Creepy - The Saddle

Episode Date: July 22, 2021

Saddle up...***Written by Keith McDuffee and narrated by Cole Burkhardt***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko 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.

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Creepy presents the saddle written by Keith McDuffie and narrated by Cole Burkart. Courage is being stared to death, but saddling up anyways. It was something Sean used to say to Ruth when she was too scared or she, shy to do something she wanted, rather needed to do. She's pretty sure he got the saying from someone famous, but the man loved horses, so she thought it a fitting phrase for him to latch onto, and she still thinks of it when she's too chicken shit to do what she wants to do, what she needs to do. Sometimes courage has nothing to do with it at all. Sometimes it's flat-out

self-preservation, common sense. And when those situations face you square on, you may as well take that cowboy saying and toss it right in the toilet, because no manner of courage match up for being stupid. Ruth had barely a recollection of how she got there,

squatting below the beam of Rat's flashlight, picking at a mausoleum keyhole, thinking of Sean. She hated Rat for bringing her here. but he was at least good at finding jobs worth paying a dam in that god-forsaken armpit of the world. Worth paying for Shaw's medical bills that a cop's salary couldn't touch. She'd have seen to rack sporting orange duds at Hillsborough County,

or among the many laying prone just inside, if he wasn't at least good for that. She winced as something flared within her brain, then stood, smacking her head on Rich's flashlight. Shit! Why'd you pick this place? She asked, rubbing her head. This place.

Rat threw his hands up. You picked it, remember? Said something, something Ambrose, big store, biggest yet. Wouldn't say nothing else. Maybe it could. You don't, you know, clue me in. She shook her head. No, no, I...

How can I not remember that? Well, you better remember we need this one. The damn place gives me the creeps. How much longer? I don't know. A few more minutes? No, shut up. The lock was popped five minutes ago, but Rack didn't know that.

Ruth knelt once again and resumed picking at a keyhole that had already relented, like one would a toothpick did he net a stubborn goblet. She wasn't ready to go in. Saddle on up, Ruthie. Right. "'Saddle up,' she whispered. She supposed having courage had about as much to do with it as stupidity after all. The fact that she still wore her uniform on jobs like these

pointed her actions firmly towards the ladder camp, but it helped serve as a cover story more than once. The iron door opened without a sound into the darkness, into the cold, until only where death lay. Hmm. Yeah. All right. Ladies first. No. Go ahead. Ratt shrud, lifted the toolbox, and shown his flashlight into the gloom. Whatever you say, officer. She hated that Rack felt the need to say that. She did sense his wise-ass smirk as he stepped through the open doorway, as though what lay beyond was nothing at all. It was so easy, he felt. for him to treat it as just another job when the clothes he was wearing didn't serve as a contradiction to the task at hand. Her uniform was part of the plan.

She knew that. Always had been. Didn't make it feel any less violating. Good to be working with you again, Cassidy. Ratch said. Remember our last job? Shit, must have been a year now since. Since the last time I was here, she thought.

saying goodbye. Yeah, something like that. Rat shrugged off the interruption and continued into the cold air of the mausoleum. Ruth followed close behind, her own flashlight lit. The scent of flowers for the dead stunned her senses and rattled her already pounding head as she shut the door, echoing off the marble floor and plattered tombs. There was a feeling of finality,

of no turning back. If only the proverbial horse she'd saddled on to would carry her forward. Jesus, this place is big, Ratch said, spinning around. Must be a thousand of them. Twelve hundred, she said. Really?

Damn! He's shown his flashlight along the marble vaults, its beam catching nameplates as it went. All right, so where is she? Section 8C, row 28, second from the bottom. It came to her, unhindered, automatic. She'd last been there so long ago, yet recalled Sean's resting place like one would a friend's phone number, or a husband.

She tried to shake the thought away. Rack flinched, phased. You remember it just like that? Her head continued to shake. No, forget it. Someone else. Ruth turned her eyes to the left, towards Section 8c, where a long row 28 and two doors up from the floor was a nameplate she'd sure she'd never cast eyes upon again. Yet there she was mere footsteps away, and for what?

Still, she wasn't sure. and Ratch's patience with her would no doubt grow thin at the prospect of her not knowing. So, lead the way, said Rack with a flourish of his hand. She stand the names outside the tombs around her, stacked four high, floor to ceiling. Some were clearly older than others, their nameplates were tarnished, vases empty of flowers or containing stilatil, leafless stems. Those more recent had flowers in varying states of decontents. or with trinkets and mementos placed at the foot of their stack. Notes, toys, more flowers.

Sean had a plastic apaluzza under his, she recalled. She had left it, then, before walking away for what should have been forever. Hey, Cassidy, Ratch said. The pain and Ruth's stall surged as she snapped out of her thought. What do you call these things? we're looking at on the graves, the things the names are on. Doors, their tombs, graves are outside in the ground. I think they're like seals or something.

Can't call them doors, right? Like, ain't like anyone's opening them all the time, you know, except us, I guess. Yeah, well, some doors are meant to stay shut. Not tonight, they ain't. Not all of them. What kind of job was it, really? Parting the overly wealthy, the exceedingly fortunate of their overabundances, seemed an entirely different sort of job than reliving the dead of precious items left to waste.

Perhaps a more honorable thing was to see them do some good in the world than have them forever sealed away. Perhaps, she thought, that was the reasoning enough to get her to take her to be. find this job, as luciderm, that it was for it. It still didn't pull a veil over what kind of place this was, nor who took residence there. If not Sean, who was she looking for? She may have had a hand in putting some of the bodies there over the years, but names tend to wither away like petals littering the floor. She chose to keep those names locked away in the mausoleum of her mind with doors that are forever closed.

Closed, perhaps, but not apparently sealed, with an occasional issue that served to drive her mad. Come on, Cassidy, which one? Ratch's tone bordered unannoyed. Just blurt it out. Come on, first name that pops in your head. Tick-Tock, go. Sean, no. The Blacksmith's son, she said, though not knowing why.

The blacksmith son. That's all I got. What? Blatsmith, son? That's not a name. That ain't going to be the front of any of these doors. Ruth stepped forward, reading nameplates as she went. Maybe you're wrong, she said.

There's more than just names and dates on these. Yeah, all right, but Blattsmith, son, I don't know. Don't you just have a name? Just need a name. Come on, think, that's what you cops do. What did he think she'd been doing the moment they arrived? And before that? And what did come before?

She presumed a car ride, a phone call. All of that lost now, and none of it made sense. How did I tell you about this job? What do you mean, how? You called me, remember? "'No, what did I say? "'I didn't tell you a name or anything?' "'Naw, you just said it was insane Ambroses

"'and it was enough of a score would be set for life.' "'Rack averted Ruth's gaze. "'He suddenly didn't look good. "'Her cop's intuition fired. "'What are you not telling me?' "'She wanted to say, "'but stopped short as Rat's flashlight flickered out. Ruth turned her own light toward Rack, but he had disappeared as fast as his light had gone dark.

Rack? Her flashlight sputtered out. Thud, thud, thud, thud. The hairs on her neck and back sprung lives of their own, standing at shady attention beneath her uniform. The pulse within her brain beat in rhythm to the reverberating sounds around her. She fought the urge to double over in pain as her hand flew to her sidearm. Rack? Thud, thud.

The sound of the match being struck and a soft glow from her left. Hey, a male voice said. She threw the latch off her weapon and drew it, wheeling about. It was not rack. The man stood twenty feet. from Ruth at the center of the alleyway. Along with the cigarette that hung sideways from his lips, the stained, glass-colored moonlight barely illuminated the contours of his pale face in the dark. He was young, well-dressed, and despite his submission with one hand raised, unafraid.

"'I'm a cop,' she said. "'Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? Put your other hand up.' Slowly, he complied. I know who you are, Officer Cassidy. Thought you'd be happy to see me. Her pistol remained drawn and ready, safety released. There was nothing good about someone lurking in the dark of a place like that, no matter their business or intentions. She resisted the urge to call out to Iraq again.

She could explain a uniform cop's presence just about. anywhere, but not with her slime-ball partner in crime in tow. How the hell should I know who you are? she asked. I can barely see you. He remained still, with only the movement of slender tendrils of smoke rising from his silhouette. An occasional auburn glow from a cigarette inhale gave hint to the bemused smile that held it. Something about it became at once somewhat familiar to.

Ruth, but only just. You work here? She asked. A drawn-out exhale. Something like that, Ruthie. A realization struck her, and she did all she could to stifle a cry. Sh-sh...

Sean? Ruth whispered. At that, the man began lowering his hands. Keep your hands up! Ruthie yelled What the hell is going on? Who the fuck are you? Ruthie, the voice said with a calm reassurance.

Ruthie, it's me. Ruthie released the dead flashlight, letting it clatter to the floor, as she drew the now freed uphand to steady the first. Her fringer teased the safety on her pistol as she fought back tears. Shut up! My husband is dead. Sean is dead. What kind of sick,

Fuck are you calling yourself, Sean, huh? Who are you? The man dropped the cigarette, then took a careful step forward, into a shaft of moonlight that had illuminated his face in full. Ruth's tears released. Hey, honey, did to see you again. Through a watery veil, Ruth saw that before her was indeed Sean, just as she'd last seen him.

It did nothing to make her lower her weapon. As much as such a vision brought her joy. Innate intuition kept her in check. No, she said, shaking her head in disbelief. No, no, no, no. Sean sighed. I know. Sorry to drop in on you this way.

Thud. Again, to Ruth's right. Again, her head. She snapped to and spun around. Her gun now pointed in the direction of the sound. Rack? she called out. Rack's gone, Ruthie, said Sean. It's just you and me right now.

He's not coming back. What do you mean right now? Who else is coming? My dad? Sean chuckled nervously. No, not your dad. Thud. What the fuck is that?

She said. What's going to? on? Sean stepped closer. Ruth kept her gun pointed down the dark hallway, where what sounded like imminent threats lay. The man before her, the person who had to be Sean but couldn't be, was no threat in that place. As her tears continued their descent, John gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Ruthie, you have to remember now. Thud! Ruth jumped, her nerves shot. The sound was louder now, closer, more threatening.

This is crazy. I must be going crazy. I don't know what you mean. Remember what? Shh. You're not crazy. The name, Ruthie, the one you came for. It's important.

Thud, thud! Sean turned Ruth to third. face him and put his hand on her wrist. She complied as he slowly helped her lower their gun. It's time to saddle up, Ruthie. You said a blacksmith son. Do you mean son of a blacksmith? An Irish name, maybe, like Mick something? You can do this. Her eyes widened and the flow of tears ceased, while the calmness began to wash over her. She realized then what she'd missed most about about not having Sean in her life, his reassurance that she could do no wrong, even when that was all she felt she ever did.

He also had a way of giving her a nudge when she needed it most. McGoan. Ruth's word slowed as she dropped her gun. and let herself fall into her husband's arms. He held her there, say nothing. She still had no idea why she was there, how Sean was there, or why such a name was so important

and so difficult to muster. All she cared for then was the unlikely reunion, to feel for once safe, and with a mind finally at peace. Retired Officer Ruth Cassidy remained sedated and restrained in the dirty laboratory bed, an array of sensors covering her wounded head. Dr. Ronald hobbled over with his cane once again to the set of monitors, still displaying the computer-generated interior of the St. Ambrose Mausoleum.

Thump! Thump! He cast a glance over at the woman in bed, with puddles of sweat and tears, soaking the sheets by her face. He turned the monitors off, retrieved a phone from beside them, and typed out a call. Hey, it's Ronald. I got that name for you. McGowan. Yeah, right.

Yeah, I'm glad we didn't have to resort to well. More dangerous means. She's lucky. A woman in her mental state that brain damage, she might not have survived the next phase. A strange thing. It worked, de facto. even when your avatar malfunctioned and blipped out of the simulation.

The names in that didn't seem to matter. She just sort of told the name to, well, nobody. Just out of the blue. Anyway, payments do tomorrow. Hope you find what you're looking for, Mr. Racksmith. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions.

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