Creepy - The Scarlet Well

Episode Date: December 15, 2025

The Scarlet Well***Written by: Simon Bleaken  and narrated by: Nate DuFort***I’m Being Kept Alive as an Organ Farm***Written by: B. McCreary ***The Shimmering Tree***Written by: Christian Wallis and narrated by: Michelle Kane***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***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. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, everyone. Quick shout out to our new patrons over at patreon.com slash creepypod.

Terry, Robin Knight, Darth Lesbiotch, Sean Parsons, Jesco Bostic, Pierre Tomaso Spagullo, and if I mispronounce that, please let me know, and Nora Weston. All of them are getting early commercial free access to all episodes, and some are getting weekly bonus episodes, and others are getting logo merch. To see what you can get for supporting the show, check out patreon.com slash creepypod. So, to follow up on that ad Owen told me about, I checked in with the station manager, and he said any job postings were HR's responsibility, which I almost had to laugh about. There can't be more than six or seven people working here, so the idea that there's an HR department is a little amusing. And whoever they are, I haven't run into him yet.

I mean, technically I've only met the station manager because of the hours I work most of the time, but I'm sure they're around somewhere and can answer what I'm sure they will think is a question that I have no real business asking. But I will feel at least a little bit hurt to know that what I was doing for the company had enough value to hire someone. Just not me. I also ran into an issue with playing more recordings from Eddie. Seems like the station manager doesn't really have the soft spot for Eddie that I feel when I listen to a stop. and he doesn't want me playing any more of his audio, which really isn't a problem because there isn't anymore.

After the last one I played, you haven't been able to find any more tape on him. Like, you just never showed up again and no one felt the need to mention it. Which isn't that big of a deal? It happens in radio all the time. One day a host is just gone, and you just had to guess what happened before the internet came along anyway. I'm going to keep looking, though. I know I didn't say it at the time.

but it was really weird that I couldn't hear the caller that seemed to spook Eddie so much. The station used something called a Gentor Telos to record live call-in, so it should have recorded both sides of the conversation, not just Eddie's reactions. It could help give me a little closure on Eddie if the caller had shared some embarrassing piece of information on the air. Unless in the middle of the call, Eddie had dumped everything the caller said, but that wouldn't account for the dead air moments. I don't know.

Now since in wasting your time listening to me wonder about this stuff, I'll let you know if I find anything else. In the meantime, let's get to this week's stories. First up, a cynical writer visits a reclusive witch coven to exploit their secrets for a sensational book, but beneath the manicured facade, ancient powers stir. From writer Simon Bleacon, and narrated by Nate Dufort, Creepy Presents The Scarlet Well Edward Pryor paused halfway up the long driveway,

stopping beneath the fragrant branches of a black cherry tree as he regarded the sprawling house ahead with a cynical smile. So, this was the infamous layer of the coven of the Scarlet Witch. It wasn't what he'd expected. He'd assumed the building would be grim and foreboding with a heavy funereal air, or with at least a brooding and malignant sense of diabolical menace lurking about it. But the grand three-story house that stood elegantly among the trees,

surrounded by neatly manicured lawns, bordered by sweet-smelling jasmine, rose, lavender, and heather was well-tended and looked far too trim and welcoming to have been the sinister haunt of evil and chaos. For a moment, he wondered if he'd come to the wrong house, but a quick check of the scribbled address on the page torn from one of his notebooks confirmed that he'd arrived at his intended destination. He had come to Averton, Massachusetts, lured from his home in Boston by a most unusual invitation, and he couldn't help but feel the unease that commingled with his growing sense of excitement.

There were dark rumors about this place, whispered tales of terrible rights and unhallowed. and blasphemous practices, of maligned witchcraft and devilry, and of shocking, orgiastic revels beneath the full moon. Though, looking now at the well-maintained house, brightly surrounded by such beautiful lawns and tidy flower-beds, he wished it had presented a more baleful aspect. It would have helped him sell his book. The heavy wooden door opened as he neared it, revealing that his approach up the driveway had been observed. The middle-aged man who emerged, tall and thin, with an erudite and cultured air about him,

also looked far too commonplace and mundane to be a member of some iniquitous coven. In fact, in his brown waistcoat and tweed jacket, he looked more like an old-fashioned librarian. I'm Edward Pryor. I was invited here. Are you Mr. Underwood? The suspicion fell away, replaced by an amiable smile and a twinkle in his green eyes. He extended a hand and said he was glad Edward could make it.

How could I refuse an exclusive interview with the head of a coven as private as this one? Edward replied, I'd be a fool to turn that down. The man opened the door wider and gestured at the hall beyond, asking him to come inside and to call him Vincent. Edward looked around with marked curiosity as he stepped. inside. His first impression, even from the long entrance hall, was that the house seemed a sprawling maze of passageways, dark furniture, and heavy doors, and the sunlight coming through the windows had a curiously muted quality, as if the glass were somehow tinted. Quite a place you have here, Edward noted, as he followed the man into a wide lounge where two expensive leather chairs

rested close to an unlit fireplace. Vincent gestured at the first chair, and in a invited him to sit as he settled into the second. As I said over the phone, I'm writing about the history of the witch trials and contrasting that with surviving in modern witchcraft practices and beliefs. I've interviewed many Wiccans and traditional witches in the course of working on this book. There seemed to be as many different approaches to it as there are people. Vincent had listened patiently and then smiled, promising him that while there were many types of witchcraft being practiced, he vowed that Edward had yet.

yet to interview anyone quite like this coven. I've heard as much. Vincent arched an eyebrow with that. Oh, just that, well, I stopped in Salem on my way here. I mentioned your coven to a woman working one of the witchcraft shops there. I know I was asked to keep this meeting strictly secret, so I lied and just told her that I wanted to get a quick look at the house in passing, you know, from the road. A sad smile crossed Vincent's lips as he explained that his his coven had a tarnished reputation, even amongst the current practitioners of the craft. Actually, she said you were dangerous, Edward added, gauging his host's reaction, but, you see, it all just made me realize how much I needed to get your side of the story.

Vincent steepled his fingers together, giving Edward an appraising look before, offering to take him on a tour of the house. That'd be fantastic, Edward said eagerly. but a nagging question forced itself onto his tongue. I've been wondering, though, for a group that's remained secret for so long and who wishes to stay in the shadows, why are you even talking to me at all? Vincent explained that they had taken an interest in Edward's research

and in the book he was planning. After being hounded by false accusations for decades, the Coven felt the time had come to dispel some of those untruths. I'm glad you mentioned that because there is a darker edge to your coven, isn't there? That is, if the stories online are to be believed. Vincent assured him it was all baseless gossip fueled solely by ignorance, stressing that people feared what they didn't know and naturally indulged their sordid imaginations and expected the worst.

So there's no truth at all to the allegations of black magic? Vincent gave a wry smile, assuring him that they didn't perform sacrifices or dance naked beneath the moon at Valpergis night and suckle at the devil's teat, nor did they burst into flame should they walk into a church, not that they often did. Then Vincent guided him from the lounge and down a series of short hallways. They emerged into a cavernous library with narrow windows and shelves on all the walls that stretched to the ceiling. The space was shadowing and tranquil, lit only by the thin shafts of light from the windows and a few pools of illumination from green banker's lamps on side tables next to comfortable chairs. Vincent explained that this is where the majority of their occult tomes were stored, and that it was one of the finest private collections in the country.

It's not what I expected, Edward admitted. Vincent laughed and asked what he had expected. a ruined church with a huge inverted cross, or perhaps an old basement or sepulchre cloaked in miasmal vapors. He assured him that times had moved on. That's one of the things I will address in my book, Edward lied. He already planned to give as much credence as possible to all the wild stories and dark rumors of this place. The more depraved and shocking, the better. That was, after all, what the public wanted, and it would practically sell his own.

book for him. When he had started researching, he had hoped to fill his book with countless lurid details of debased ritual, shocking revelations, and sinister practices. But instead, he had found a great many modern witches to be disappointingly decent people with a reverence for life, far from the satanic fiends he needed to promote his book. There had been no juicy hexes to include, no brutal animal sacrifices and no corruption of the young or vulnerable. It was infuriating. What was wrong with people these days? What he needed were the sort of dark revelations that would instill in his readers a hefty dose of outward outrage coupled with secret vicarious thrills, the sort that would get people clutching their pearls in public, while covertly rushing to buy copies of the book

in droves. He had started to fear he would never find a suitable candidate, but here, here, he finally had something he could actually work with, though Vincent would need a hefty bit of rewriting. Perhaps Edward mused, he'd give him a few piercings and tattoos, dress him in black, and provide him with a sharp penetrating gaze. He'd aim for somewhere between Anton LeVay and Alistair Crowley. That would be far more suitable and would give his book the darkly sensational edge it needed. And since this place was so secretive and any names would be changed in the finished text, he would make it harder for anyone to disprove any claims he made and should limit any comeback on him from the coven as well. Yes, this would be perfect.

As he wandered over to inspect some of the books, Vincent explained that the coven's origins were quite ancient and once had ties with numerous other New England covens, though associations were cut during the witch hunts of the late 17th century. Whilst the majority of the unfortunate victims of those barbaric times weren't witches at all, quite a few covens were still discovered and entirely broken up. Their members tried and hanged. But the coven in Averton had deep roots, and what they failed to destroy, had grown back all the stronger. Vincent then asked him to follow, deeper, into the house.

How many of you are there now? As Edward went to leave the library, a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye made him hesitate. He squinted into the darkness where something hazy and nebulous seemed to be silently drifting across the room, a deeper black against the shadows around it. He blinked, and it was gone. If it had never been there at all, He caught up with Vincent in the passageway just outside, and for the next 20 minutes, they worked their way deeper into the massive old house. From mundane spaces like the kitchens and living areas, to chambers where herbs and animal remains were dried and stored in countless brown glass jars and airtight containers,

and spaces set aside for ritual purposes, divination and meditation. There was even a large ballroom with a long banqueting table at the far end where Edward could easily imagine depraved parties and hedonistic sexual orgies taking place, though he kept such lurid ideas to himself. He'd be sure to add them to the book, though. He could almost smell the money he was going to make from it. The further they went, the more the unsettling and oppressive feel of the house grew. Edward assumed it was just nerves.

He was, after all, piercing the esoteric heart of an infamous witch's lair, and that was hardly an everyday occurrence. It was bound to feel a bit unusual, he rationalized. But then there were the shadows, like the one he had first noticed in the library. He kept seeing more and more of them, all over the place. They moved silently and quickly like dark specters, unaffected by the sunlight streaming through the windows. What was more, he didn't like the way they appeared to be following him from room to room.

He told himself it was merely a trick of the light or a side effect of those oddly tinted windows. Perhaps it was just his eyes, tired from the long journey from Boston the day before. He didn't really believe any of those things, but he tried to push it from his mind before he could dwell too deeply on what it might mean. He didn't believe in magic, and he certainly didn't believe in ghosts. Such things were nothing more than delusions created by infrasound, electromagnetic fields, or Helmholt's resonance inside buildings, or else just hypnogadgic hallucinations,

imperfections in memory, or the mind fooling itself in countless different ways. But as they emerged into a hallway at the back of the house, his crumbling composure was finally shattered when one of those nebulous shadows actually reached out for him, stretching out to faint half-formed arm, as if imploring. A sudden cold shock washed over him. him as he realized he could see a horrible vague human outline to the thing, including deeper points

of darkness that were suggestive of eyes and a mouth, opened as if an eternal scream. He stumbled backwards and it was gone instantly, leaving nothing but a strange and lingering coldness to betray where it had been. Did you see? He stammered, but could already tell from the bewildered look on Vincent's face that he had not. "'Sorry,' he said, after a moment spent desperately composing himself. "'I think I'm more nervous than I realized.' Vincent assured him it was quite all right.

He was, after all, stepping into a brave new world, and it was bound to seem more than a little unusual. He then added as an afterthought that he should have warned Edward that the house was haunted, explaining that witches and spirits had walked hand in hand for centuries. spirits? Edward pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself. I'm sorry, could we stop for a moment? I need some air.

Vincent agreed explaining that he was planning a light lunch for them in the garden, and that now would be the perfect time to eat. Edward trailed after his host in silence, casting anxious glances back down the hall as they went. It appeared those curious living shadows were holding back. He could just make out their somber, forms lurking on the threshold of the last room they had exited, but they were no longer following. The light and warmth of the garden were staggering when Edward stepped outside, having become accustomed

to the oddly muted light within the house. The rear garden was expansive, with rows of neatly pruned trees and flower beds running down to a small wooden pagoda at the edge of a lake. Closer to the house, Edward saw a large earthen circle framed by a trio of oak, trees and an old well with curiously discolored stones. Clustered around it in the shade of the trees, the purple flowers of Etropa Belladana and Digitalis Perperia lurked with poisonous patience. Vincent sighed, taking a deep breath as they took in the beauty of the garden, then warned him not to be fooled by it. He added that it was the last bastion of civilized land in quite some way, and beyond the garden was an expansive set of untamed wetlands and woodlands that ran for miles.

Edward was too busy glancing at the house for fear that those shadowy figures might be spilling out after them to pay much attention to what Vincent was saying. But when it became clear that they were safely alone, he allowed himself to be guided like a nervous child over to a small metal table and two ornate garden chairs that waited under an elegant white parasol. Vincent told him to relax that a little food and drink would fortify his shaken nerves. He waved at the house and two people hurried out carrying trays, an older woman and a young girl in her late teens.

They set down two large plates containing a selection of sandwiches, a pitcher of iced lemonade and glasses, and then retreated inside without saying a word. Are they part of your coven? Edward asked. Vincent reached for the pitcher and poured some lemonade for his guest, remarking that it was merely their cook and her daughter, and that the rest of the coven had been sent away while Edward was being shown around, as it was hard enough to maintain the privacy of their members at the best of times.

Edward sat back, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the bright serenity of the gardens as he sipped the deliciously cool lemonade, the perfect mix of sour and sweet, and nibbled at the sandwiches. He watched the softly swaying trees, the bobbing heads of the bright flowers, as bees flitted to and fro among them, and listened to the gentle lapping of the lake far off down the garden. It took a few moments before he realized,

his eyes were growing heavy, and his vision was blurring, and another second more to make the hazy connection that his host hadn't consumed anything from the table. Vincent smiled and asked, how he was feeling. Edward blinked trying to sit up, but his limbs were heavy and unresponsive. Vincent was watching him from across the table, his face shifting in and out of focus, or a smile of triumph. Vincent instructed him not to try and move but to close his eyes. He told the startled man that they had a lot to prepare, and Edward would want to be well-rested

for tonight's event. With a monumental effort, Edward forced himself to stand, reeling and lurching as he staggered to his feet. The world spun drunkenly about him, the sense of the flowers had turned sickening, and his feet refused to go where he wanted them to. He collided with the table, sending the pitcher toppling and scattering sandwiches to the ground. Vincent watched him with growing amusement. Edward squeezed his eyes tight as he tried to walk, feeling the pitch and turn of the ground beneath his feet get faster,

his stomach churning, almost as if he were staggering, blindly, across a frantically whirling carousel. He took three ungainly steps before toppling forward into one of the flower beds, as the darkness of unconsciousness claimed him. Awareness crept back into Edward's body gradually, from the nagging discomfort in his arms and legs, to the dull pulsing throb behind his eyes.

and the sharp acrid burn at the back of his throat. Every part of his body ached. Slowly, his eyes opened and his brow furrowed in confusion, moments before his realigning mind remembered what had happened. Wincing as he turned his neck, he realized with a burst of alarm that hours had passed, and the gloaming was spreading its crepuscular cloak over the world once more. He was sitting on the rough earth of the circle,

with his back against one of the oak trees, his wrists and ankles tightly bound. A roaring brassiere blazed at its heart, and the garden was illuminated in the lambent glow of torches and lanterns, and a small incense burner crackled as a plume of noxiously scented gray smoke lifted towards a sickle moon. Turning his head the other way, he saw two horned stangs had been driven into the ground to form an entrance to the space.

The old well lay at the westernmost edge of the circle, and many tall candles had been lit around it, illuminating those curiously stained stones. Hey, Edward called, feigning bravery as panic lands through his body. Hey, this isn't funny. You can't do this. Vincent stepped into the circle from out of the indigo dark night. He was naked, saved for an open-fronted robe of deep crimson. In one hand he clutched a thin wand of sharpened bone, its surface decorated in strange runes and sigils, the tip lethally sharp. In the other, he held a long blade with a black handle.

He looked down at the cowering man and told him that the spirits that had terrified him within the house were mere shades. Former enemies summoned and bound in eternal servitude. But the honored dead were waiting, and tonight they would be seen. summoned. Please, Edward begged, tears coursing down his face. Just let me go. I won't press charges. In fact, I won't say anything to anybody. I won't even mention you in the book. Just, please, please, let me go. Vincent explained it was far too late for any of that, assuring him that he would answer for your crimes, before their master and before the spirits of their ancestral dead. My crimes, Edward blinked in confusion.

Vincent's eyes were cold as he revealed that the coven knew that Edward had come here to make money from the legacy of his ancestor, Isaac Pryor, the deluded fanatic and witch-hunter, who butchered his way through Averton in the 17th century. He explained that they had invited him here so the descendant of the hunter could become the prey. A cistrum rattled, and the coven entered in a silent procession. passing between the stangs, and walking solemnly around the edge of the circle several times before turning inwards to form a ring around the terrified man. They were robed in crimson, and most wore featureless masks over their faces. Resting atop their heads were crowns of bone, adorned with antlers from the assemblages of human fingers and toes, and snapped fragments of rib.

As shocking as this sight was, it was the movement and the undergrowth behind the Coven members that drew Edward's attention. Strange creatures were peering from the foliage beyond the circle, caught for a moment in a flicker of firelight. There were lean and wiry cats of abnormal size, with fierce red eyes, burning with preternatural intelligence, monstrous and hunched gargoyle-like imps with corpse-grey leathery skin

and horrible rat-like things with alarmingly human faces. He squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach churning, and a greasy, nauseating tear, inching up his gullet, burning like bile as he willed the horrible familiars away, desperately hoping they were mere illusions caused by the drugs in his system. But when he opened his eyes again, the creatures were still there, watching from the darkness. Tears ran down his face as Edward fought against his restraints. He thought the ones on his legs might be working loose but couldn't be sure. The residual drugs that still coursed through his body cast the whole scene in livid, unreal hues,

and exacerbated the dreamlike hallucinatory bizarerness of the situation. He no longer knew what was real. He only knew that if he didn't get away, he was sure to die here. Vincent called for the offering to be brought forth as he marched into the heart of the circle beside the brassiere. He lifted his arms high, directing the wand towards the sky and leveling the blade at the well. There came the sounds of a scuffle, and muffled cries broke the night as two more coven members entered the circle, dragging between them a young man in his early twenties. His head was painfully caged in iron scolds bridle with a metal spike piercing his tongue, keeping him from screaming.

His face was bloodied and bruised, and his naked body was covered in painted sigils. Raw rope burns had cut into the flesh on his wrists and ankles, and a wild terror blazed in his eyes. Edward stared in growing shock as the young man was dragged across to the well and bent backwards over the edge of it by his captors. Vincent explained this was a scolds bridle to silence the sacrifice, employing the very tool, they once used against the coven, as though this were merely a continuation of the earlier tour. He gestured at the well, adding that through decades of devoted sacrifice, they had made a portal of this well. It was a bridge to worlds beyond, unlocked by the simplest of keys, blood. Then, in a single fluid motion, he stepped forward and drew the blade across the young man's throat,

sending a scarlet torrent spilling down the victim's body and across the stones of the well. The young victim bucked and thrashed, a garbled wail of anguish forcing itself from his throat. Finally, his head sagging and the life hemorrhaging from his body,

the bridle was removed and he was thrown over the edge of the well. The dull splash from below, a moment later, was the last sound his body would make. That was when the scream that had been building inside Edward tore free into the night. At a gesture from Vincent, a woman stepped forward from the edge of the circle. Her long hair braided with raven's feathers.

She crouched before Edward, her hazel eyes locking onto his, and drew a small poppet and a silver pin from some hidden place within her robes. Edward blinked, dimly aware that the head of the effigy bore a tuft of huge. human hair that looked alarmingly like his own, perhaps taken while he had been unconscious. She plunged the pin into the poppet's mouth and out again, and there was an initial sharp sting as a corresponding bead of blood formed on his lip, and then the pain kicked in, a piercing, stabbing sensation all around his lips and mouth, as though the pin sinking into that effigy were plunging into and through his own flesh instead.

The raven feather woman kept her gaze fixed on him as she worked, her mouth whispering a soundless incantation as the needle glinted in her fingers, in through the poppet's top lip and out through the bottom, repeating the process over and over as if drawing an invisible line of thread behind it. Edward felt every piercing kiss of that needle, the pain of it passing through his flesh and the pull of his skin as if his lips were being bound together. His mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood and four thick streams of it oozed down his chin from his punctured lips and dripped onto his shirt. But the woman's gaze was hypnotic and held him

fast. He couldn't blink or avert his eyes. He tried to cry out, but only an unintelligible muffle reached the air. He could no longer open his mouth. His fingers scrabbled at his ravaged lips, trying to find some way of freeing them, but he could locate nothing that physically held them together. Smiling to herself, the woman slipped the poppet and the pin back into her robes and returned to the edge of the circle. Vincent declared eagerly that the dead were coming, and Edward saw that a soft white mist had risen within the well, flowing gently over the blood-stained stones in strange long tendrils of curling fog. A faint sound accompanied it, as if dozens of voices, male and female, all whispering at once. The raven-feathered woman stepped back into the heart of the circle. In her arms, she knew. She

now bore the head of a goat, and as Vincent knelt, she placed it gently over his head. Edward stifled an incoherent scream as Vincent stood and turned to face him. In his drug-addled state, the goat's head seemed to merge with Vincent's own skin, becoming a living thing. The mouth flexed, then breathed, and the eyes, once glassy and dead, took on a horribly conscious gleam. Fine hair was sprouting down Vincent's arms, and his hands appeared to be fusing into clove and hoves. It commanded that Edward look upon it, and the voice issuing from the mouth of that hideously animated goat was not that of Vincent Underwood.

It was deeper, rougher, and possessed of an ineffably inhuman quality. The yellow eyes sparkled with diabolical menace and mocking intelligence. It declared that it had worn many faces and forms and held many names, and was the chaos that crawls behind the surface of reality, co-evil with temptation and corruption. It promised that Edward would answer for the crimes of his bloodline against its followers, but Edward could only stare. The shock and horror of what stood before him rendered even more surreal by the residual influence of the drugs pulsing through his veins, was too great.

He felt insanity's touch brush his mind. But while his awareness was snared, his body continued to fight against his restraints, driven by unthinking instinct. The bonds around his ankles were working loose. Drawn by the blood, the mist from the well reached the floor, spreading out slowly, thick and roiling.

The disembodied whispering echoed around them, as though carried from some remote place. As the mist flooded into the heart of the circle, shapes began to rise from it. At first, they were little more than indistinct humps, but they quickly began to take on humanoid form, even to develop discernible features. The ropes around Edward's ankles finally slipped and he kicked them away, scrambling to his feet while the coven was distracted in a desperate adrenaline-fueled bid for freedom. His hands were still. still bound, his voice locked behind bleeding and torn lips, and his mind was reeling in hallucinogenic

nightmare of distorted sound and vision, but at least his legs worked. He ran into the night, heading for the trees at the edge of the garden. He remembered what Vincent had told him earlier, that miles of forested wilderness lay beyond, and he knew his only hope of survival lay in evading the coven amongst it. He expected a loud commotion to follow his terrified escape, or at least the outraged sounds of pursuits from the assembled witches, but there was nothing. Silence followed him as he raced across the neatly trimmed lawn, trampled a flower bed, and plunged into the thicker shadows between the trees where the garden ended

and the wild world began. He saw the wall seconds later, and his heart plummeted. It was too high to climb and topped with ornate metal spikes. Of course they would have a wall, his confused mind grasped dimly. A coven so secretive wouldn't leave any part of their property open to potential intruders. Anxiously, he hurried along it, praying it would at least bring him around to the front of the house. Perhaps he could get onto the driveway, even to his car or out onto the road. His eyes spotted an unexpected dark open.

and his heart quickened. It was a small access gate, and against all odds, it was open. Without hesitation, he raced through, plunging into the tangled woodland beyond. The trees were old and gnarled, with ponderous low branches that seemed to block his path ahead, forcing him to weave and duck clumsily through them. With his hands still bound, he had to take extra care not to trip or catch himself, especially when he encountered a curly mass of exposed tree roots, lying like a swarm of fossilized serpents directly in his path. His drug-crazed brain populated the lurid psychedelic night with demonic faces that leered maniacally, distorted and twisted with elongated chins, hollow pits for eyes, and teeth like glinting

bristles of needles. They peered out of the swirling multicolored shadows, or sprouted like fleshy fungal growths from the tree trunks, as if whispering, he's here, he's here, come get him. He knew in his heart that the coven had to be coming for him. There was simply no way they would let him escape, not after what he had seen, and not after going to such lengths to lure him here. As if an answer to that thought, he heard a sound on the night air, voices raised in a chant. The sound was distant, and yet he heard it clearly, even above the frantic pulse of his heart. The trees swayed and creaked as he moved between them. them, branches twisting like fingers as they tried to snatch and claw at his arms and legs

or sent roots to block his path or trip his feet. The night, too, seemed to turn against him, as tenabrous shadows clung to him like dark cobwebs, seeming to possess a curiously physical quality as if trying to bind or slow him up. He tore through them, struggling to free his limbs and face from their suffocating embrace. The chanting grew louder until it filled the night air. No longer distant, it seemed as if the coven were all around him, invisible among the darkness. He scrambled awkwardly up an earthen bank, nearly losing his footing. A snake slithered away with a fierce hiss that made him stagger sideways.

And then he tripped and tumbled, clumsily down the other side, skinning his elbows and knees and grazing his chin as he ended up, face down in the dirt on the edge of a wide clearing. For a moment, he simply lay there, shaking his whimper subdued by bound lips as tears cut a trail through the dirt on his face. He knew he had to keep running, knew he couldn't stay there.

But suddenly the thought of going on, the thought of fleeing like some hunted animal-seeking sanctuary, was just too much. If I hide here, I'll be all right, he thought. Maybe they won't find me. That was when he realized the chanting had stopped. The night lay silent and heavy once more. A twig snapped in the darkness, like a gunshot in the stillness.

He squinted into the dancing multicolored night with eyes that slipped in and out of focus. He thought he could see vague shapes moving furtively behind the trees, bordering the clearing, and the cold fingers of dread clamped his heart once. bore. Pressing his body to the ground, he started to crawl, hoping to find some concealing undergrowth, but the whole clearing was curiously free of anywhere to hide. In fact, the more he looked, the more he realized the space was oddly barren and trampled down, much like the earthen circle by the well back in the Coven's garden, as if it had been deliberately cleared and regularly used. As his mind made that connection, and he understood with dawning horror that he had been drawn there intentionally,

the coven members stepped out from behind the trees. They had shed their robes and stood naked around him in a circle, though all still wore their masks and crowns of bone. He closed his eyes, knowing there was nowhere left to run. It's just a hallucination, he thought desperately. They aren't here. is just the effects of whatever they drugged you with. That was when two cloven hooves pressed into the soft soil next to his head. Edward looked up to see the goat standing over him, its grotesque humanoid body, lean and powerful in the moonlight. He could smell the blood and musk clinging to its hairy hide, and he knew it was all too real

and not some drug-fueled delusion. Although he was a lifelong atheist, he made a clumsy sign of the cross with shaking hands, but this only elicited laughter from the assembled coven. The goat laughed at that, declaring that there was no devil here, only the avatar of older and more primal powers, of things from out of the shadow steeped eons, bringing whispers of forgotten truths back to the light of the present. Please, Edward wanted to scream, to beg, to say, but a weak moan was all that could escape his locked lips.

The goat ordered him to stand, and Edward obeyed. It explained that this clearing was once the sight of a pond that was long silted up. It was the spot where Isaac Pryor sentenced several ancestors of the coven to death centuries before. They had been deemed impure when the water reoccur, when the water was. refused to drown them, and they had been hanged and then burned on the bank of that lake. A mist was seeping into the clearing, whispering softly as it coiled about the trees and flooded past the assembled witches. It was the same mist that had emerged from the scarlet well.

As one, the coven resumed their chant, focusing their spell out into the night, and causing the mist to swell and move faster. They had drawn it from the well of the garden, from out of the blood-soaked portal, and through the silent domain of the woods, like some colossal, ethereal serpent, into that infernal space of baleful ritual and malign ceremony. The goat-creature chuckled,

calling the dead to take its retribution against their enemy, as thick mephitic vapors, curled about Edward's legs, drawn as if to the blood of his grazed knees and elbows through the tears in his clothing. As if having gained confirmation of Edward's identity, the mist withdrew, pulling back into the heart of the clearing where it rose upwards like a hazy white wall. From out of this, as though stepping through a doorway emerged a dozen spectral figures, men and women, with hollow, cadaverous faces, wreathed in trailing mist and garbed in clothing from centuries earlier. They advanced on the terrified man, forming a loose circle around him. Their eyes were

like dark hollow pits in their pallid faces, and their bodies radiated an icy chill that froze the ground as they moved across it. There's no such thing as ghosts, Edward thought frantically, holding desperately under the tattered edges of his crumbling mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his shaking hands up as though trying to ward them off. They don't exist. They're not real. Not real. The goat commented Riley that this was an interesting way to address the jury as if reading his thoughts. He promised that disbelief wouldn't save him. Edward's eyes snapped open at that, and he stared into the faces of the dead gathering around him

as if finally seeing, finally believing the truth of his situation. Edward took an unsteady step backwards. His vision was spinning again, coupled with a slick, greasy sickness that surged up his gullet from the pit in his stomach. He made one final muffled sound, a frantic apology,

and then the shrieking hissing specters swarmed him. He fell beneath their fury and their assault as if they possessed physical bodies. Their dead fingers raked his torso like steel talons. The cold burned his flesh. The worst torment came when they took his eyes and tore thick clumps of bloody hair from his scalp. He was too far gone to feel the rough scratching of the rope that closed around his throat.

He never saw the goat looping one end over the thick branches of a nearby tree. But he did feel it when the goat hauled upon that rope with inhuman strength, hoisting the terrified man, kicking and writhing up into the night. He flopped and thrashed like a fish caught on the end of a line, eyes bulging and fingers clawing in futile desperation at the rope, crushing his throat and biting into his flesh, his lungs burning like fire, while the summoned spirits watched from below, and the coven danced and chanted, turning merrily in the circle. The merciful darkness that came to claim him was slow in arriving. It was also a darkness that didn't last. At first, time lost all sense of meaning in the darkness of the void.

He drifted for a while, weightless, directionless, with no concept of where he was or anything beyond the boundless gloom that surrounded him. The memory of his death had saturated his awareness, like a permanent stain of blood, and the horror and the pain journeyed with him through the strange dark limbo, haunting him with echoes of that terrible moment among the foggy trees and under that sharply sickled moon. Was this all that existed after death, he wondered, this lonely, interminable void? Was he doomed to drift through the darkness for eternity in such a state, until he went truly insane from the isolation and boredom.

His external senses were useless here. There was nothing to see, hear, or touch. All he carried with him, all he could feel, was the brutal torment of those last few nightmarish moments of his life. The constricting rope and the burning, frantic need to fill his lungs with air, and then, gradually, it changed. He became conscious once more of sense.

sounds and of shapes, hazy and indistinct to begin with, but coming slowly into focus, the way eyes adjust to a darkened room when stepping in out of bright daylight. He was in a horribly familiar library, full of dark shelves that reached from floor to ceiling, and surrounded by chairs and small pools of light cast by green banker's lamps. If he still had a heart, it would have lurched. Vincent Underwood rose from a nearby chair and greeted him mockingly. He looked humid again, dressed very much as he had been when Edward had first met him. He explained that they had been drawing Edward back ever since his death,

but that it could take a while for the soul to manifest. Vincent also assured Edward that his body had been disposed of, and all traces that he was ever here were gone. Edward tried to speak, but no sound came out. Vincent reminded him of the shades he had seen on his tour of the house, adding that they were people once, people who foolishly crossed the coven or wronged them, just as Edward had.

In a burst of fear, Edward tried to look down at his body, to lift his hands up where he could see them. But all he saw was a shadowy haze, just like those that had followed him from room to room during his visit. His mind reeled as he listened to Vincent, revealing that the shades were kept, bound here as servants, just as he now was, and that he would learn how to carry messages for them, spy for them too, and be of use in many other ways.

Before leaving the room, Vincent paused in the doorway and glanced back. His smile had gone cold, matching his eyes. as he triumphantly declared that if Edward thought being dead meant he could no longer suffer, he was in for a surprise. And next, a man discovers that he's able to heal from just about any wound, and as heralded as a medical miracle, a miracle that no one is ready to give up. From writer B. McCreary, creepy presents,

I am being kept alive as an organ farm. I can't get infections. I can't get sick. I regrow my organs in a matter of seconds. I can regenerate a liter of blood every 10 seconds. My limbs aren't an issue either. I have what can be best understood as a massive healing factor. I've always had it, the healing factor.

Ever since I was a kid, I've never scraped my knee, never caught a cold, never had to go to the nurse, and never broken a bone, despite participating in various sports. Everybody initially assumed I had a strong immune system where I was simply lucky. I went most of my life believing I was just a lucky guy. When I went in for my vaccinations, the doctor said my skin was unusually thick and I had to inject me quickly and remove the needle even quicker. I never even got drunk, no matter how many shots I took.

I never got even tipsy, nor did I ever vomit. I was attributed that to some sort of immunity. Nothing I smoked in my teens got me anywhere either. I was in a car accident when I was 22. It was bad. I rolled four times and ended up crushed between the car the rear-ended me in a tree. The car was totaled, and I should have been too. I thought I was dead when I saw my car.

shattered leg began to crack and force itself back together. When the blood that poured out of my head suddenly became a trickle, then nothing. What eyesight I had left in my eyes came back just as quickly. Doctors called it a miracle that I walked away from that accident. Most that had to be done was cutting me out of the car. I knew what I saw. But the doctors told me I was probably just hallucinating from the accident. When I didn't even have a little whiplash in the morning, I went to the hospital.

I thought it was in shock. I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. Not even a bruise. The doctor sent me home that night. When I got home, I needed to be sure of something. I grabbed a kitchen knife and cut into my left index finger, just enough to cut through the very tip of the finger. It hurt like hell, but as I suspected, the bleeding only lasted for a moment.

moment. The tip was back. It looked exactly like the old one. And I knew I wasn't hallucinating since my disembodied fingertip was still on the counter. This should have been the discovery of a lifetime. And for a brief second, it was. I ran to the hospital and chopped my finger off in the lobby. I let the disembodied digit hit the floor to the tear of everybody in the office. But within the seconds, the finger was back. I grabbed my old finger and showed it to the nurses who surrounded me. Whispers of magic tricks went around until I chopped my hand off. Blood spewed for only a second, like the last bits of water stuck in a shower head. Then stop. My palm came back, and then my fingers. Within moments, I was on the news. The miraculous healing man,

was one headline I still remember. I was a celebrity. I was a philanthropist. And I had it all. I lived off of donations and whatever blood drives were willing to give me. I ended the blood crisis. I have own negative blood, so I can give to anybody. A lot of my days were spent playing video games while a nurse tracked how many blood bags I produced in eight hours. Occasionally, the nurse would have the phone a friend to get more bags. If I drank a lot of water that day, well, they'd fill up quite fast. My body healed around the needles, so prying them out was a bit of a chore. Eventually, I discussed it with the nurses to just keep the needle in there.

It honestly wasn't worth the hassle. And since I declared this my full-time job, it wasn't like I was worried about what work would think. Sleeping with it was a bit weird, but you get used to it. when I got a call from one of the many nurses who serviced me, asking if I was willing to personally donate my kidney to her son, I didn't know what to do. At that point, I wasn't sure if I could or couldn't regrow organs. I had a bit of a crush on her, though, so I went through with it. According to the doctors, the biggest complication regarding the surgery was figuring out how to actually keep my body from closing up the incision.

They just had to have somebody constantly scraping the area with a scalpel to keep it open, alongside keeping me pumped full of anesthetics as my body fights them off quickly. All in all, it was a success, and by the end of the day, I was back home giving blood again. I went back the next day, and, yep, I had two fully functioning kidneys. There wasn't even a scar left from the incision. That's when a doctor entered the room and sat down with me. An eight-year-old boy needs a kidney. Are you willing to go through the surgery again?

I didn't think. I just agreed. Later that day, the boy had a functioning kidney in him. I wasn't left with any less than what I started with. They kept me in the hospital overnight. I wasn't sure why they never made me before, but I didn't really care. With all my donations, blood and organ-wise, paying for the surgeries or hospital stay wasn't an issue.

At this point, people still donated money to me directly, and I didn't mind losing a day of blood donations. When I woke up that morning, a little girl was sitting down next to my bed, and a scrub-laden doctor sat up out of his chair. This is Samantha. She's going to need a heart transplant by next month, or she'll die. Are you willing? I was.

I wasn't sure if the removal of my heart would kill me. but I re-grew a kidney twice in three days, so I was confident. That little girl had a heart at the end of the day. And so did I. They didn't permit me to leave that either, but I understood that one. I was starting to get homesick at that point and tried to check out in the middle of the night, but was stopped by various nurses begging me to stay, telling me about all the organs the hospital needs,

how understaffed they are, how quickly they could solve major world problems if I just stayed a little longer. I gave three people a chance to live normal to semi-normal lives so far. I gave so much blood that at the time, I never saw any ads for blood drives. So why stop now? I figured I'd be a hero if I did this. I'd be a legend. It probably already was.

I decided to go back to my room on the condition that a nurse gets me takeout in a Red Bull. I had both by the time I shot. and made my way back to bed. After I ate, the doctor came in and put a large notebook on my desk. And it was every organ transplant needed in the hospital and how much blood would be needed. He asked if I would be okay to do these surgeries and that they'd take more organs out per surgery to maximize efficiency. They'd take my blood during these surgeries too.

I looked at the names. Every one of them was a life, a person who would mildly inconvene. convenience me. But in return, I give them life. I give them a chance. I agreed and was rushed to surgery. This was the first time they didn't put me under anesthesia. I tried to fight, but they gave me just enough so that I couldn't move but could feel everything. The needle in my skin, their hands haphazardly digging through me to collect my organs. Skin grab. were taken. I don't even know what they did with them. My plasma was siphoned out and they stitched me back up. Once the anesthesia wore off, I decided to leave. I fought through the doctors

proclaiming how much of a miracle I was and how much I was going to do for people. I didn't care. I wasn't a guinea pig. I'm a human still. I tried to go, but I felt a small prick and I was out. My healing factor is incredibly strong, so strong that during blood donations my body would heal over the needles, so strong that doctors had to joke about me absorbing their tools. God knows how many are stuck inside of me as I write this. I doubt they bother extracting them anymore. I can heal around things. And that's what I woke up to. Both of my feet had been split open in the bars of the hospital beds have been inserted through them. I was healed in my bed.

No amount of struggling managed to free them. Normally I would have just cut them off and hid until they grew back. This was a hospital room. There was no equipment around me since I couldn't get sick. There was nothing to free myself with. Day after day, I was rolled into rooms, given barely enough sedatives to keep me from moving too much. damaging my valuable organs.

The doctors and nurses would see me staring and talk about my miracle and how I was such a good person for doing this. They spoke like I wasn't there. I could barely open my mouth to moan in pain, but every time they just shushed me like a toddler having a tantrum and continued to cut and pry. Several people needed to scrape the incision so they wouldn't close. clumps of ribbon flesh littered the floor after each surgery. They closed my blinds and took my phone. The only two remnants of my life I still had. Now I couldn't even know if it was a good day outside or not.

They must have caught on to me staring. They didn't want me to damage my valuable eyes. I constantly had a nurse in the room, but I rarely spoke to them. All they talked to me about was. some sick miracle I had, and talk about how little Susie gets to live a normal life. While I'm stuck here being torn open and left there to heal, they stopped even sewing me up. They didn't want to waste any resources. So they just left my empty cavity open to heal over.

Have you ever smelled blood? Probably, yeah. Have you ever smelled your own organs? Have you smelled what should have killed you? seeing what should have done you in for good? Was I given this ability? I don't even know what year it is anymore. What day it is, or how many of my organs litter the general populace.

How many people have I saved? It's all a number at this point. I used to get letters and gifts, but now I sit in a dark hospital room that rarely gets cleaned. I'm lucky if they remember that healing. factor or not, I got to use the restroom every now and again. I'm lucky if I get a candy bar on Halloween or a small Christmas tree placed in the room. I'm lucky if they remember I'm still alive. During one of my surgeries as I was staring into the fluorescent lights, hoping that maybe

it was the light. I overheard a conversation and finally some unfamiliar pain. You get used to being ripped open and told you. torn into. I wasn't used to this pain. It was novel. The one thing I had left was pain. But at least this was something new.

I looked down as I began to cut into my leg, tearing it off roughly. A small spread of blood came out before the wound became a scab, then a lump. Now the other one. And then my arms. I could only look at the doctors as they threw my legs into a freezer. One of the nurses began to speak. Do you think it's really going to make a difference? As long as we don't tell them where it came from, do you think starving children care?

At this point, I think I was so jaded that the idea didn't seem strange. I existed as a living organ factory. How much worse is it to be an infinite food source? I started taking my legs at least once a day. My arms twice. I guess my healing factor has limits. My legs take an entire day to grow back when my organs are damaged. Whenever my legs begin to heal, they get cut off again.

I don't fully understand my healing factor. But I understand the following. I can't age. I can't get sick or have infections. I don't need much to eat. but it heightens my abilities and people who get my donations don't get my abilities

I do know a few more limitations if my entire body is very heavily damaged my body will focus on the most important organs like the heart rather than healing my legs without food healing slows and now I know of another I waited until my arms are back

to write this and I'm missing a finger. My other hand is much smaller. It looks like it belongs to a nine-year-old instead of me, however old I am. But it is stuck onto the arm of an adult man. Constant removal and healing must have damaged me. That's why I'm writing this.

That's why I'm posting this. I want people to know where the organs are coming from. I want to find a nurse or somebody. who can impersonate one to shoot me right in the head where you know it will kill. They haven't touched my brain and it's my one hope for death. It's the one unknown I have. It's the last hope I have. Don't slit my neck.

It'll just heal. Nothing along those lines will work. I need to be shot dead or just shot. I need some closure. Either all know that I can't die and I'm stuck like this, or it won't be my issue anymore. Last night I managed to pick pocket a kind nurse who was willing to get close enough to me to allow me to steal it. I can almost assure you right now that when they do eventually figure out I have the phone,

they'll find a way to make sure nobody gets close enough for me to steal another. I know I'm selfish. I want to get rid of what could be a life source for millions. I've given so much. I think I deserve just one thing. I don't know if it'll even work. But please, somebody shoot me. At the very least, it'll let me know there's no way out of this.

At the very least, I'll have that bit of closure. So please, if you're a nurse or, or other medical professional. Ask for the man who regrows organs. If they take you to me, please don't hesitate. Shoot me. Shoot me.

And finally, a series of letters spanning 50 years follows the cursed legacy of the Nettleworth family after uncovering forbidden knowledge. From writer Christian Wallace and narrated by Michelle Kane. Creepy Presents. the shimmering tree 19th February 2009

Michael I thought I would let you know that I've been at Mum's Place the last few weeks sorting through everything I want to apologize for not saying anything at the funeral David shouldn't have said what he did

but you've got to understand that he's the youngest and it's been very hard on him you always wear their precious favorite it, and the rest of us couldn't help but be a little bit jealous. But it still wasn't fair for me to just stand back and let him speak to you like that. And I want you to know that I'd like to try to fix things between us. So I thought I'd pass this on to you as a peace offering. It's your birth certificate.

You'll have to forgive that it's come in an envelope with some other stuff, but I just didn't have time to go through it all. I'm sure if Mom kept anything she did so for a reason, at the very least, I hope you can appreciate the gesture. Let me know how things are going out there in Asia, and if there's anything else you'd like me to send over to you, okay? With love from your sister, Sarah Nettelworth. 16th November, 1959. Dear Angela and Liam Nettelworth, I would like to thank you for your gratuitous donation to the institution. However, I must emphasize that the service I and the other archivers have offered to you is unrelated to my day job as the museum's curator. I trust that you realize the actual payment owed to me and my associates at the archives is still due, and that you

have not mistakenly made a donation to the wrong institute. Nevertheless, as a As a sign of good faith, I would like to direct you to a safe at the bottom of the Crossroads Manor, found in the Hebrides of Scotland. The manor has long since burned to the ground, but if you are persistent, you will find that a basement still stands, and that somewhere within that basement is a safe. Once the archives have written to me to confirm receipt of your true payment, I will deliver to you the key to that safe. Within that safe are the full three volumes detailing the true name of the shimmering tree.

Vocalization of this name will summon the tree. Exact pronunciation is not important, but it is not recommended that you test the limits of common sense. A simple phonetic oration will be satisfactory. I cannot stress to you enough that you will need a third person. one whose absence from society will not be noticed. Otherwise, one of you will act as the initial host for the tree. You need only look at the desired host during the final page or two of the readings to designate them as the desired vessel.

But nonetheless, you should be careful not to accidentally designate somebody else. Below, you will find a detailed description of the tree, compiled from notes found in the archive. although some details have been drawn from my own experiences as an archival observer. The tree is made of bone, muscle, and nervous tissue, and will spring up out of the flesh of whoever has been marked as a host. Its incubation is barely a second in length. The designated individual will stop what they are doing and occasionally emit a small sigh or groan,

suggesting confusion or even just indifference. To the observer, it will feel like an explosion when the tree emerges from the body, as it is almost always noisy and violently fast. Although it is important to note that what this observer witnessed was not necessarily destructive or staggered, but was instead the smooth and fluid transformation of flesh, compressed into a remarkably short period of time. It is not uncommon to vomit during this initial stage of growth, where anatomically the tree will emerge from,

and the exact nature of its composition, will vary significantly from person to person. The archives note a preference for the torso, but this observer has seen it spring up from an array of other locations. The tree will then take several minutes to grow to full size after the initial growth, and often resembles a fleshy coral. The colors observed can change, but they typically feature metallic purples, blood reds, and putrid greens.

This slowed period of growth is the second stage. During this phase, the tree will also assimilate the flesh and tissues of any nearby mammalian species. And if in desperate need, it will also consider the assimilation of lollation of lo, lower order animals, such as flies and spiders. During the second phase of rapid growth, it will typically expand to around 16 feet in height, although its exact size can vary considerably. Importantly, the tree has been known to exhibit restraint in certain situations where the necessary construction materials are limited, as it will avoid the complete annihilation of the host,

if possible. In one case where an infant was used, the tree grew only to three feet in height. The host, meanwhile, will undergo distinct and separate transformations. They will typically fall to the floor, given the force of what is occurring, and lay flat while their nervous material is ejected from their skin as an outward growth. In particular, tendrils will extend farthest from areas of greater, sensitivity, with the greatest lengths emerging from the fingers, toes, facial features, and genitals. This nervous material will branch out in a fractal pattern, much like the roots of a tree, and make contact with as much of the external environment as possible. During this period,

the host will usually vocalize tremendous distress, for as long as it is physically possible. The archives note that it is typical for the tongue to swell up and become part of the extending nervous tissue, which will block the passageways and prevent further vocalizations. Interestingly, the tree will manipulate the host structural composition, creating new airwaves to avoid asphyxiation. It cannot be stressed strongly enough that one should not come into contact with these nervous tendrils, as they are responsible for the tree's assimilation of extraneous matter and are surprisingly agile and aggressive.

It will usually be necessary to vacate the area and return later once the second stage of growth has stopped. After this, between the second and third stages of growth, is a period of inactivity during which the tree will be amenable to conversation. The tree utilizes a series'er. of pipes and organs appropriated from the host to pass air over its frills and tendril-covered branches. These small cilia-like projections are able to vibrate at a range of frequencies and will produce a remarkable visual and oral effect of sound and light, which corresponds to the tree's

speech. It is wise to ensure that the tree has emerged from a host who speaks a common language with yourself. If you do not do this, then the tree will essentially be unable to converse in your own tongue, and there will be a language barrier. It is not wise to waste the tree's time. You should submit a request quickly, but if you cannot, due to the aforementioned linguistic problems, you should leave and return quickly with another host who can speak the same language as yourself. It will not take long for the tree to appropriate the correct linguistic skills from your second offering. You can then initiate your request. Regarding requests. The tree is able to grant limited requests regarding reincarnation, recollection from past lives, precognition, and the location of lost objects. The location of

such objects can be presented in any format, including annotations on a map. Bring a pen if this is your intention. The tree also possesses other skills, but a request must specify exactly what it requires. It is not possible to browse the tree like a catalog, and so without a comprehensive list of what else the tree can achieve, which sadly the archive does not possess, it is suggested that one should adhere to those I have suggested here. Otherwise, you might risk becoming another offering. Once the request has been satisfied, the third stage of growth will initiate. The tree will proceed to manipulate the host further and prompt the growth of several large, vainy membranous sacks proportionate to its size, typically eight feet across once inflated.

These sacks will inflate with a gaseous matter distinct from normal air, which when heated by the tree, using means unknown, will provide it with a means of a escape via flight. The tree will usually demonstrate a terrifying capacity to reorganize inorganize inorganic matter during the stage, as it will quickly and fluently dismantle any and all obstructions using its branches and roots during the ascent. Exactly where the shimmering tree comes from and where it goes remains a complete and utter mystery. It does not require a physical precursor, and as far as this observer can tell, it seems to occur as a result of spontaneous matter reorganization. How it achieves this is beyond comprehension, but it has been suggested

by older members of the archives that the tree is the result of an unknown entity's will being imposed upon reality, twisting biological material into a desirable form, from unknown and unseen dimensions. This is important to consider, as the tree does not actually require summoning to enter our existence, and has been known to emerge spontaneously from those who have upset it, after the arrangements seem long finished. As part of our earlier correspondence, I have made it clear to you that you might wish to gather large quantities of ammonia and copper for use as a deterrent should the tree seek to use you as a construction material during initial summoning. But if you happen to draw the tree's ire at some point after this, you may wish to consider self-termination or euthanasia.

As mentioned above, the tree doesn't need an invitation nor a host to manifest, and without unlimited repellence, one can only delay the inevitable. The shimmering tree is not deterred by distance or time, and if you abuse its goodwill, your options will be limited. Exactly what qualifies as an abuse varies. Historical examples of unsolicited growths found in the archives list a Scottish Presbyterian preacher from 1639 who used his gifts to oppose King James VI the Reformation of the Bible. A traveler from the 1940s who tried to convince a child that Santa Claus was real, and a stockbroker in 1949, who wrote a book about economic theory that heaped endless praise upon unregulated markets and capitalism. The current theory is that one should avoid attributing the nature of your successes and gifts to any single specific thing,

whether it is fictional person or an ideology. It is well known amongst those who have performed a successful summoning of the tree, that one should instead attribute any newfound success or talents to hard work, perseverance, and faith in a higher supernatural power. The ambiguity of this phrase has so far never been known to invoke the tree's ire. Finally, I would like to highlight to you that the tree itself, despite the myriad of rules that surround it is surprisingly amiable and quite conversational. It seems to enjoy the acquisition of knowledge, although it most certainly possesses eclectic and unpredictable tastes.

Archives indicate that the tree once engaged in a several hours-long conversation with a young man regarding the taxonomical classification of sea cucumbers. Do be careful and don't allow yourself to become enamored, as the tree will not hesitate to assimilate individuals who stray too close or who have appeared to let their guard down. Ultimately, I wish you luck in your quest. I simply cannot say whether what you have asked for is within the tree's power to grant, but considering its capacity to manipulate flesh, I suspect that it is. However, the risk of such a request is positively enormous. There is not only the obvious dangerous possibility that the shimmering tree will take offense

and try to assimilate you, but I am personally distressed at the possibility it might actually acquiesce. I really do suggest that you stick to the usual wish of wealth and power. Most of our clients find this quite fulfilling on its own. I am aware of the pain and tragedy you have experienced as a couple, and I must send you my condolences. But I would be derelict in my duties to you if I did not highlight the potential for disaster. In asking the shimmering tree to reverse your recent miscarriage, I beg you to reconsider.

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