Creepy - The Sand Ate Her & The Fiddle

Episode Date: July 11, 2024

The Sand Ate Her***Written by: Tamika Thompson and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warning: suffocation, dismemberment, smoking***The Fiddle***Written by: Eolas Pellor and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. The Sand Ate Her, written by Tamika Thompson,

and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I knew the teenagers were trouble the minute they arrived at Gull's Wrath. The beach sat along Highway 1, halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and was a blip so tiny anyone would miss the surf shop town if they sneezed while driving by. The name applied to both the beach and the 5,000-person city because the seagulls were notoriously aggressive, willing to not only steal bags of potato chips, half-drunk paper cups of coffee,

used condoms and spliffs from snoozing beachgoers, but also to attack a group of cupcake-eating four-year-olds and to snatch up a kitten and carry it off. The kitten was never seen again. I never had problems with the creatures because I packed the seagulls a lunch whenever I arrived, bread or bologna, and I'd set it down near the water,

so they'd fight over it and leave me and my iced tea alone. I know I was contributing to the problem, but I believe the land belonged to the creatures. I'd once even detangled a gull from a six-pack plastic tie, and it had dipped its head into my palm before squawking and soaring away. The day the teens arrived was no different. I'd gone to Gull's wrath to stare at the water and think about why I was leaving my boyfriend

when he'd done absolutely nothing wrong. In addition to the Gull's lunch that I'd placed just above the tideline, I brought the same thing as always to that secluded stretch of beach, a tarycloth towel, SPF 50 sunscreen, a floppy straw hat, and a collection of short stories. This one by Margaret Atwood. Usually, I'd have the place all to myself and could watch the raging blue. waters of the Pacific without being disturbed. Then one of the teens, a girl, shouted, You're a nothing idiot! And cackled. The rag-tag group of five consisted of three boys, two girls, all about 17, carrying on two simultaneous, shout-filled conversations. The boys wrestled and tramped across the sand, sunglasses dangling by straps that created tan lines on their napes. One

the girls was squatting round, with a teary-eyed face that appeared petrified in stone. But it was the taller girl who captured my attention. She wagged the heart pendant back and forth across a neck that sported a purple hickie. The olive-shaped bruise nestled just above her collarbone. With red roots and hair bleached so blonde it was almost white, she jumped on one of the dark-haired boy's backs and slapped the top of his head. He wrapped her long legs around his waist and ran, carrying her bouncing body past me. I noticed a few bruises on her legs as well,

and when her bikini shorts started to slip off down her rear. Put me down! She squealed between giggles. The others followed, and they all flopped onto the sand about 20 feet in front of me, blocking my view of the water. Blocking my view of the water. I picked up my towel, canvas tote,

and straw hat, and moved to the right, still with an earshot, but able to at least see the ocean. The santa rock ratio was not on my side in this little cove, so there was only so far I could go. At the tideline, I noticed a gull land near the paper bag lunch of orange slices and bread that I had left on the sand. It dipped its head inside. I passed a white sign delineating three rules in all caps. Don't feed the seagulls. Don't leave food unattended. Please make use of trash bins. I'd never noticed the sign before,

so I sat a few feet away from it as I read and re-read it. I hated the way the locals acted as if the hooked-built creatures were the problem. Some had called for culling the population, but the bill could never get past. They released a hawk, and the Peregrine Falcon in the area, and it had thund out the gull population, but they claimed there was a persistent gull or two that would not leave that town. One person had blamed the gulls for several nearby murders.

Not that the gull had attacked people, but that the birds had possessed beachgoers and made them violent. Obviously, ridiculous hogwash. Earlier that week, I'd signed a petition at a grocery store by an animal rights group that wanted to protect the seagulls from yet another proposed culling. I glanced back at the gull at the tideline as it pulled the slice of bread into its mouth. Its head tipped back, its beak toward the sky. The real ragamuffins were the teens, who began to whisper, which was worse than just continuing their inconsiderate loud talk.

It was particularly rude since I was the only other person on that patch of beach. The giggles between the whispers made it impossible to focus on Atwood's My Life as a Bat. Then, Hicky Girl started smoking a cigarette. I smelled the smoke before I saw it, and the odor ignited something inside me. The wind picked up, and even the clouds suddenly seemed to go thick and gray. I set aside my book. Are you really serious right now? I'd raised my voice, surprising even myself.

They all stopped talking and turned to me. Hickey girl squinted and poked out her crusty lips. Is there a problem, old lady? She had some nerve calling me old with those smokers' wrinkles on her face. My problem is your cigarette smoke. I'll smoke if I fucking want to. She took a puff and blew it in my direction, but the breeze blew the whispers of white back to her.

I noticed the bright red lipstick had edged above the top of her lip and made it look as if her nose were bleeding. I smiled, and that seemed to infuriate her. But before she could wow us with her wit, the squawk of the seagull from the tideline interrupted her. The large white bird flew into the air and swooped down between us, prancing across the sand with its black-lined wings spread, revealing a red streak on its right side under its wing.

I'd never seen a red streak seagull before. Was it paint? Catch up from a stolen meal? Blood? The seagull eyed the open cooler filled with slice ham and beer that sat near Hickey Girl. And it wailed, its bill opening and closing near her leg. Forgetting about me, Hickey Girl turned on the creature as it snapped at her.

Get the fuck away. When she kicked it with her bare foot, sand shot up between them. The gull squawked its protest as it hopped back onto its webbed feet, then approached Hickey Girl again, this time with its wings spread like two splayed paper fans growing above its head. She raised upon her knees, but the tip of her cigarette against the bird's wing and burn the creature. Get out of here, you dumb thing!

The gull cried out and flew down to the water's end. where it dawdled with its head sunk low. Hickey girl faced me again, fixing her lips to continue our disagreement. And then I said it. Your blood is on this ground. You will die soon. She stood, holding the cigarette between her fingers, her pudgy stomach falling over her bikini bottoms.

What the fuck did you just say to me, you janky bitch? Your blood is on this. this ground, I repeated. You will die soon. I don't know why I said it, and no clue where the thoughts of words came from. It was as if someone else had gotten inside of me and started talking. It might have been because I just turned 40, with one gray hair on my sideburn and worry lines developing on my forehead, and was therefore sensitive about being called old. But as soon as the words left my mouth, I immediately regretted them. Hickey girl threw her cigarette butt into the sand and stomped toward me.

But her boyfriend stood and stepped in front of her, cutting off her path. Easy, he whispered. Let's just go over there. He moved her closer to the water while turning to eye me. I thought he would give me an angry look. maybe curse at me, but his eyes seemed concerned, worried, maybe even, frightened. Hey, we'll just go over here, okay? We'll stay out of your way. He bowed his head, and they all followed him down to the water. Hicky girl stuck her tongue out at me as they moved towards the

ocean, because I guess that's considered a comeback when you're a teenager. Moments later, they seemed to have forgotten what I'd said as they laughed, tossed each other in the water, and chased one another, slapping their bare feet along the earth and making sloppy prints in the sand. I realized I was envious of them. Of her, actually. Free? Tough. I compared my perception of her life to my own. I thought of Frank, and continued planning my estate.

escape from our three-bedroom home and two-year courtship of polite language, and even more polite love-making. An hour passed, and after immersing myself in Atwood's stories, I forgot about the Ragdad group. The sun lowered a bit, and I needed a re-application of sunscreen. I looked up once, and noticed the hooligans were all near me again, taking turns, burying one another in the sand. My phone vibrated in my bag. I answered. It was Frank. I told him I'd be home soon, and yet another hour later, I packed up, put on my straw hat, and turned to walk to my car, which was parked on the coast road at the edge of the sand. It should have been the end of an uneventful beach day. Then she screamed.

It wasn't like her playful squeals from when they first arrived, or her annoyed shriek when her friends had dunked her too many times in the waves. This was a high-pitched screech that sprang from pain. I pivot and saw her buried in the sand to her neck. The guys jumped onto their hands and knees beside her and clawed the sparkling grains back from around her throat. What's wrong? Her boyfriend shouted.

Terror widened her eyes. and blood spilled from the side of her mouth. It hurts! I dropped my bag, and with my phone in my hand, ran over to them. What's wrong? I asked the only other girl in the group.

She turned to me, teary-eyed. We don't know! The guys continued to claw out the sand, exposing Hickey Girl's shoulders, then her chest, and eventually she raised her arms to them. But the same, Sand still covered her body from her stomach down.

Her friends grabbed her by her armpits and tugged, but they must have packed her in with wet sand because she wouldn't budge. Do you have a shovel or a bucket? They gathered those items as if they hadn't realized they had them until I'd spoken. They scooped up and raked the sand with those plastic tools, but she was seeming to lose consciousness. It hurts so bad.

She whispered as her head slumped forward and her eyes drooped. I'm sorry. Blood dripped from her mouth and dotted the sand, making it look as if she were surrounded by berries. Your blood is on this ground. Wasn't that what had come from my mouth? Do something! Her friend shouted at me.

I dialed 911. No reception. I backed up a few feet and dialed again. Still, no reception. I glanced toward the ocean and noticed the seagull looking at the spectacle from the water with the attentiveness of a rubbernecker watching the aftermath of a car accident.

It squawked again, raised its right wing, and revealed its red streak, maybe because my pulse had quickened or because my panicked brain had gone to mush. But I could have sworn the seagull was smiling. The guys removed the sand down to Hicky Girl's thighs and tugged on her again. When they pulled this time, they were able to free her, but her legs were separated from her body at the knees and remained buried in the sand.

Her exposed skin was covered in burns. She looked as if she'd been pulled from a housefire. The other girl fell onto all fours, uttered a blood-curdling scream, and did not stop for several minutes. 911, what's your emergency? It was a woman's voice on the line. The ground belched, then swallowed the hicky girl's legs. A lump of sand marked where her lower extremities were buried.

Breathless and confused, I said. The sand ate her. The seagull cackled in the background, and, when the 911 call was released to the press, the sand ate her became the headline in the local papers scientists and wildlife experts in charge of the area around Gulsarath admitted that the county

had been administering an unauthorized sterilization fluid to the seagull population along that stretch of coast and the birds had shed the poison into the sand. I believe the authorities were trying to do away with the town's reputation and attract tourists again and, unbeknownst to the underhanded official who purchased the fluid, the liquid agent reacted violently to fire, and Hickey Girl's cigarette was apparently not extinguished

when she chucked it seconds before surrendering herself to her friends for sand burial. They pronounced her dead at the scene. Her friend, the girl who'd cried and shouted at me to do something, tracked me down on social media and sent me a direct message about how I'd cursed her friend that day, and she hoped I'd die a painful death. myself. A retribution curse, she called it. I thought about writing her back, telling her that my words had done no such thing, but then I figured maybe I deserve the curse. I think I'm the villain of this story. I returned to Gull's wrath once, after I left Frank for good. I placed a rose in

the lump of sand where the girl had died. I sat on my blanket nearby. and watched as a seagull walked from the ocean, across the cool sand and up to the rose. It opened its mouth, ate the flower, squawked, and flew away. When its wings were spread fully, a red streak appeared on its side, when it had gotten high enough to be barely detectable. It wailed. Anyone listening along with me would have thought the gull had laughed. Creepy presents, the fiddle, written by Olus Pellar, and narrated by Owen McKeown.

Caleb Kean hated Justin Price with the full and perfect hatred of an 11-year-old. The Price family sat at the front pew every Sunday. They were old money in the town of Sedan and stood out from the hardscrabble farmers, the miners, and the cowhands, like rhinestones. in the gutter. Justin's grandfather had founded the place, putting up seed money for the lead mine that kept the town going. Justin's father was the mayor, and his mother was the leading light in the choral society, in the Women's Institute, and the Bridge Club. But Caleb was in every way, it seemed, the opposite of Justin. His father was on a chain gang in Alabama. None of the kids at school knew why, but the adults whispered,

He was never coming home. Caleb's ma did the wash for wealthy people like the prices. She fixed the tears and rents in the petticoats and sheets, darned the socks, and patched the knees of the less well-heeled, working long hours for every quarter. But that was not why Caleb hated Justin. It was only natural that the prices gave their child the best. He had a palomino to ride, while Caleb had only Shanks' pony.

He had the softest feather bed and slept under warm, thick blankets, while Caleb shivered under a threadbare quilt and listened to the wind rattling the loose panes of glass in the window of their cabin. Justin's socks were never darned, his knees were never patched, while Caleb's feet knew no socks, and his overalls were more patched than original. But that was not why Caleb hated him. Justin had a violin from Italy and a violin teacher from Germany. But worse, far worse than that, he had the gifts to play it well.

It was no wonder that at the Christmas concert and the end of the year recital, Justin Price was given pride of place. If Caleb's family had any gift, it was that they could dance. He and his little sister, Eudora, his beloved Dora, had feet as light as they were bare. Many a Saturday they danced outside the general store for nickels and dimes that helped their family stay fed. At the county fair, they won prizes every year.

But lately, whenever they'd seen Dora dancing, the older boys sniggered and told dirty jokes about Evelyn Nesbitt and dancing girls in Chicago and New York. They asked Dora if she'd ever been in the red velvet swing, though she had no eye idea what they meant, Caleb grew hot at their mockery. Sudan's youth had but a sketchy idea who Evelyn Nesbitt might be, or what had transpired far off in the Empire City, but that did not matter. None of them had ever been closer to Chicago or New York than the county seat, but their lewd innuendo had turned Dora's great gift to ashes in his mouth. Among all the sniggering dirty-minded boys, Justin Price, the 13-year-old Prince of

sedan tormented Dora the most and earned the full measure of Caleb's enmity. Ma forbade him to assault Justin with his fists, but there were other sorts of revenge. So, just shy of the witching hour, under a full moon, Caleb stood at the crossroads waiting. His ma didn't know he was there. He snuck out after she was asleep. She didn't know he hadn't eaten the sausage she made for his supper. The first meat Caleb had on his plate in three days. He'd hidden it while her back was turned and had used it to keep old man Cornelius's dog quiet while Caleb stole his black rooster. Just wait, he thought to himself. I'll show Justin Price and all those guys. At least he would if the stories are true. He'd followed

them to the letter. He'd used the rooster's blood to make the circle at the crossroads and drawn a star with graveyard dirt and ground Yarrow. He'd lit the black candle in a moonshine jar and waited for midnight. Far off, the courthouse clock began to toll the hours. Even here, the mile from town, the night air vibrated with each stroke. Caleb counted them, silently to begin with,

but out loud as the hour itself drew nigh. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. That can't be right. Caleb said. There's no such thing as 13 o'clock. It occurred to him that perhaps he was at home, dreaming in bed, under the comforter sewn from old flower sacks, not out here near the old cemetery with the leaves rattling in the autumn wind.

But he knew he hadn't made a mistake in his counting. At that moment, a figure appeared in the circle Caleb had drawn in the gravel. There was a whiff of sulfur in the air. The stranger was tall, as tall as any man in the county, Caleb was sure. He wore a black hat and a long black coat that looked dusty even in moonlight. His silver spurs were fastened with straps of rattlesnake skin, and the rouse on them were shaped like the cross, but waited so they always hung upside down.

He did not speak, but his eyes, filled with a dark and unholy flame, pierced the shadows all around the crossroads. Caleb knew he wished to know who had summoned him. He swallowed hard. There was still time to run, and he was fast on his feet. Am I fast enough to outrun the stranger? Caleb wondered. In his bones, he doubted it.

Slowly he stepped out from the spot where he had hidden himself, underneath an elder tree. The stranger regarded him coldly, but the flames in his eyes danced as if he found the presence of a boy amusing. He turned as if to depart, but Caleb's voice arrested him. You can't leave until we're done, mister, Caleb said, trying not to let the tremor in his voice silence him.

That's the rules. I studied it. The stranger turned back and nodded, acknowledging the truth of the boy's statement. Caleb took a deep breath and steadied himself. He did not quail before the stranger. stranger's gaze. He was not going to let himself be called yellowbelly. I'd drawn the circle, Mr. Caleb said. I stole that black rooster and cut its throat. The stranger's face remained an impassive mask, but something about the way he stood let

Caleb know he was impressed. He bowed slightly in acknowledgment. Caleb knew the stranger wanted to know why he's been summoned. He did not seem a patient sort, and the night would not last forever, but Caleb hesitated. The flames in the stranger's dark eyes died down a little, but Caleb knew he was serious. No one had summoned him to Sedan since, well, if he got down to it, Caleb didn't know if he'd ever been summoned here before, and did not think it was a good idea to waste the stranger's time. Mr. I need to learn how to play the fiddle, Caleb blurted out. Better than Justin Price, better than anybody. The stranger nodded.

Then he seemed to raise an eyebrow, as if inquiring if that was all that was wanted. Caleb swallowed hard. Now he knew that it was really true. He could get anything he wanted. A thousand ideas flashed through his brain. What boy doesn't want everything in the world? But just as quickly, he knew it would be perilous to ask.

Besides, his ma would want to know how he came by it all. Playing the fiddle, he might explain. but other things might be harder. Just that, Mr. Caleb said. The stranger waited a moment to see if Caleb wanted to add to his request. Ideas crowded his mind. A pony, or ice cream every day, or a genuine rifle. But Caleb did not yield to such wild urges.

He knew what he wished for with all his heart, the ability to cast Justin down from his pedestal. I'm not greedy, Mr. Caleb replied, Playing the fiddles plenty. The stranger took off his hat and smoothed his hair back. In the moonlight, his curls

seemed to twist like snakes. Caleb sensed he was impressed by his decision to refuse to ask for more. Placing his hat back on his head, the stranger held out his hand. For a moment, Caleb did not know why. Then he realized the stranger was asking to see his fiddle.

Panic swept through Caleb. He'd never considered that he didn't have a fiddle. There wasn't even a possibility of him owning one, not on the money his ma earned. Don't got one, Caleb said. He looked at the road, unable to meet the stranger's eyes. He hoped he couldn't see his lip quiver. The flames sprung up in the dark eyes once again, dancing merrily as if with amusement. After a moment, the stranger nodded, that from under his long black duster, he pulled out a fiddle. What a fiddle it was, too. The back and sides were flame-grained walnut.

The top was rocky mountain spruce, and the neck was made of good old chestnut. The fingerboard and tuners were the darkest eminy, and the scroll was carved into the head of a rattlesnake. Not even Justin Price could boast a finer instrument. The stranger held the fiddle out for Caleb. He reached for it, but at the last second, the stranger held it out of reach. I promise, Mr. Caleb said, divining the stranger's intent. You let me know how to play that there fiddle, better than anybody you ever heard,

and I'll pay your price in a year and a day. Ain't that how it's supposed to work? The stranger nodded solemnly. He handed Caleb the fiddle. From some recess in his coat, he pulled out a scroll and a scroll in an an old-fashioned pen appeared with a snap of his fingers. The dead black rooster stood up and walked over to them, headless, and the stranger dipped the pen in its bloody neck.

He offered the pen to Caleb and showed him where to sign. He hesitated only a second. Once I pay you, we're quits, right? The stranger nodded and offered the pen again. Caleb took it, and, with shaking hand, signed his name on the scroll. Caleb knew the preacher would say he was a sinner. He knew his ma would take him to the woodshed.

But he had to beat Justin Price and wiped the dirty smirk off his face. He just had to. The stranger took Caleb's hands in his. His icy fingers showed Caleb how to bend his fingers to make the notes. Caleb could feel his grip grow stronger, his fingers long and flexible,

as fleet on the fingerboard as his heels when he was dancing. The stranger held Caleb's right hand and showed him how to bow. He showed him how to finger pluck and played with the fiddle sticks as Caleb fingered and bowed a melody. At length, the distant courthouse clock told one o'clock. The stranger's head looked up, toward the east, though dawn was still a long way off. It came into Caleb's mind that he should play the stranger out.

He set the fiddle under his chin, drew the bow, and began to play. He recognized the old tune, The Devil's Dream. The stranger danced the jig in time to the music, spun around three times, and disappeared without a trace. When he woke up in the morning, Caleb's ma had already gone off to work. She wouldn't be back until suppertime. Caleb pulled the fiddle out from under the bed. Yudora's eyes were wide as he tuned. it. When he started to play, she laughed and clapped and began to dance. When the Christmas

concert came, Justin still got to play my country, tis of thee, but it was Caleb who got to play silent night. His playing brought the house down. Before the end of school recital rolled around, Justin had been exiled to play in the band for the chorus, but Caleb got three numbers on his own. The other boys stopped their bullying and sniggers, even though Justin Price glared at Caleb any time he went by. His power was broken. The year flew by, and Caleb forgot about the stranger. He was just a 12-year-old boy, after all.

That Friday was a year and a day since Caleb received the fiddle, but he did not go out at midnight to wait at the crossroads. He slept in his bed, warmed by the fuel his playing, had allowed his family to buy. That Saturday, when he started to play outside the general store, he saw the stranger standing opposite him. The agreed-upon bargain came back to Caleb in an instant. His playing faltered, but the stranger fixed him with his dark stare,

and he picked up the tune, playing as if nothing was wrong. But in his belly, he felt the cold of fear. I didn't mean to cheat you, Mr. Caleb said. He knew he spoke aloud, but he said. but no one standing around him seemed to notice. The stranger's eyes showed flames. He was not pleased. Dora danced, and all eyes were on her,

as the stranger moved to stand before Caleb. You've been good as your word, Mr. Caleb said. I beat that Justin Price at his own game. People say I play as good as Paganini, whoever he is. The stranger nodded. It was no more than fair to pay the stranger, what he was due, Caleb knew. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he remembered the old saying,

He who pays the fiddler calls the tune. He looked into the stranger's face, but it was barely discernible in the deep shadow under the brim of his hat. Only his eyes glittered and burned, as if he desired something the way a starving man hungers for a meal. Do you want my soul now, mister? Caleb asked. The thought of eternity spent apart from his ma and Dora brought tears to Caleb's eyes, but blinked them away. He would not look like a coward, not even in front of the stranger. The stranger shook his head and spat, as if the idea of taking a boy's soul was somehow distasteful. In an instant, Caleb knew he hungered for spicier sins,

and peccadillo's far more tangy than a boy of twelve can muster. He simply hadn't sinned enough to make his soul interesting to the stranger. Then Caleb noticed that the stranger's burning eyes followed every move of Dora as she danced for the people come to town for their shopping. You can't, mister. Not Dora, said Caleb, and he swallowed hard. She didn't do nothing. You can't have her soul. His playing faltered again, but a glance from the stranger. and his fingers moved of their own will,

and his bow sawed faster on the strings. The stranger's face was a mask, unfathomable, and depraved beyond Caleb's darkest imaginings. The thought rose in Caleb's heart, like springwater rushing up when you crack the ice that covers in in the dead of winter, that if the stranger didn't want Caleb's soul, a little girl's soul was even less appetizing to him.

But if he took her life, that might make people question the all-mobile. mighty. From there, they might stumble into blasphemy or despair. Caleb felt a sudden fear for his mother, how she would take it if her little girl was snatched away. You can't kill her, Mr. You just can't. Ma would just die of heartbreak. She might even take poison, Caleb said. I'll give it back, Mr. The fiddle, the play, and everything. You take it all back. I'm sorry I ever asked for it. The stranger shook his head, implacably, and spat in the dirt again. It wasn't the fiddle he wanted, no matter how fine an instrument it was.

Even Caleb's skill at playing held no interest for the stranger. Please! Caleb was begging now, and he could not keep the tears from his eyes as he played. Please don't do it, Mr. Please, take me instead. My life got to be good for something. Far off, at the corner of the street, old man Cornelius's wagon came round the corner. As it turned toward them, something spooked the horses, and they broke into a fast run. The wagon rattled and bounced toward the crowd of people standing around, watching Dora dance.

Caleb played, and his eyes implored the stranger to relent. But like old King Canute ordering the tide to stop, there seemed no chance it would happen. the horses ran on. Please don't kill her, mister, he said. You can have me, but don't hurt Dora. The stranger's mouth smiled, but not his eyes. The horses ran on. Caleb could stand it no more.

He ran as fast as he could toward Dora, dragging her out of the street. He lifted her up onto the plank sidewalk. The stranger had vanished. The crowd, suddenly aware of the danger, scattered as old Cornelius cursed at the horses and hauled hard on the reins. The wagon gave a lurch as the wheels ran over Caleb's back and hips. Old Cornelius sold the horses in the wagon to help pay for the hospital. Most of the town folk contributed what they could. Even the prices gave a generous sum. There was a benefit where Justin Price played his violin, then Dora danced. All agreed there had never

been finer entertainment in sedan. In the end, Caleb's ma only owed the hospital $13, but it took nearly a year to pay at a quarter a week. The accident left Caleb with one short leg and a crooked back. His dancing days were done, but he never complained about it. The fiddle was broken past repairing. One day, when it was cold and there was no fuel, Caleb used it to make a fire in their old stove. It burned bright like a good fire, but Caleb felt no warmth from it. Dora ran off with a traveling show when she was 15.

Sometimes she sent a postcard, but she never came back to Sedan. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also find Follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments share-a-like licensing,

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