Creepy - The Return

Episode Date: August 8, 2022

History never sleeps...***Written by: J. T. Seate***Bonus episode: "Designation: Baphin" written by No One of Consequence and narrated by Rissa MontanezContent warning: combat trauma***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***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***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. Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons, Kevin Wallace and Jason Benson. To see how you can support the podcast, and get rewarded with early commercial free access, weekly bonus episodes, immediate access to over 600 patron exclusive episodes, and more. Please check out our donation shares at patreon.com slash creepypod. Well, camp's all done. Quick visit to the burn unit, and I'm right as right. With the exception of this lingering barbecue smell, it's attracting a lot of stray animals. We had a lot of fun at camp this year, and it seems like listeners enjoyed it.

So I might have to start planning a way to trick. I mean, kidnap. I mean, I'll figure out a way to get us back to camp. In the meantime, 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. Creepy Presents The Return Written by JTC. and so it is said you were haunted, my friend, we are all haunted.

Isabella Banks During the Civil War, federal troops came upon a vacated rebel encampment in Virginia. The rebs had left little behind except for a rather persuasive calling card. A severed head jammed onto the point of a fence post. Three letters, S-P-Y, were scribbled on a scrap of paper,

paper intact beneath the obscenity. It was reminiscent of something from a history book, had stuck on pikes along London Bridge during rebellious times. To come across such a barbaric display during this war was rare, but it had made its point to the Union soldiers. The conflagration had progressed far beyond a nation of innocence, or honor among gentlemen. Gallantry no longer had a place amidst the carnage.

In the downpour of anger, it had long since crossed societal rules and boundaries even for war. Dead men were on battlefields with limbs spayed like broken puppets, left to rot. In the midst of discarded dead by the thousands, the grisly event considering the supposed spy would have been forgotten, if not for the incident then followed. For it was at that place where Anna Bell came for her husband's head. A young lad toting salted pork and biscuits to soldiers from his mother's kitchen was the first to see the form of a young woman. She wore a long cloak. Her feet floated inches above the trampled road beneath the soft light of a Cirrus moon. The lad could not have guessed what she sought as she passed,

gliding toward a picket line where a posted sentry, weary of the blasting of bugles, the rumbling of drums, and the scurrying of whirrying of horse. horse's hooves stood watch. The young soldier was watching for any sign that might indicate menacing significance, a voice, a footfall, even a shot. But none of these cautions prepared him for the silent figure. A female in dark apparel who approached the picket line, moving above the earth. So shocked was a century that he let her pass without word or a signal to the infantry regiment encamped beyond.

Battle-hardened men became speechless at the sight of the woman wordlessly gliding past the campfires. Her face and hands washed to the shade of ivory. A witch! One soldier exclaimed. Others only stared at the inexplicable sight. Some followed the specter to the spot beyond the camp where her mission became clear. The head still rested on the fence post as no soldier wanted to touch the foul thing. The creature resembling a woman produced a tapestry bag from a dark expanse of her cloak.

While the uniformed downlookers watched in disbelief, she pulled the head from the post and plopped it into the bag as if she had purchased a large piece of fruit. She did not go back the way she had come, but rather disappeared into a thicket and a stand of trees not to be seen again that night or any other. soldiers of faith prayed knowing the supernatural had entered their midst something to be wary of in addition to a bloodthirsty enemy in a small Pennsylvania town lived a woman known for her strange ways some called her a witch others thought her no more than a lonely creature pining for her husband legend claimed that while the war raged in virginia anabel freeman was often seen whirling about her house

as of dancing with her Jonathan, off to battle for the cause. It was said that she would run to a window and expectantly stare down the road, waiting for the man who would never return. Her mortal saga ended sadly. A curious neighbor found her. At some point, knowing her beloved Jonathan and she were not to be reunited in a loving embrace, Anna Bell swallowed cyanide, or so the story went. But Jonathan had to return to his Pennsylvania home from a battlefield and far away Virginia in one manner.

His decomposing head rested upon the bed next to Annabelle's corpse. This tale had been circulating through the little town of Coventry for almost 150 years before I heard it. But once heard, it clung to me like something not easily scraped away. Old timers embellished the tale with each telling. making facts difficult to determine. Yet the story's impact was huge, because I become the most recent owner of the property on which Jonathan and Annabelle's old house once stood.

In small towns, life moves at an uncommonly slow pace. Small town folks love their lore, love, hate, scandal, and yes, a good ghost story. They save them up in preserve, jars and picked them off the shelves when they need a tale to tell around the dinner table. I had taken a postal position in this town for no other reason than to escape the hustle and bustle of city life, and a few bad memories. Or so I thought. My presence in Coventry seemed to have re-energized legends. The locals delighted in the retelling of Annabelle's sad demise and the haunting story

from an ancient battlefield. As an adult, I was a devil's advocate not given to flights of fancy, a cynic who scoffed in matters concerning the spectral. Alleged manifestations and supposed evidence of the paranormal gave me a chuckle. But the bravado was little more than a thin veneer for a childhood rife with supernatural stories. My older brother would repeat tales of terror and I would lie awake for hours after. I would sometimes beg my brother to tell me the stories were lies. Sure, just stories, he would answer with a squirrely smirk.

Soon after my relocation, I came to the realization that certain aspects of existence were not orderly, nor easily explainable, things that simply didn't align themselves with common sense. I began to hear sounds at night in the dark, haunting sounds. were they merely the howling of the wind through tree branches or something more, the moaning of restless souls, perhaps, those unfortunates with unfinished business that kept their presence anchored to earth, when we come upon something that requires revision to our concept of what is possible, something too frightening to handle.

We do our best to pretend our eyes are merely playing tricks. The mind can deceive and exaggerate. Such was my case as things began to happen. I could not reconcile a sense of the supernatural beginnings to surround me with rational thought. I told myself my observations were nothing more than a nonsensical reaction to the fanciful civil war story of Annabelle and Jonathan's head. It could do nothing more harmful than scared the bejesus out of me. Still, when it came to Annabelle, my mind fell into an apprehensive morass.

I first saw her just before twilight as fog came softly like a serpent, encircling tree trunks and shrubbery, as if rising from the gloom, she stood near a gate that separates my property from the street. Oh, God! Escapeed my lips and a half-whispered expression of both fear and awe. It's... It's... It's...

Her! The sound of my voice unnerved me for I had never been one to talk to myself. The irritate. left no doubt in my mind as to who she was, something that should not be, but was. The vision injected me with a foreboding chill as I observed her from my tiny living room window, rigid and motionless. She stared at the house, the slight cant of her head and a slight tilt like a woman lost in thought. She was too far away to discern details. I couldn't distinguish her age other than the fact that she was a relatively young woman, one who would not live long enough

to become old and gray-haired. She wore a dark cloak placed over her shoulders covering all else. And there was something more. She carried a large tapestry bag, large enough to hold. How often have we all wished for proof of an afterlife, a sign of continuance after death? The trouble with finding a crack in the rational world is that you never know what might crawl through it. Was I picking up on real danger? Or had I merely been traumatized? Was she a witch with the power to cast a spell over me?

Or perhaps a spirit hovering in this world, delaying eternal rest? Either way, her presence required investigation. I took it upon myself to research the property's history in the county's Hall of Records. I found an obituary for Annabelle. It stated that Jonathan Freeman had indeed been a union soldier who was probably executed as a spy by Southern troops. His bride was known for her gifts of spirit, what might be called precognition today.

They had been married only a year before her death, taken up from her final resting place on the wings of doves, the clipping proclaimed. I assume people didn't like to read about suicide or the suggestion of fire and brimstone even though some apparently believe the dead woman to be a practitioner of the black arts. It wasn't much information, but enough to feel some empathy for the woman who knew her husband would never come home to her.

There was another helpful item amongst the remnants, a photograph of the original house. Traditional for its time, it was a two-story, white-wise, clapped board with a veranda and large windows, but bore no similarities to the house I now occupied. Unfortunately, the picture was without writing or dates, but a man and a woman stood on the porch imposed positions common to early photography. Could it have been the Freemans? A man with a new house and a new bride to live in it?

The couple were little more than specks as the photographer's intent was to capture the structure rather than its inhabitants. I asked for a magnifying glass in hopes of identification. It told me only that the two-sum was in the prime of life, and that the woman could very well have been the long-departed Annabelle. As I perused the photo, I noticed something else. The back of the woman's hand bore an unnatural flaw, barely visible even with the aid of the glass.

I could have been kidding myself, having fallen under the spell of the star-crossed Freeman's, but the mark appeared to be a pentagram. Suddenly I felt like an intruder into the couple's domestic tranquility, and that my intrusion might even anger Annabelle. I nervously put the picture back where I'd found it and tried to shake the feeling I had stumbled into the Freeman's private lives at a time before the Civil War,

a time before Jonathan left, and Annabelle had began her sorrowful vigil, in spite of these misgivings. I did more than look through my musty records. I sought Annabelle Freeman's burial site. The old cemetery rested on the side of a hill too steep to farm. There was a pleasant view of the isolated town below, with its many church steeples rising above the elms and the oaks. If Robert E. Lee had chosen to march on Coventry,

This would have been the high ground from which the yanks could have made their stand. There were no fences or signs that sequester the graveyard from the outside world. All that remained among a few empty beer cans, candy wrappers, and weeds were a hundred or so headstones to mark locations of final repose. They thrust up from the ground at drunken angles, tilted and cracked from erosion and time, and mottled with lichen. Some were topped with time-worn lambs or cherubs. Others were for Coventry sons who left a fight in the Civil War.

A few names struck a familiar court as families often stayed in an area for generations. But whoever tended the graves of these souls must have been long dead. Maybe superstition played a role given Annabelle's legend. For most locals had little to do except repeat gossip, even if it was 150 years old. Annabelle's headstone was simple. with no ostentatious words of scripture, her poetic sentiment like her obituary, just her name, dates of birth and death, and one curious engraving.

Seek no longer the beloved, it read. So forlorn, so sad and finaled those words and dates. I knew there were secrets buried beneath the stone. Had my purchase of the property unleashed some witch's curse unknown to anyone besides Annabelle, I couldn't keep from asking myself the most obvious question. Did they bury Jonathan's head with her? This had once been hollowed ground. Now it appeared to be no more than a place for the forgotten dead.

But I knew better. Annabelle had made that clear. I stood on the hillside waiting and watching for what I wasn't sure. I had seen people stand in front of graves and talk to its occupant like he or she was down there, listening. I didn't want to talk to Annabel and question myself for coming at all. It was clear this visit would not soothe my ever more troubled mind. The day darkened. I shivered as a breeze ruffled my hair and whispered against my exposed skin. It grew stronger, flapping the collar of my windbreaker and the legs of my slacks. The tree swayed gracefully like dark ballerinas moving to a rhythm, only they

could hear. It occurred to me that all of us, the living and the dead, had shared the same wind, trees, and elements of nature. We came from the same earth, and our roots always reached down. The living and the dead woven together in a great tapestry. I wondered why Annabelle had returned as I looked at the patch of unkempt earth. Why wasn't she settled beneath her stone? What had awakened her from eternal slumber, thinking about it sucked the breath from my lungs. I looked down at the village once more. The size had changed little over the many years, according to population records. It wasn't hard to envision the day the witch, if that's what she was, had been laid to rest just six feet below.

I closed my eyes. My mind treacherously focused on her final moments, gasped. for life's last breaths. What were those moments filled with? Terror, sadness, anger? They must have been lonely beyond all comprehension. Had she expected to find her headless husband on the other side? The horror of a coffin was vivid in every detail.

I imagined her lying within the oblong box, hands placed together as if in prayer, while the symbol of the beast stained the skin on one of them. Her rest being a conundrum, an uneasy feeling of being watched by eyes piercing through time and space overtook me, eyes commanding me to take action. Had I become an outright lunatic, driven mad by Annabelle's legend, the townsfolk would love that new dramatic touch.

Although God remained an unsubstantiated hypothesis, events had shaken the belief that reality was based on a single-dimensional. Without question, there was another plane of existence. Was it possible for the dead to control the living? The ground seemed to stir and tremble as my imagination went into overdrive. I'd have sworn a pulse like the retinue of beating hearts beneath my feet. I couldn't bear to look at Annabelle's grave any longer for fear. It was she who watched.

The one who wanted... What? I began to feel the dead's vexation, the curiosity of their state rather than a resignation. Troupled spirits were not at rest. Things existed. They were both dreadful and sorrowful. Could they sense an interloper? Could they wonder what I was up to?

An old quote came to mind. The dead pulled a living down, down into the cold, down into the hole. it was all too grim. I had to move before I became ridded to the ground with a fearful weight, before the blades of wild grass took the opportunity to curl around my ankles or worse, trapped dead in the very spot where Annabelle's earthly remains laid a mere few feet below. As I turned from the sight and began my descent, the wind at my back felt like the breath of a pursuing race.

It was all I could do not to run from the cemetery all the way back to the relative safety. of my house and lock all the doors like a hunted man attempting to burn this preoccupation from his brain before it exploded. That would not solve the issue that plagued me, however. I vowed to end any further research about this enigmatic couple. I squatted on the land once belonging to Jonathan and Annabelle Freeman, two people who had entered in a local folklore, and that should be that. But that was not the end of the matter. I saw Annabelle again. This time I retrieved my binoculars for a closer look, but by the time I returned to the window, she was, of course, gone.

I could have alerted the authorities, but they couldn't help in this instance. I even considered consulting a local shrink, but knew what his interpretation of my experience would be and how news of my visit would spread like wildfire. The new postmaster, gone loony over-lead. and I wondered if anyone in neighboring houses might have seen Annabelle, someone who might at least reveal that my phantasm was not just a personal assault. Again, I demurred, convinced she was meant for my eyes only. With each sighting, the figure edged ever closer up the drive that leads to my house.

The third time she appeared, I decided to confront the trespasser. I opened my front door, bounded down my steps, and trotted toward the door. a solemn figure. I looked away for just a moment, just a moment, to make sure the path before me had no obstacles. And when I looked up, she had vanished once again. The incidents affected me profoundly. I was filled with confusion,

for it was clear this revenant either belonged among the restless dad with powers of which crafted her disposal, or I was losing my mind now cluttered with the property's history. my appearance was suffering as well I'd become somewhat of a walking cliche 5 o'clock shadow on Camp Hare and rumpled clothes I mechanically sleepwalked through my hours at the post office although my sanity might be in question

I was also angry that a spirit or whatever the manifestation might be would play such a coy game with my senses make me feel the fool At this point I made a concerted effort to block out this unreal Nimbus. But then I would see her again, as such occasions can induce a habit to the mind. I finally expected to see her. The sightings were usually as dusk approached. Not a time I would have preferred to see a strange apparition near in the house like some impoverished waif wanting to be taken in.

Goosepumps rose on my arms as she came closer. The hood of her cloak now pulled over her head to mask her features, sending new chills to tickle the hair on my neck. I had decided that Annabelle must want her house back, or the place where it had stood, hers having been turned to rubble long ago. Could she have hoped to reunite with a complete Jonathan within? One hundred and fifty years was a large chunk of eternity to share,

with merely a head. Or could it be more sinister than that? Judging by her hooded appearance that simulated the grim reaper, maybe she wanted someone to replace Jonathan, or the part of him she was not able to recapture, could some malevolent force want to stretch forth its tentacles around me in a supernatural embrace? I felt as if the ectoplasm of a restless spirit-seeking stability

was passing through me. I was being lured slowly and steadily into a web from the past. Could her goal be? God help me. Possession? I now considered in no coincidence of 150 years it passed since the final date on her tombstone. The day Annabelle took her life. In my research, I discovered myself to be the only single man to own the property since her death.

All my suppositions were certainly fuel to feed the fly. funny monkey in my brain. My anxiety working as a conduit. I didn't envy the couple's fate, but I envied the passion Annabelle seemed to possess, for I haven't been very lucky of love. My talent never quite equaled my aspirations.

But that didn't mean I was ready for a courtship with a witch returned from the dead. Had Annabelle still hungering from her loss come from me might I have inherited the situation could the extraordinary gift of spirits have somehow enabled her return when the situation was right these unanswered questions have taken a physical toll as well

when I looked into the mirror I saw a haggard face reflecting deeply circled eyes haunted eyes but at dusk and beyond a strange mix of fear and curiosity held me to this place in the hallway A grandfather clock continued to tick away the passing moments with mechanical precision while all else seemed distorted Then came a bizarre thought about the state of mind which I had descended

I must have been attempting to give my house the characteristics of one I had seen in the photograph Better than to believe the house was truly organic Twisting and turning into shapes from the ancient past One evening I was unusually jumpy, starting at the slightest sound, glancing constantly into dark corners to the accompaniment of a dripping faucet that sounded like the beat of a dying heart. I thrummed my fingers on a desk with nervous impatience, trying to distract myself with paperwork while gusts of wind rattled the window panes. A coil of fear wound tot. I felt a malignant presence, watching. waiting, moving closer.

I could almost hear a shuffling at the front door and imagine it was canting slightly off plum before slowly opening. I pictured Annabelle standing at the threshold while knowing if I closed my eyes for a moment, all would be well, like the rational ticking of the clock. Still, I believed a preordained dance summoned by a historical choreography kept me tied to a power that asserted itself from beyond the grave. Then came the night that would change everything. The wind shrieked, subsided to a whale, and then howled once more. Thunder that sounded like cannon volley rattled the rafters.

Razors of lightning slashed into my bedroom. I felt vulnerable to any random, gruesome thought. I didn't dare look out for fear of citing something standing in the yard beside the shrubs. Something near the house, or even peering in, bony fingers striking the window glass. The patter of rain drops spattering against the roof that might have lulled me to sleep failed to follow. Only deathly silence could have heightened my tension. I crawled into the covers and eventually succumbed to lateness of the hour. In a dream, Annabel stood over me.

Cold lips brushed against my cheek and forehead. I gasped and opened my eyes weak with dread. I was alone in a room that was as cold as the touch had been. A certainty occurred to me in the whispers of the night. Annabelle was about to take dramatic action. For during my most recent sighting, she was at the porch steps in possession of not only the cloth bag, but something else as well.

Something very sharp. The clawed hand bearing the devil's mark with fingernail, nails as sharp as knives. My fear was no longer abstract. They now had weight and substance. My life seemed at the edge of a precipice. Every nerve ending tingled in unwanted anticipation. The next evening, the previous night's storm had passed, but there was a heaviness to the air that had nothing to do with the weather, a charged density. The sun disappeared as if wrong, Running away from the world, taking with it the light that didn't want to be left behind. Lengthening shadows were a reminder of how quickly time passed.

How the used-up day offered no reprieve from an overwhelming dread. Something extraordinary was about to happen as I believed I could actually hear the house breathe. In the dimness of my shadow bedroom, I heard the porch steps creak. If I had entered Annabelle's coffin, the atmosphere could not have been more oppressive. I was becoming a puppet in my own home with a witch pulling the strings. Yes, I now believe that the woman had been just a creature surviving through the ages, existing of the earth as well as below it. What was I to do but lay still in the gloom listening and hoping the horror would pass

when my heart thudded behind the wall of my chest? Could I ever sleep again without taking action? Before something tore loose inside me that could never be repaired? I had developed the kind of fear you feel when a voice inside you whispers that evil is not only real, but nothing can save you from it. I had become like an addict who fears dreams and reality, a slave to my perceptions. My trusty clock stopped ticking so abruptly that it silent sliced through the room like a scythe.

I was irretrievably slipping into the abyss. The fabric of my life was tearing apart like rotting. and I seemed powerless to stop it. It presented a feeling not unlike the fear of catching a contagious disease. The frightening word insanity popped into my skull as I continued on my mind-bending ride toward the unknown. Was Annabelle lingering in the darkness by choice or by necessity? I waited the sound of hinges squeaking or the click of a latch, assuming objects were a hindrance, or might it be a soft knock on the door to be followed by a presence?

looming up in the night like some fearful monster, casting a long shadow in the dimness of the moonlit room, if she could cast a shadow. And when it came, would I feel cold dead hands against my flashes if touched from the grave, or something more spectacular like clawed fingertips hooking into my flesh and pulling me into some unimaginable place? Would it be like the joltz from an electric socket when she revealed the contents of her bag? Could I ever approached the twilight of consciousness without taking action before she did. If I succumbed to the inner darkness that beckoned me, all would be lost. It was at that moment when a strange notion engulfed me, one that couldn't be banished.

Annabelle's ghost hadn't been bound by death. If I didn't do something, she would. I wanted no more nights forfeited to the unknown. There was no remedy for this kind of fear except action. Logic or no logic. No longer obscure by clouds of indecision, I decided what I must do. And the decision filled me with lovely terror. It has been proven to me that more things exist in heaven and earth than our philosophers can grapple with.

If nothing else, such things make life more interesting. A week has passed since I waited for that knock or a kiss or something far worse. And here I remain, a century and a half after Annabelle was laid to an uneasy rest. The most recent and a long line of caretakers on land sold many times over, but I am no longer considering giving out my domicile in the quaint little town of Coventry. The house seems to have righted itself. its angular verticality restored. The quandary over what would satisfy Annabelle has apparently been resolved in part.

Even though the situation isn't perfect, it appears that acquiring both me and my property has soothed the wandering race. The portentous conspiracy of the night is most obvious in a graveyard. What an unnatural world it can create! The slightest breeze carries half-heard whispers. The rustling of dead leaves or notes from strange birds add to the unbidden mystique. Before Annabelle had the opportunity to take control with her claws and tapestry bag, I decided to remove the fearful curtain before me by paying another visit to the cemetery under the veil of darkness.

My nocturnal labors took less time than I would have thought because the rain is off in the ground par away. Under a moon emerging from behind clouds like a big spying eye I invaded the privacy of the dead and began to dig. A growing panic needed to be wrapped up and buried while I endeavored to unburry. The overriding sound proved to be my laborer breathing from the physical exertion I was unaccustomed to. The only time I wavered in my task was when my line of sight

disappear beneath the ground surface and I could no longer watch for whatever as a cold moisture oozed up from the soil in a rush to embrace me, seeping into my garments like a wet vapor. I wondered where the expression six feet under came from, for I had passed that depth by a considerable margin. Maybe those who buried Annabel thought she needed an extra few feet

considering her unique circumstance. Eventually, my shovel splintered, rotted wood. I crossed myself in spite of my heretofore agnosticism, just in case I was committing a sin against either the earth or spirits, or both. My crude tool tore away the lid's remnants, and I intruded on Annabelle's sanctum. The skin on my arms crawled and my breath hitched with anticipation, as I disinterred what was left of Annabelle, which wasn't much. Her apparition had certainly been more recognizable than her remains.

Nature's cleanup had performed its duty. I had expected rags and tatters from clothes and coffin lining, but both had deteriorated to the point of near non-existence. Her bones would have fallen apart if not for the few leathery remnants is brown and dry as the chemo. No trace of skin, let alone the pentagram, remained on her hand. For transport, I carefully wrapped her remains. in a tarpaulin and tried to repair the disturbed earth from which one of its own had been taken. The hardest part had been the return trip with Annabelle's remains bumping around on the backseat of my car.

In the gray ghost of the approaching dawn, I couldn't bear to look in the rearview of mirror due to the lingering fear that she might toss aside the canvas shroud and attempt to physically complete whatever her ghostly mission might have been. I had seen it happen in too many movies. but all is now calm. With my help, Annabelle has journeyed beyond death's veil and into my living room, earthbound again in body of sorts. It's not as if she can have the joy of life, but she can at least sit near a window and survey the land she and Jonathan shared.

I found there can be a strange beauty in death. With a little ingenuity, using wire and super glue, she hangs together pretty well. I found her address at Goodwill. for modesty's sake. Now I can talk to her every day about this, that, and the other. It's something for her at least, having the company of a man who is in one piece. Could she be grieving still, or do all 150-year-old corpses possess the same mournful downcast countenance?

I was still at tune now and then thinking Annabel might appreciate music. Once, while in another room, I thought I heard her. her bones clacking around as if dancing. I ran in expecting to see the dress whirling about, but she was back at the window. Jonathan's head still securely in her lap. Oh yes, Jonathan's head. It had been buried with her in a metal box, leaving it in somewhat better condition than she. It still had its hair and teeth in place. Even though his toothy leer can be offsetting, it seems only right it should rest in Annabelle's lap after she went to so much trouble to retrieve it. If the Freeman's remains should be discovered within the confines of our home,

it will surely add a fresh chapter to the tale of the restless witch, and give credence to the theory that the past is never completely dead. Seek no longer, the beloved. The words ring hollow because the freeing of her earthly remains has not concluded Annabelle's search. I am convinced she is beckoning for assistance in finding the rest of Jonathan. What must it be like to spend eternity with only part of a loved one? I believe she wants Jonathan to join her in a final dance to erase the horror of his demise at the hands of warring brutes. Although her eye sockets are as vacant as a parking lot after closing hours,

I believe she can see. At times I feel I could open the dress she's wearing. and witnessed the beating of her heart. An image of an old kitchen preceding the one where I now stand overwhelms me. Sometimes I hear a swishing sound of a woman's skirt. It must be Annabelle moving around in a bell-shaped dress animated by whatever power lies behind death in the grave. The smell of bacon frying and chicory coffee brewing fills my nostrils.

She's preparing breakfast for... Accompanying these sounds and smells, I hear the sweet humming of some old melody touched with melancholy. The sounds and aromas vanishes nearly as soon as they arrive. But now that I have permitted her access to the house, I anticipate continuing incidents until our destinies become clear. One more thing. Something I wasn't comfortable about mentioning until now. The man in the old photograph found in the Hall of Records bears a striking resemblance.

to yours truly. And in the event Annabel was truly a witch I have drawn a pentagram on the floor in front of the chair where she keeps vigil so she can conjure if she chooses. The clock still ticks away slices of time, or real time only matters to flesh and blood. Eventually, I will be informed how this reunion is to play out. I will hear the voice that went silent so long ago because I believe Annabelle's cadaver is very nearly ready to speak to me. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, designation Baffin, written by no one of consequence and narrated by Rissa Montanez. The story I'm about to tell you is classified.

Technically, I should kill you when this is done. But don't worry. I'm not going to do that. However, I am going to modify certain aspects of this story for security reasons. I will be omitting any names, locations, and the date. The sensitive nature of this event is critical to a number of government agencies, so I can't even divulge the decade this took place. In lieu of my name, I will give you a call sign. Call me Reaper.

My term of service in the armed forces spanned 20 years. During that time, I engaged in several armed conflicts, some of which are still not public knowledge, and probably never will be. While one of these conflicts were taking place, I was stationed on an aircraft carrier. My mission was to provide support for ground assets infiltrating an enemy base. Their mission was to enter enemy territory, secure the designated building, extract valuable personnel,

and then destroy the enemy headquarters. No, this isn't a SEAL team story. I was a pilot. After launching from the carrier, my squadron of four jet. jets were flying toward a large cluster of clouds. In order not to be spotted, we skirted the top of those clouds. But that turned out to be our downfall. We couldn't be seen from below.

But we couldn't see what was hiding in those clouds. Radar didn't indicate there were enemy aircraft within our vicinity, but what we encountered didn't show up on radar. Before we knew we were engaged, Two aircraft were already down. We broke pattern and climbed in an attempt to engage the enemy, but all we could see were clouds, slowing my speed to the lowest I could,

but still maintain flight. I caught glimpses. There was something there, but I wasn't able to identify what. I radioed into command back on the carrier, and they couldn't get a lock on anything in the air but us. They kept ordering us to identify the target, and all I could say was unidentified flying object. Saying you were seeing a UFO is a good way to ruin your military career, but there wasn't anything else I could call it.

Whatever was in the air with us didn't look like an aircraft, to be perfectly honest. I wasn't certain it was a machine. What little I could see appeared. to be gray and flapping. Like the wings of an animal. I lost sight of it and called out to the other jet, but they never heard my useless warning. Something shot out of the clouds at incredible speed

and slammed into the other jet right in front of me. I got knocked around as the pilot panicked, hit the thrusters to full throttle, and I got caught in his jet wash. I lost both engines. and spun out. The G-forces pushing me into the canopy. It was hard to make out through the disorientation,

but I saw something latched onto the underside of the other plane. It was larger than a man, with appendages that stretched out about half the span of the jet. As a lost altitude, the other jet exploded, and whatever was on it launched right at me. the electrical systems were barely functional as I struggled to recover, which was an impossible task at that point. But I flipped my weapon systems to guns and held down the trigger.

The 20-millimeter rotary cannon fired off rounds in all directions as the jet spun out, and I managed to clip the enemy before it slammed into me. At this point, the horizontal spinning decreased, but the jet was lost. I pulled the canopy release and ejected from the aircraft. Right before it exploded. As I descended, I saw a small island and used the pull cords in my parachute to get me as close to it as possible. It was covered in the typical tropical island green,

but it had a nice big beach surrounding it. I was too far away to land safely on the beach, but I wasn't going to have to swim a mile to get to it either. The water was cold, but the waves, thankfully, were small. I was swimming with the current, but my flotation harness made sure I stayed above water. While I was making my way to the beach, I recall playing it over and over in my mind. The spin-out was so intense that it alone made me question whether I'd ever get back in a plane ever again. but I was trying to focus on what took us out.

When it launched itself at me, it looked like the thing glided on pale gray wings. Then all I could see was the green splatter covering the canopy, presumably because one of the 20-millimeter rounds hit it. Getting to shore, I put off thinking about it to assess my situation. Command knows my entire squawful. went down. They know where we were. But did they know, I survived? They were going to want answers. And I could give them more information than what the black boxes could provide.

There was probably a recovery team already on their way. But I was going to have to come up with a way to signal them when they got close. I didn't have a radio. But my emergency kit did contain a flare gun. Not wanting to waste my only flare, I went into the trees and gathered as many dead tree limbs and palm leaves as I could carry. In no time at all, I set up a sizable fire and topped it with the green palms. The leaves would generate a lot of smoke, and hopefully get the recovery team's attention. A couple hours went by before I saw the choppers. As soon as they were within visual range, I shot off the flare and stoke the fire for maximum smoke. The birds were coming in low to my location,

skirting the deck by about a hundred feet so enemy aircraft would have trouble locating them. It looked like I was home free. But this wouldn't be a story worth killing over if I was rescued right away. I was so happy to see the choppers that I started waving my arms above my head. as if the smoke wasn't enough to get their attention. They were half a click away when the same gray mass that took down four fighter jets shot out of the water. It slammed into the first chopper and latched onto the underside.

The second chopper bugged out and headed back the way it came. Recovery teams weren't equipped with guns, so if they hadn't bugged out, they would have gone down too. As I watched that thing tear apart the chopper, I hope the other one would get command to send out something with some serious firepower. They knew where I was, and that I was alive. No way one of their elite pilots was getting left behind. Maybe if they knew what they were getting into,

whoever they sent wouldn't go down as easily as we had. I know things would have gone down differently, had we been aware of the danger. I watched, completely helpless, as the thing tore into the chopper. I had a 9mm pistol, but at that range I wouldn't have been able to hit a damn thing. The creature launched itself off the chopper, and back into the water just before it blew up. Being the only other thing for it to attack in the immediate area, I retreated quickly back into the trees. After a hundred meters, I scrambled up a tree as high as I could go.

In my haste, I didn't realize my pistol fell out of the damn holster until I heard it thud on a root at the base of the tree. By that time, I heard something big moving at ground level, and it was too late to retrieve the firearm. My plan had been to wait until the creature was underneath me, and I was going to unload both magazines into it from my. above. As it was, I hugged the tree trunk and strive to be one with my hiding spot, to be part of the tree. Thankfully, my flight suit and gear was colored to blend in with this kind of plant life.

You think the color of military uniforms is chosen by random? The creature wasn't being subtle. Its large body tore through the trees at great speed. It began to slow as it got closer to my position. and stopped a few meters short. I got my first good look at it, and I couldn't believe what I saw. It was long, nearly three meters with an upper body as thick as a bodybuilder, tapering off towards the back legs.

Its wings bend about halfway down, like an elbow joint, and the fleshy part that catches the wind folded in against the body. When not in flight, the top frame of the wings act as arms, coming to a point with no fingers or any sort of digits to indicate a hand. The light gray skin looks smooth, reminding me of a dolphin.

As far as the head, the shape reminded me of the front end of a cargo plane. It had a row of eyes that go from the middle all the way to the side. This thing had a near 360-degree line of sight. directly behind it being the only blind spot. Below that was a snout. But from that angle, I couldn't see details of its mouth. I was okay if I never saw that part of this beast,

since the monstrosity itself looked like a cross between a dolphin and a bat. I decided to designate it with the name, Baffin, a designation that, I believe, is still a new state. today. It crept closer to the base of my tree, and I held my breath. If it looked up, the damn thing would have spotted me, but for some reason it never did. Instead, it looked off to the side and found my pistol. When it slipped out of the holster and hit the tree root, the nine millimeter bounced off and slid a couple meters away. The Baffin nudged it with its snout and scurried off in that direction,

keeping its body low to the ground. Apparently, it thought my dropped weapon was an indication to the direction I went, and I was okay with it thinking that. Anything to get some space between me and that nightmarish creature. When I could no longer hear it, I waited another ten minutes to slowly climb back down. retrieving my pistol, I chambered around before securing it in the holster, making sure the strap was snapped shut. The last thing I wanted to do was make a habit of dropping my only firearm before I got the chance to use it.

At that moment, I was just grateful the trail of green slime the Baffin left and its weight didn't cover the 9mm. No longer in the tree, I caught a whiff of the slime and nearly gagged. It was sweet, like honeysuckle, but had a distinct undertone that every aviator in the world knows by heart. Jet fuel I hadn't caught a visual of the Baffin's underside, but I did find it odd that it would leave a slime trail. Recalling its position over my pistol before taking off,

I realized that the trail wasn't coming from the underside, but just to the right. with the wings folded against the body. I didn't get to see the damage done by one of the 20-millimeter rotary cannon rounds. The trail was in slime. It was blood, knowing that anything that bleeds can be killed. I began to hash out a plan. Even wounded, the baffin was able to launch itself out of the water

and rip apart a chopper 100 feet above the waterline. It was an avian creature, but I didn't think it could fly in its condition. Still, with as big as it was, the thing could move quickly on land, even if it did make a considerable racket. I gathered some of the blood on a large leaf and took it back to the fire I made on the beach.

I needed to test out a theory, tossing the bloody leaf into the flames, I watched as the blood immediately combusted with an audible pop, Not only was the blood flammable, it was practically a low-grade explosive. I could have ended it right then and there. All I had to do was light the blood trail on fire.

Eventually the fire would have caught up to the beast, but the possible repercussions would have been bad. For instance, the blood trail could have caught the entire island on fire. I kept hearing the bad. and running around so it was covering a lot of ground. That thing was bound and determined to find me, probably since I grounded it by shooting its wing.

As a fly boy, I knew the devastation of being grounded, and anyone with jet fuel in their veins would be out for blood. As the baffin continued to tear through the trees looking for me, I kept sneaking in from the beach for more dead tree limbs and leaves. Twice it came close to where I was working, but it never came out onto the beach. Several times, it screamed out this roar of frustration, a sound straight out of a science fiction horror movie whenever it reached the end of the island. After an hour, I made several campfires on the beach in a hexagonal pattern,

leaving about two meters between each fire. At the center of the fires, my fire, my fire, flight suit stepped with leaves was propped up with a pole I made from a dead branch. I was making my stand in nothing but my shorts, undershirt, and boots. Not ideal, but at least no one was around to watch. Maybe if Hollywood gets a hold of this story and makes a movie out of it, they can make it sexier. But reality is often more gritty than that. about five meters from the edge of the hexagon,

I dug a hole just big enough for me to lay in. Using the emergency shoot for my parachute, I laid it over the hole and covered it with enough sand to blend in with the rest of the beach. Once inside the hole, I covered up, and I let out the loudest, most primal war cry I could manage. Waiting with the pistol in hand, safety off and round-chambered.

I watched my makeshift dummy through a thin slit in the chute. I knew I'd hear it long before I saw it. But I needed visual confirmation before engaging. It took longer than I thought before it made its move. Honestly, I began to think it had bled to death amongst the trees. There was no way I was going to abandon my position to go out looking for it. Not without an entire battalion of hardcore badasses is armed to the teeth to back me up.

To this day, I don't know if it was because the Baffin was afraid of fire, or my war cry gave away that this was a trap. But it approached with caution. Not only that, but it was in the treetops when it came to the beach. The trees groaned as the Baffin leapt into the air, going far higher than I could see for my vantage point. Even knowing it was coming, I still jumped when it landed on my flight suit and started tearing into it. Throwing the sand-covered shoot off of me, I quickly got into a firing stance, held the pistol with both hands, and opened fire.

Rapid firing a pistol makes aiming very difficult, but between the short range and the creature's size, hitting it wasn't an issue. My bullets tore through that gray flesh with ease. Spurts of green blood flew all over the place. The baffin reared up on its back legs as I dropped the spent magazine and slapped in the spare. It was preparing to leap, but I began firing again. This time, I slowed my shots and concentrated my fire, aiming specifically for its head. My fifth bullet took out one of the central eyes. And that's when the creature lost control, stumbling backward.

The Baffin tripped over the pole that held my flight suit up, and it fell into one of the fires. I barely had time to register what was about to happen, but did manage to shield my face with my arms. The explosion knocked me off my feet, throwing me backwards several meters. Thankfully, I wasn't burned. It just knocked my skull. around a little. Nothing I haven't felt before, thanks to jet engines and G-forces. There was just enough of my flight suit left to make a pair of shorts. So when the cavalry arrived, I wasn't just in my underwear. Funny, I had been considering going to a nice tropical beach on my

upcoming leave. But thanks to this encounter, I didn't think I'd ever go to the beach again. not voluntarily, at least. I'm risking life in prison to share this story for one simple reason. I want to warn all aspiring pilots. Not just military, but future commercial and private pilots all over the world. My son just enrolled in the Naval Academy to be a pilot like me. So I sat him down and told him about the Bathen. I figured if I was going to warn my son,

why not mourn other sons and daughters to an unknown hazard that has been encountered at least two other times? One day, the Baffin's will come to light, and I'll be able to speak freely about them. I just hope to live long enough to get the answers of their origin. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for a conversation, 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 share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast.

production team and the story's author.