked goods, vegan cookies and ordinary goods made with avocado? We don't carry that kind of shit because no one around here wants imitation food.

They want good old-fashioned baked goods. I didn't need to see their IDs to figure out they were from California. Their food choices, if you can call it that, wasn't the honest thing about them. They may have looked youthful and in need of some sunlight. But their clothes looked horrible. It makes me think of how hippies are depicted in old TV shows, crinkled and dirty clothes that have been worn for days on end and are in serious need of washing.

However, they don't have the air of drugs and free love about them. Well, the drugs, yes, but there's a hardness to them that I don't understand. They're nice enough to your face, but there's a meanness just below the surface that most people would. couldn't pick up on. And they wear too much black to be hippies. I'm into heavy and death metal music, been to a few concerts. Aside from the drugs, these guys don't belong to that crowd, for sure. I can't figure out what their deal is. I just hope they move on and get the hell out of here. The creepy vibe I keep getting from them won't go away. Since their arrival,

The litter in my cemetery has changed as well. It used to be beer cans of all brands amidst other trash. Now it's red wine bottles, and seriously cheap shit too. The kind of crap a desperate wino would hesitate to drink. Sadly, the used condoms or as plentiful as ever. Kind of makes me want to put that chemical castration stuff in the water supply, but I wouldn't ever actually do that. I could always look into a tranquilizer, dark gun, and fill it with that stuff.

I'd need to look into how it works, but that already sounds like too much work. Seriously, if I acted on half the things that pop into my head, I'd find myself being public enemy number one. I've already developed a reputation with the cosplay community after breaking a nerd's wrist for trying to grab my ass while I was dressed up as mystique. I wish the trash was the only change on my patrols lately, but the damn graffiti is worse than ever. Someone keeps drawing pentagrams and blood on tombstones

and burning symbols into the grass. After the third night in a row, I realized it was always the same symbols. The cops told Miss Langford we aren't the first cemetery to receive this treatment, and that the blood is human. That's disturbing for a number of reasons, the biggest being that the dead tend to react to freshly spilled blood. I haven't seen any specters lately, so I take it as a good sign. With my pepper flashlight fully loaded and my other gear strapped to my belt, I lock up the mortuary to begin my patrol.

Since this summer has gotten so crazy, I've increased my own. my patrols from two to three times a night. The first is an hour after sundown, then at one, and the last is an hour before sunrise. Tonight is the fourth night since the blood and burned symbols appeared, but I always miss the douchebags responsible. I always find the smoldering grass on my second patrol. So tonight, I've altered the plan. Instead of heading out at I'm walking around at 11, and I keep my light off. I've walked the cemetery so many times I can do it in my sleep. And the quarter full moon with no clouds is providing enough light for me to see just fine.

I've crossed over two of the graves that have been vandalized when I hear what sounds like a goat bleeding. A moment later, I hear voices coming from beyond where the third grave sits, slowly approaching. I see candlelight and four people standing around a fifth. The one in the middle is speaking loudest, saying things in a language I'm unfamiliar with, reading from a large book. Every so often, he'll stop speaking,

and the other four respond with a few unfamiliar words. It takes me a few minutes to sneak up to them, and as I do so, a mist moves into the cemetery. This is extremely odd. We don't get mist this time of year. The hairs at the back of my neck are standing up as I enter the mist, and I can tell something bad is happening. Within 20 feet, I turn on my flashlight and blind the group.

They cower behind their hands. The one in the middle hides behind his green book. judging by their clothing, these are the same Californians that I saw at the bakery. I yell to them in my menacing voice. You are desecrating the wrong fucking cemetery, asshole! They don't run off like I expect, and I should have known they wouldn't. These aren't dumb-ass teenagers looking to get drunk and fuck in a cemetery. They're delusional adults trying to perform magic in a haunted cemetery

as the hour approaches midnight. Had I been on better terms with the sheriff's department, they might have sent out a couple of cops to patrol with me, or at least been in the area. I hadn't bothered to ask with their dislike of me, but I also hadn't anticipated there being this many people. I get grabbed from behind as two naked people sneak up behind me. The woman is a thick bitch with an unkempt,

Bush, and the man has a beer gut above his limp dick. I guess I found the couple responsible for the damn condoms I've been having to deal with. They each have one of my arms and force me to my knees. Glancing at the man, I'm nearly eye-level with his puny dick. My voice is practically a growl, as I tell him. If you touch me with that pathetic cock, V.D. won't get the chance to make it fall off. He's shocked by my threat, but firms his grip.

Their leader, the tall one that had been chanting the loudest, approaches me. He tisks at me for interrupting their raising, and promises I'll regret coming here. As he ties my hands behind my back, I ask, What are you fidiots doing here? Yes, I have to explain to him that fidiot means fucking idiot, only proving my point. Like all bad villains in old movies, this douchebag actually tells me what they're up to.

I honestly thought devil-worshipping cults died out in the 80s and early 90s, but that's exactly what they are. They're a part of a demon-worshipping sect based out of California who have dedicated their lives to bringing hell. on earth. The green tome in his hands is one of their religious books, and it tells of a demon that was raised in the mid-1800s. It roamed free, killing anyone that crossed its path as it attempted to rip a hole in the earth, creating a doorway to hell. The story tells of a group of Christians that tracked the demon, and entombed it into the very hole it had dug. With this happening so

long ago. Only the dead know exactly where the demon's prison is. I wouldn't have expected this rag-tag group of dipshits capable of using a computer, let alone be able to research something that long ago. They managed to track down a number of leads, but until last night, none of the spirits they raised were helpful. Originally, I thought there wasn't a pattern to the desecrequent. But had I bothered to check the death dates, I would have realized the graves were historical. They don't need to tell me who they're trying to raise. I recognize the statue over the grave. When I first started as the Night Watcher, Miss Langford told me about some of the more significant graves in our care.

And this is a big one. Judge Theodore Reinhold. as the executioner, was a highly celebrated man in his day, known for carrying out execution sentences himself. He was a man of swift justice, but fair judgment. When not in the courtroom, or performing executions, Judge Reinhold was a devoted Christian and often volunteered at the church. From what Miss Langford told me, they still use some of his more. memorable quotes at the church. I don't share any of this with the moron surrounding me,

but I do make a mental note. If I get out of this alive, I'm going to add a hidden knife on my belt just at the small of my back. That way, if I ever get tied up like this again, I'll be able to cut myself free. At least they didn't tie my ankles together. And the naked shitbirds finally

Finally put on some clothes. On the upside, my interruption has caused them to start their ritual all over again. The downside? They say they're going to use me as a sacrifice to the demon and possibly be its meat suit if its existing body is insufficient. I'll be worried if these fucked hearts can manage to raise the judge. In order for him to show them where the demon is trapped, They can't just raise his spirit.

They'll have to reanimate his body. At least I finally know why they have a goat. A little blood can raise a spirit, but it takes an animal sacrifice to raise a corpse. Given the judge's background and religious beliefs, he is not going to be happy if they succeed. The statue looking over the grave is of a lean-muscled man with his head bent

forward, a vest over his button-down shirt, and his cowboy hat in hand over his heart. Miss Langford has pictures of the historic inhabitants, and I know the statue is modeled after the man himself. On those rare occasions I've gone to church with my parents, I've seen a similar statue out front next to the church's sign. The cultists resume their ritual, the two sticking to my side so I don't escape. Without a knife to cut myself loose, I attempt to wiggle my hands free, but I don't get very far. Asshole on my left notices I'm trying to get my hands free and slaps me upside the back of my head. I don't take kindly to that. So I headbut him right in the groin. He doubles over and screams in pain, startling those in the ritual. Ha ha ha ha ha fuckers.

Now you have to start over again. It's really funny, because they had to move the goat into position, and were just about to slit its throat. This time, they tie me to a headstone and start up their ritual for a third time. I could try to stall until sunrise. But they said if I make another sound, they'll gag me. And I don't want anything on them in my mouth. These disgusting fucks smell like they haven't bathed in weeks

Or change their clothes As it starts again I noticed the mist coming back Until this moment I hadn't realized it dissipated in the first place But it did Almost as soon as I turned my flashlight on them The mist is part of the ritual

A gathering of the magic they're calling to raise the dead I have to look away when the leader slits the goat's throat. I've never been a fan of goats. What with their demonic-looking eyes and all? But it still enrages me that they murdered it. Killing an animal for food is one thing. But as a ritual sacrifice? Go fuck yourself with that bullshit asshole.

I miss what they do with the blood because I refuse to look. I'm afraid I'll look into the dead eyes of the goat, and that more than anything that's happened tonight will give me nightmares. The chanting continues, and I notice the mist lowers to the ground, growing in density. An electric current fills the air as the blood is spilled, and the mist is sucked into the ground of the grave. Watching in more fascination than horror,

I see a hand of gray flesh reaching out of the grave. Like in the old horror movies, Judge Reinhold pulls himself out of the ground and stretches, as if getting up after a nap, clothes out of date and covered in dirt. He reaches back into the ground, pulling out his hat. As the cult leader orders him to show them where the demon's tomb is, he dust off the hat and places it on his head. Judge Reinhold speaks, and his voice is gruff. but sounding very much alive.

You tore my soul out of paradise, and forced me into my rotted body so I could take you to a demon's tomb. You are one dumb son of a bitch, but I have a cure for that. Want to know something about reanimated corpses? They have no pain receptors, and because of that,

they can use their muscles to their full extent. All those stories of old ladies lifting cars off of children. It's not superhuman strength. They just temporarily block out the pain receptors in their muscles that are in place to prevent tearing and destroying of the tissue and ligaments. This allows them incredible feats of strength, but causes serious injuries after. Something a reanimated corpse doesn't have to worry about. If it wasn't for me being in the splash,

own. I'd want popcorn for this show. But blood nearly hits me as the judge gives these shitheads the only cure for stupidity that exists. When he's finished ripping the cultist's limb from limb, the judge turns to me. I'm worried he's going to kill me too. But after wiping his hands clean, he unties me and helps me to my feet. Don't you worry enough. Don't you worry enough. done, darling. I'm not going to hurt the guardian of the dead. You try to keep idiots from doing this kind of thing and I respect you for it. I just wish I hadn't made such a mess for you to deal with. I kind of just smile at him. It's no problem, Judge. I like putting things in my oven. Wouldn't be the first time I've discreetly disposed of a body. And I doubt anyone's going to come

looking for a bunch of dipshit cultists. 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 author. 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.