Creepy - The Swan

Episode Date: February 27, 2023

Finding beauty in ugliness...***Written by: Jesse Pullins and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Content warnings: Domestic Abuse, Death of parents***Bonus Episode: "Der mampf" written by: Ryan Peacock***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications

is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents The Swan Written by Jesse Pullens

and narrated by Nate DuFort. I remember the day we met seeing her sitting in the front yard alone eyeing the moving truck curiously as she fidgeted with a dirty stuffed animal a little head of long blonde hair blowing in the wind. In a strange way, I think of it as a destined friendship, despite the two of us being doomed children in the middle of nowhere.

It was the day I moved in with my grandmother, an unfortunate fresh start on the outskirts of town, far away from a normal life, and even further from the empty house left behind after the death of my parents. My grandmother, long-widoed by the loss of my grandfather, took me in with what I assumed as a child was, welcomed and loving but perhaps reluctantly unprepared arms. I would later learn that my grandmother was simultaneously serving as next and last of kin. After getting the bleak tour of my grandmother's cluttered house, she showed me to where I would start staying, a small room that laid bare, save for a single bed and antique dresser.

I only had a few boxes of things left to my name, once the movers had stacked in the middle of the room to already clutter the only neat room in the house. I remember my grandmother telling me two things before leaving me to unpack alone. You're very handsome. You look just like your grandfather. Drunk driving is a sin,

and whoever robbed you of your parents is rotting in hell. And with that, she left me in the incredibly dim room to make me something to eat. I remember just sitting on my bed and looking at the boxes, unsure if it mattered to actually open them.

Losing your parents at seven years old has a habit of making you painfully aware and dull. In the days of hushed adult whispers leading up to moving out of town, I contemplated the purpose of my continued existence in the absence of my parents. With everything feeling so dark, I didn't see the point in opening the boxes

or doing anything at all. That was, until I heard something, hit my window. For a while, I just stared at the window, dumbfounded. There was nothing to do in her house, which seemed packed wall-to-wall with collectibles. and a cabinet full of bottles that my grandfather had collected.

No video games, no toys. From my sunken perch on the bed, I watched the window, wondering if I'd actually heard the noise or just imagined it. Soon, the sound happened again, in the form of a rock hitting the window. When I gathered the courage to saunter over and look, I could see the girl from next door. She froze when I saw her One hand poised to throw another pebble

The other holding the stuffed animal In the crook of her arm When I opened it She dropped the pebble and came over Standing on her tippy toes Toes to introduce herself My name's Penny Why are you here? She asked shyly

Bouncing on her toes I just moved in My parents died I said, mostly mumbling. I'm sorry. My mommy ran away when I was a baby. You want to be friends? I didn't understand the bruises on her arms and why she hid them.

I didn't understand how dark and empty the world suddenly became and why I still had to be a part of it. I didn't understand a lot when I was younger. But there was one thing I clearly understood. Penny and I would in fact, be friends. It took me a while to come out of my shell, but I never fully made it back out. I didn't talk very much, something Penny accepted quickly. Neither of us spoke much, really. I remember we would play in her yard most of the time with whatever toys we had, with the understanding that I would

never mistreat her stuffed animal. Despite it being dirty and ripped in places, Penny held it close at all times, no matter what we were doing. It's a swan, Penny would say. My mommy gave it to me before she ran away. It didn't look much like a swan, years of wear making it look more like a tired seagull, but Penny swore it was a swan, so I took her word for it. I remember asking her why mother left, one of the first sentences spoken to her. She just shrugged and looked at the ground for a while, chewing her lip and holding the little swan close. Minutes would go by with her lost and thought,

and I would just sit there and wait for her. Then she would perk up all of a sudden and ask to play tag or hide and seek. We would play day in, day out, usually until my grandmother called me for dinner. Penny would frown and watch me go, and I always felt bad for leaving. I would check on her during dinner,

and she would just be sitting on her porch with her swan, or sometimes tossing rocks into the creek that made up half of our backyards. I didn't know why she never liked being inside her house, and every time I mentioned her daddy, she didn't want to talk about it. Penny's daddy didn't come out of the house much. Whatever he did,

it was usually to yell at Penny for being outside, although he always talked slow and didn't make sense most of the time. He would always be tired and he would always be angry. It would be years before I understood that her daddy was a drunk and that he liked to beat on her. Things like that have a habit of sitting on the back burner when you are little. I mention the bruises to my grandmother and she said we shouldn't talk about it. that it was their business. Penny didn't want to talk about it either, so I pretended not to see them.

In retrospect, I think my grandmother knew and wanted to help. She just didn't know how. She would do things to try and make it better every once in a while, like invite her over for dinner when her father was asleep, or bring her sweets discreetly when she'd been baking. I remember on an especially bad day, Penny had a busted lip, and my grandmother said something like, he's all she's got.

Sometimes you just have to hang in until things get better. There was something so sad about how she said it, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. I remember it feeling sad and gray for a long time, but the sadness wouldn't be so bad if I could see my grandmother and Penny smile. In my bleak home in the middle of nowhere, I decided if they were happy with how things were. Maybe I could learn to be happy too. As the years passed, things started to get better, a little.

When I opened up a bit more, I started calling my grandmother, Gran, which seemed to make her happy. Grand didn't speak of my grandfather much. other than the fact he enjoyed collecting rare bottles of whiskey. He never drank them, which didn't make sense to me. Grant said some people collected strange things, and she was just thankful he didn't collect guns instead. Even though he had passed years ago,

she still kept the cabinet clean and dusted. I would spend nights looking at the old bottles, trying to imagine my grandfather holding them when I read the label. Penny and I became great friends, a friendship that lasted even after we started going to school. We would ride the bus together, an old rickety shuttle that would take us to a school I didn't much care for. It's not because I didn't have my old friends there anymore, but because the other kids weren't interested in being our friends. Penny and I were the same age as all the other kids, but they just treated us differently. I would often hear them whisper nasty things to each other,

sometimes about Penny, sometimes about me. They would often whisper of the marks and bruises Penny seemed to have, the ones I had gotten used to not acknowledging. They would talk about how she wore the same clothes a lot, and how often they were dirty. They would talk about how I didn't have a mom and dad, and sometimes speculate over what happened to them. Sometimes they would say I killed them.

Other times, they would say they didn't love me anymore because I was bad. The teachers would hush and scold them, but they would always say something again. They would always leave us out of activities and pretend they didn't see us. In time, I found I hated school. But as long as the two of us could play together once we got home, everything would be all right. At the end of every gloomy day, we had each other. The older I got, the more I came to terms with the loss of my parents. The void they left behind, never truly filled.

But Grand did her best to raise me and be there for me. Some days were worse than others, and Penny had a habit of picking up on it and finding ways to cheer me up. In return, I was always there for her, whenever she needed, although I wasn't as good at noticing. Penny would always let me know, however, in the form of a pebble hitting my window. We would sneak out some nights, something that proved easy with how early Gran always went to bed, and how drunk Penny's father always was.

We would tiptoe through the shallow creek and duck under the trees that grew along it, keeping quiet until we reached the cornfield that started at the end of our property the corn would stretch for miles over the hills but before that was a tiny patch that never sprouted like it should it was our little secret spot a nice place where we could lay down and look at the stars and hear the cicadas chirp our own little paradise away from the things that reminded us of how bad it was me, her, and her stuffed swan. Laying down in the squashed and malformed cornstalks, we would talk about our dreams. I would tell her about my dreams, where there was no car accident, and everything was full of color again. Penny would listen, propped up on her elbow with a little smile, holding her sad seagull-looking stuffed animal close and smiling as I talked. In that moment, I could lift the weight on my shoulders and let some semblance of light in.

I could talk to her in a way I couldn't with Gran, with her mutual understanding of a parent blinking out of sight. I would speak of my dreams, and when I finished, she would touch my arm and say, That was lovely in her adolescent country accent. I would roll over and wait as she looked to the last. the stars, snuggling her stuffed animal that looked sadder and sadder as time moved on. She would close her eyes and think for a moment, putting together the full memory she always managed to recollect. When she opened them, I remembered seeing the reflection of the moon in her eyes,

her little globes wide and marveling at the shining sky above. Penny would tell me how she dreamt of being a swan. It was a dream she had often, one I would get to know and love more every time she told it. She would tell me she dreamt of dancing among the stars as a swan, spreading her wings and flying across the sky. Up above would be a world free of pain and suffering, a world full of light that would shine so bright it would erase the pain of everything you'd been through. In her dream, she could stretch her legs and run as far as she wanted, feeling the wind on her feathers as she soared across the sky. She said that in her dream, if she flew far enough, she would find her mother. I watched her tell her story, the reflection of the stars glinting in her eyes.

She would look happy, and the smiles she wore while telling her story would put me at ease. and momentarily dull the feeling of loss and longing for days to come. It didn't matter how rough things were at school or how empty it felt at home. I would think of Penny the Swan, and I would feel better. Just as sleep would try and take me, Penny would help me up and tell me it was time to go home. Together, we would duck back under the trees and mind our footing through the creed, hoping we could creep back home just as soundlessly as we had left. Things continued as normal into middle school. I wasn't interested in having other friends. Whenever I'd finished my school

work, I took to books rather than socializing. Talking to others wasn't something I was particularly good at, and even if I was good at conversation, we didn't have anything in common. Grant didn't have a lot of money, so I was out of touch from whatever video games or movie craze everyone seemed to chat about. As Penny grew older, she learned to embrace her independence at home, and spent a lot of time taking better care of herself and her home. Her clothes were much cleaner, and she spent a lot of time keeping her hair straight and untangled. Grand did whatever she could to make sure she had essentials like toothbrushes and decent conditioner, and whenever she bought clothes for me, she always tried to sneak in something for her as well. The school counselors

knew what was happening at home, and sometimes reached out and made some attempts to address the issue. Penny's father would get better for a time. The bruises would stop, and things would feel better. But it never lasted long, and after a while, I suppose they stopped seeing the bruises. They stopped seeing the bruises like I once did. Maybe it was easier for them. When things were especially bad, I would hear the pebble hit my window. We would go to our secret spot and talk of our dreams, the one thing that would always reset things for a time. But as I got older, I dreamed of my parents less and thought more of Penny finding another home, one where things weren't so bad all the time, Penny still talked to the same dream, her dream of being a swan.

It still held the same radiance as it always did, but it made me feel differently when I heard it. Now when she told it, I wished somehow it could come true. The summer after I turned 13, things started to change. It was a hot day in July, and I'd just finished mowing the yard for Gran. It was the first nice day after a long string of rain, and the creek had gone up above knee level for the first time in years. Penny was hanging out in the grass, drawing a picture of the sad-looking swan-stuffed animal. She still carried it around from time to time, but it was hardly recognizable and falling apart. The eyes were barely holding on, and the fur had shed so much in spots it was bald.

It was sweltering out, and Grand suggested we swim in the creek since we didn't have a sprinkler or anything. It was something we hadn't done since we were little. Last one there is a rotten egg, Penny yelled, leaving her swan and drawings in the yard. Penny didn't have a swimsuit, so we both went in with our clothes on. The water was freezing, so we took turns splashing each other and running away. Grand watched from the top of the hill laughing as we trounce through the creek. Penny was wearing shorts and one of her father's old t-shirts. One so long her knees would catch on it in the water.

It would slow her down when she fought with it, so I would always be able to get away. We went back and forth for a while, splashing and jumping, until Grand called from atop the hill and said she was going back inside to make us some lemonade. When Gran was gone, Penny told me to turn around and cover my eyes. I teased her about it, thinking she would use the opportunity to try and get the jump on me. She swore she wouldn't cheat, and after going back and forth, I sighed and did what she asked. Behind me, I heard her messing with something, giggling in between the sounds of her straining with something. After a wet plop on the water, she told me to turn around and open them.

I lowered my hands and turned around to see that she had taken off her shirt. I had never really looked at a girl before, let alone see or even know what a bra was. And Penny used my awkward double-take to her advantage. See if you can outrun me now, she said, before bolting through the water. Penny tackled me before I could get away, sending us both into the chilly water. We rolled and flailed splashing each other through bouts of laughter. Penny tried to hold me under the water, and I tried to escape, taking turns as the water murked beneath us.

We went back and forth, wrestling and laughing until we collapsed from exhaustion, both of us gasping and giggling on our butts in the water. I don't know if it was the special glint in her eyes or the curve of her smile, but it felt different. Like a jar of fireflies had been released in my stomach. Penny scrunched her face and pulled her knees to her chest, suddenly looking embarrassed. What? she said, blushing as she looked away and wiped the long matted strands from her face. She looked at the hill and froze, the color draining just as quickly as it arrived.

I could then hear the footsteps. On the hill was her father, his glazed. eyes holding a dead stare. It's not, we were just, Penny stammered, scrambling for her discarded shirt. Penny's father yanked her out of the creek by her hair, dragging her up the hill as she screamed and kicked. I wanted to stop him, but I was scared, and he was much bigger than me. You're a whore, just like your mother. You want to run away, just like she did? He shouted in her ear, holding her up with a fistful of hair. When Penny didn't answer, He only got angrier.

He tried instigating more, but Penny stayed quiet, sobbing softly as she reached for her yanked hair. He looked around angrily, eyes wild as he sought someone else to inflict his rage upon. At first, he looked at me, but was distracted when he saw the stack of papers. With a scowl he let her go, and shambled over to the drawings, grabbing all of them in crinkled handfuls. He stared at the pictures of swans, looking over each one with his puffy eyes. Without a word, he ripped them to pieces,

scattering them to the wind as Penny cried on the ground. Just when I thought his tantrum was finished, he saw the stuffed animal and snatched it up with a grunt. Penny begged him to stop, but it only seemed to fuel his rage. He twisted the stuffed swan's head until it tore and pulled it apart until the stuffing scattered across the yard. When she tried to stop him, he slapped her, a vicious echo that seemed to carry for miles. I remember Grand coming out of the house and dropping the lemonade, pleading with Penny's father that we were just kids.

Him and Grand shouted at each other, and in the end, Grand sat and started crying. I remember looking at Patty for a moment and feeling guilty that I'd looked at her like I did. I didn't understand what her father meant when he said those things to her, but I felt like it was my fault. Like maybe if I didn't look at her like I did, maybe she wouldn't have gotten in trouble. After he dragged Penny into the house and slammed the door shut, he yelled at her for a while. I wish there was something I could do. I remember getting out of the creek and Grand just sitting there saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, over and over rocking back and forth.

I didn't understand why she was sorry. I didn't understand any of it. I spent the rest of the afternoon, staring out my window, looking at Penny's house. In my hands was the torn up stuffed animal, mangled and deflated beyond recognition. The pictures had all blown away before I, could grab them, the wind growing fierce as the sunshine turned to an ugly overcast gray. By the time

the yelling had subsided, it started to rain, and I found myself looking through the downpour at Penny's window, hoping she was all right. Looking at her house gave me a terrible feeling, a dread that I couldn't describe. I was used to the way things were for Penny, but for some reason, this time felt worse. When my eyes grew too heavy, I curled up on my bed. I looked at the stuffed swan as I drifted off to sleep, praying that somewhere, in the noise of the storm, I would hear the sound of a pebble hitting the glass. Hours later, I found my prayer had been answered. I opened my eyes to the soft tink of the pebble, the familiar chime that found me, even though. through the barrage of rain and wind. I sat up immediately, throwing off the covers and grabbing the

stuffed swan to meet Penny at the window. I could see her through the glass, a pale silhouette through the film of spattering rain. I opened the window and was hit by a chilly gust that sucked the warmth from my room. I motioned for Penny quietly and she hurried over, holding a hand up against the pelting mist. Her nightgown was soaked and her hair was matted and tangled. She leaned against the window, shivering. Her hands trembled on the windowsill. Penny, are you all right? I was so worried, I started to whisper, but stopped. Something was wrong. The way she was looking down, the way her bottom lip trembled. Her cheery perseverance was gone, and in its place, a cold cold and broken shell. I reached for her, and she flinched away, shuddering against the storm as she

hugged herself. I waited for her to say something, but I got my answer when she looked up. The left side of her face had been horribly beaten. Her left eye was swollen shut, accompanied by a dark purple bruising that went from the top of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. I felt the tears immediately, along with a sudden sickening pull in my stomach. Penny, no, my whisper was hushed by a clammy finger and a feigned smile. It's okay. It doesn't hurt much. Not anymore, she said, but her eyes told a different story. I looked past her to the storm outside, unable to see the creek through the stormy night.

Are you sure you want to go to our spot? I don't think we'll be able to see the stars. You want to just come inside? I asked. But she shook her head. No, there's something I want to show you. We'll be able to see, I'm sure. But I need you to do me a favor first.

I don't have much time. It'll be worth it. I promise, she said. And I nodded. Penny told me she needed a bottle of whiskey from my grandfather's cabinet. She told me she felt bad for asking, but it was the only way to buy enough time for us to get away. She said it was important, and she would only have one chance to do it. I agreed, wanting to do whatever I could to help her.

Penny hit at the window as I crept away, glancing back to her house nervously as I disappeared down the hall. I didn't know what time it was, but I knew it was late. I tiptoed down the hall the sounds of a late-night game show coming in clearer as I drew near. Gran had a habit of falling asleep while watching television, and I hoped the storm hadn't woken her. I peeked into the living room to see her asleep, the television's glow, flickering as she snored softly in her recliner. As quickly as I could, I walked in front of the screen towards my screen. grandfather's collectible cabinet. I opened it slowly, keeping an eye on Gran, as it squeaking blended with the applause of someone winning a grand prize. I grabbed the highest one I could reach,

the weight of the bottle, feeling dirty in my hands. I closed the cabinet and Gran mumbled as the program went to commercial. After stirring under her blanket, the dry rasp of snoring continued. She was asleep. I tucked it under my shirt, feeling guilt. I snuck back to my room and anxiously closed the door behind me. I was sick with worry and scared to find Penny's father looking in when I went back to the window. Instead, I saw nothing, only the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the black outside. An empty yard, glistening in the rain.

Penny? I whispered, creeping up to the window. I poked my head outside, holding both the whiskey and the torn stuffed animal. Droplets pelted my face as I looked around, my stomach twisting as I saw nothing but wet grass. I'm here. I jumped as Penny came up beside me, still shivering in her soaked nightgown. I asked her if she wanted a blanket or something, but she shook her head. I handed the bottle to her and she took it, cradling it like a glass baby. She looked down at the bottle in sadness, her untouched eye lingering on the bottle before she turned back to me. I held the stuffed animal out next. Penny looked at the broken swan, her lip trembling into a frown as the rain hit it.

I don't need it anymore, she said, and managed a faint smile. Thank you for helping me. I shouldn't be long. You should bundle up. It's cold out here, she said, and kissed me on the cheek. I stood there, dumbfounded. You're the best friend I've ever had, she said, and scurried back to her house. After she slinked through the back door, I still felt the cross press of the kiss on my cheek. I looked at that little swan in my hand, feeling a whirlwind of emotions within me. I didn't know what was happening or how I was supposed to feel about it.

I shut the window, set the swan on my dresser, and started putting on warmer clothes. Outside, the storm pressed on. I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, occasionally looking out my window to Penny's house. Her house stood eerily silent in the storm. With no light inside, it was impossible to know what was going. on. I got some boots from the closet, thinking they would be better walking through the rain. After I put them on, I got in bed and covered myself in a blanket while I waited for Penny to return. I laid in the dark for a while, listening to the powder of rain. I thought of Penny and the

kiss she gave me. I thought of her father and the wild look in his eyes. I thought of Grand, and how she took me in. After a while, I thought of my parents, and how it was harder to see their faces as time went on. As I busied myself with thoughts, the rain settled down to a drizzle, and the thunder was getting farther and farther apart. The wind no longer rattled the siding,

and soon an agitated peace settled in. And with that, A pebble. Penny was waiting by the window when I got there, still in the same damp nightgown. She looked tired and cold, but determined. She held a finger to her lips before I could say anything, and nodded and climbed out the window. She took my hand and led me to the backyard, her bare feet and my boots squishing in the wet grass. Her grip was cold but fierce, but she looked back with a smile that assured me everything would be okay.

The storm was fading, and on the horizon, the dawn fought to poke through the gloom. Together we went down the hill, leading to the creek, holding each other up each time the earth slid beneath us. The creek was rushing from the rain, but Penny didn't let it slow her down.

She was focused, pushing through steadily as I held on tight. My boots sucked at the mud, but I kept up, sucking in breath as the cold water passed by my legs like ice. We made it through, both of us, huffing with excited exhaustion. As I caught my breath, she let go of my hand and ducked into the trees that led to our secret spot. I looked back at our houses,

the mental noise of the pain they brought. fading the further we got away. When I ducked in, Penny had already reached the edge of the woods. She motioned for me to follow and disappeared into the corn. I followed quickly, clumsy soaked boots trudging through with every step. I tried to keep my focus ahead, watching the corn get closer and closer, and I tried to keep up. With the faint light of dawn, I noticed something in the mud beneath me. It didn't make sense at first, but the longer I looked, I started to notice a pattern.

Two sets of bare feet were imprinted in the mud. Two facing in the direction of our houses. Two facing the cornfield. A single smear drug between them. The path led all the way to our sands. secret spot. Once I reached the corn, I saw a single patch of disturbed stalks. Some of them had been flattened or broken, a path the smear ran directly through. On the other side of the corn, I could see the outline of Penny waiting patiently. As I waved my way through the stalks,

I started to hear something, like an incoherent mumbling. It got louder the closer I got, the mumbling turning into groaning, then mumbling again. When I made it to the secret spot, Penny was there. She walked over silently and took my hand and smiled, pulling me into a hug with both arms. She was still cold, but she wasn't shivering anymore. I'd never hugged her before. And it was then I realized how thin she actually was. Like she was sick.

She rested her head on my shoulder for a while. And for a moment, we just held each other in the peaceful dawn. She looked up at me and smiled, half of her face beaming, the other unable to. She touched my face, running her thumb over my cheek softly, before, looking to the sky. Above, the stars were shining, brighter than ever before. Thank you for coming with me. Thank you for letting me show you, she said. And it was then I saw the wriggling shape behind her. On the ground was Penny's father, writhing on the ground. Lodged in his mouth was the bottle of whiskey, a heavy wrap of duct tape, keeping it in place.

The bottle was empty. She stepped out of the way so I could see her smile fading to a blank slate of indifference. I looked at her father in surprise, instinctively stepping away from him. Penny held my hand tight and kept me by her side. Her father tried to struggle but couldn't. His unfocused eyes lolling at the sky as he fought. against makeshift restraints of clothing and belts. Dribbles of vomit caked his face, and he seemed caught in a constant state of heavy gasping. Through the gasps were attempts at

words, each of them heavily slurred and muffled by the lodged bottle. Before long, my gaze was pulled away from him, behind him. The wide mass stirred in front of the corn, a shape almost concealed by the haze of the leaving nightfall. It moved with the sound of an ocean wave, its size expanding on each side, until I could see long, elegant feathers fan out like daggers. A long neck rose from its body, curving and extending until it towered above. I had the size of my body, looking directly at me, then started leaning toward me. A neon glow burst from the horizon, painting the shape as it encroached toward me. The giant swan stood with stark brilliance, its ballerina shape menacing and pure. Pitch black eyes narrowed on me,

its massive and elegant beak, poised and ready to stab me through the chest. I looked up at it helplessly, squeezing Penny's hand as I resisted the urge to let my bladder go. The beak kept reaching toward me, and when it was almost close enough to touch, it stopped. Penny reached out and placed her hands on the beak, and the colossal bird froze. It turned to her slowly, and she stepped forward to rest her head against the feathers on its neck. The animosity faded away, and the swan relaxed. It leaned into Penny's embrace and above the stars glimmered in the static above.

There was a deep humming in the swan's breast, and Penny smiled. Before I could relax, the swan looked back at me and softly prodded me in the chest with its beak. I looked and Penny and she nodded, and with a trembling hand, I reached to Petit's neck. each feather soft as the finest silk but brimming with electrical energy like i was touching a battery when i looked into its eyes i felt like i was looking into my soul when the swan was done with me there was a deep hum then it craned its head to look at penny's father the man lay miserably on the ground still mumbling through his vomit

He tried to look around, but there was an absence in his eyes. Each thrash was confused and belligerent, resisting without knowing why. He didn't see the swan, even when it came for him. The beak parted as it reached his torso and clamped down slowly like a vice. The father screamed as it pinched together, breaking the restraints and peeling his flesh effortlessly. The swan's bite took everything with it, ripping layers of skin and muscle and leaving an exposed chest cavity in its wake. It reared back and swallowed the viscera, the mass sliding down its tube of a neck. I wanted to run.

I looked at Penny and gasped. Penny's mouth was open wide, her jaw struggling as she bared her teeth. It kept opening until her jaw broke. a terrible wet crunch that brought tears to my eyes. She was looking at me, a single tear falling before her eye disappeared, buried under folds as her face scrunched and folded together, making way for what was forcing itself out of her throat. A long bill, blood-stained and burnt orange, kept protruding until it crowned ahead. Penny's head separated to accommodate the expunging mass, and I watched in horror as her body tore vertically,

and a pair of stained wings stretched from the remnants of her shoulders. The strings of the nightgown snapped, revealing a feathery breast speckled with red. I held on there until there was nothing left to hang on to, and could only watch as short-past. old feet stepped out of the gore. The swan that burst from Penny walked awkwardly at first, but after a few steps, balanced on newfound feet, it looked up at the giant swan who nodded from up above. Penny's father was still trying to scream, but his strength was fading. His chest was a mess of flayed pectoral muscle, shifting organs and a beating heart struggling to stay inside its ruined containment.

I watched as the baby swan walked over to him, its dark eyes looking down thoughtfully. Right before it dug into his chest. The beak was sharp separating the tissue as it rooted around. Penny's father thrashed weakly, unable to defend himself. When the beak found his heart, it pinched and ripped it free, holding it up triumphantly before rearing back and dropping it down its throat. Arterial spray scattered in all directions, staining feathers and corn alike.

When the baby was finished, it backed away from the corpse, the bulge of the heart still working its way down the throat. The giant swan reached down and gave an affectionate embrace. The sun burst through the tree line and tantalizing pink and orange painted the sky. They stood there like sculptures, like masterpieces from carved diamonds

that reflected the light of the sun. It was beautiful. When they were done, the swans looked at each other, then looked at me. The smaller one looked back at the mother and stood awkwardly, shuffling on its paddled feet.

The mother scoffed and nudged the baby over to me. It walked hesitant at first but eventually approached. Its wings held, bent in front of it. The mother turned and scooped up the rest of the father, gathering him up in one large, delicate bite. I looked at the small swan, then looked to what remained of Penny. Whatever was left was fading into the grass, withering away like ash on a campfire.

I looked at the remains, feeling a ball in my throat and a heaviness in my chest. The swan reached out a wing and blocked my view of it, its dark eyes looking upset. It exhaled through its nasal passages in a way that felt sympathetic. I reached out for it, and it leaned against me, its long neck resting on it. my shoulder as its wings stretched out and wrapped around me. Through the blood and feathers, I felt the embrace of Penny, a kind soul meant for a better world. The swan whistled softly, and I started to cry. Throat aching sobs I couldn't hold back. The swan hummed softly, swaying with me. We stood like this until my tears ran dry.

and the swan pulled away to rejoin its mother. I wiped my eyes and watched her go. The haze of the sun, lifting the weight of the pain, I had gotten so used to ignoring. Together, they stretched their wings, thousands of feathers casting shadows over the corn, and with one grand flap, they were gone. Ever since she was a kid,

Penny dreamed of being a swan, It was a dream she had often. One I would get to know and love more every time she told it. She would tell me she dreamt of dancing among the stars, spreading her wings and flying across the sky. Up above would be a world free of pain and suffering, a world full of light that would shine so bright. It would erase the pain of everything she'd been through.

I'm older now, and things are much better than they used to be. I learned to have another family, one that won't have to know the pain of a broken home, and don't have to wonder if they belong. Sometimes I go out at night and look up at the stars. I think of Penny, the Swan, and if I look hard enough, I can see her flying with her mother. for your bonus episode. Creepy Presents Dermumph

Written by Ryan Peacock. When I was a little boy, my mother used to tell me stories about Dermumph. He was a sort of local boogeyman in the town I grew up in, a spooky story for parents to tell their kids. Nothing more, nothing less. The one she most often told was about a little boy named Stefan, who was a very loud and lively child. child. Stefan liked to play from the moment the sun rose until long after it set. And though his mother and father would often tell him that he needed to go to bed, Stefan would not. When they tried to tuck him in, he'd wait until they'd left before creeping out of his bed and playing with his toys once again until the noise he made caused his parents to come and put him back to bed.

One time, Stefan had asked his mother why she insisted he'd be asleep by dark, and she told him that if he remained awake and continued to play, Then he risked drawing the attention of Dermumph. Dermph is a terrible creature, she said to him. He lives in the forest and comes out at night looking for something to eat. He has no eyes, so he listens for loud sounds and follows him back to their source. Why do they call him Dermph? Stefan had asked. That sounds like such a silly name. They call him Dermph, because he is the man with ten thousand teeth.

When he bites into your flesh and begins to chew, the agony never stops. As your body slides down his gullet piece by piece, those teeth crush and mush you into a pulp. He starts with your feet, then he bites off your legs. He'll swallow your arms and tear you in half. Then before he eats the rest of you, he takes out your teeth and adds them to his own mouth. Well, little Steffen still thought the whole story sounded silly, so he didn't pay it any mind. He decided that his mother was simply trying to scare him, and he didn't want to change his ways. So, the next night, he behaved the same way he always did.

When he was put to bed, he got up and played with his toys. He did the same the night after that, and the night after that, and the night after that. Then one night, when Stefan's mother heard a commotion in his room, room, she went to put him to bed once again, only to find no trace of her son, only an open window, a pool of blood on the ground, and the distant sound of chewing. Mimph, Mumph, Mumph. Story used to scare the crap out of me when I was little. And I always go to bed, wrap myself in my sheets and never make a sound after being sent to bed, terrified that if I was somehow too loud, their mouth would crawl through my bed and

window and eat me alive. I used to think it was a story a lot of people told their children, but in reality, I really heard any mention of it outside my hometown. There are a few neighboring towns who are familiar with the story, of course, but that's really it. Mention anywhere else and people won't know what you're talking about. I can't help but envy them a little. Most people in my hometown don't actually believe in their mouth.

But every now and then, you'll run into someone who will swear up and down they've seen it for themselves. There was a police officer in my town by the name of Hans Blumel. I actually remember Blumel from when I was a little boy. It seemed like a good enough man, and I don't think there was anyone in town who ever actively disliked him. I recall that when he was injured in the line of duty, people went out of their way to support him and his family, cooking them meals, an offering to help however they could. They went out of their way to help him. The only thing they wouldn't do was talk about how he got injured.

Most people simply said that he'd been injured during a fight with the thief he caught trying to enter somebody's house. Another officer had found him during the altercation and chased off the assailant. Although by then they'd already gouged out poor Blumel's eyes. As for what happened to the unknown assailant, whose house they'd been trying to break into or any other details. Those were just never really addressed. In fact, I've asked around,

and nobody remembers if they ever caught the person who injured poor officer Blumel. And Blumel himself never said much about the whole affair. Until recently. After his wife passed away, Blumel started hitting the bottle a lot harder than he had before, and when he was drunk, he started to talk. People mostly dismissed the things he's done.

said is the drunken ramblings of an aging former police officer who probably wasn't all there in the head anymore. But when I ran into him a few weeks ago, I held on to his every word. The way Blumel tells it, he'd been called to a farm on the edge of town regarding some sort of disturbance. The owners had thought there'd been some sort of animal in the barn, and Blumel had gone to investigate. He sent his partner to watch the other entrance while he went inside to try and scare whatever it was out into the open. Now, he never told me exactly what it was he saw inside. In fact, he outright refused to describe it.

The only thing he told me about it was that it took my eyes. Blumel's screams had drawn his partner to his aid. And he told me that he remembered hearing gunshots and feeling the creature run away. After that, he blocked out. I'd pushed Blumel a little, hoping he might tell me more about. just what it was he'd seen that night. After all, chances are, it was the last thing he ever saw. He'd only laugh at me and spoke two words.

Their month, I got nothing else out of him. I would have spoken to his partner, who at the time had been a man named Friedrich Decker, but Decker's long dad. He passed away about two months after he saved Blumel's life during some sort of hunting accident. The only thing I was able to learn about that accident was that he'd been mauled by some kind of wild animal. A fact I do find a little suspicious, but hardly conclusive. I suspect that some people in town might think I may be a little mad for looking into this sort of thing. After all, their mumpf is just a bedtime story, something that parents tell their children at night,

and the strange deaths that sometimes occur around town, the mauling of Officer Blumel, the unsolved disappearance of Stephan Scarf in 1931. They're all just coincidences. Horrible things happened, yes, but no proof of anything unnatural. Officer Blumel was attacked by a wild boar gun into a barn. Officer Decker was probably killed by a different boar. It's certainly common enough in the rest of the room.

region. Stefan Scarf was likely just to run away who got turned into a local folk tale, and my parents died during a home invasion. Yes, a home invasion. That was the official explanation, murdered by an unknown assailant during a burglary. But I know the truth. Just like Officer Blumel, I saw him with my own eyes, only unlike him. I managed to get away. My mother and father were very much in love, and it wasn't uncommon for them to leave me at home for a night out. When I was young, they'd usually leave me with a relative for the night,

but as I grew older, they saw no issue with leaving me at home to care for myself. I was around 15 the night they died. They had been out on one of their date nights and had come home lively, and a little drunk. I'd gone to bed at my usual time since I had school the next morning, but they'd stay up and talk and laugh like a couple in their 20s.

I didn't think they were being that loud, but I suppose they were loud enough. I remember a few moments of silence, followed by the sound of my mother's screaming and the sound of shattering glass. I'd sat bolt upright in bed, listening to my parents scream in terror. I could hear the crash of furniture being thrown around, followed by the most agonized screech I'd ever heard,

likely from my father. That scream seemed to cut off suddenly, and in its aftermath, all I could hear was the horrified sobbing of my mother, followed by her own screams and pleas for mercy before she too fell silent. I had stood silently in my bedroom, heart pounding like a drum, as I listened to the silence and started to hear the sound. Mumph, mumpf, mumpf. That was the sound my mother used in her story, the sound of chewing. Translated in English, it would more or less be the same as munch, munch, munch.

The actual sound isn't something I think I can properly describe. It was a wet, heavy chewing, accompanied by the snapping and crunching of bones and the squish of crushed meat. At the time, it made me sick to my stomach, and the memory of it still causes my guts to churn. I'd opened my door and stepped out into the hall before creeping to the banister to look downstairs. I only caught a glimpse of it from the side, and only just for a moment. a leathery thing that was shaped like a man but bore no other resemblance to one. Its limbs were long and spindly, sort of like a frog's. The skin was like tanned dry leather.

The palms of its hands were covered in broken, jagged teeth. I could see a mouth full of countless little teeth running all the way down its massive gullet. and I could see my mother, her legs torn from her body and disappearing down the maw of the thing that stood over her. Her eyes were still open, and fresh blood dribbled from her open, now toothless mouth. I saw her chest violently rising and falling as she bled out. And in her final moments, she looked at me. Her eyes wide with a terror I cannot even begin to describe. One day I may forget the beast,

but I will never forget the look in my mother's eyes as she lay ripped apart, waiting to be devoured. The sight of her was too much for me. I watched the creature grab her by the torso, hooking the teeth embedded into its hands into her flesh and drag her toward it. I saw it begin to stuff her down, its throat, and I heard the sound of her flesh squishing as it chewed her with a horrible,

undulating motion. I could see its neck pulsating as it crushed her, and I could hear her garbled, miserable cry of pain as it ate her alive. I couldn't watch anymore. All I could do was turn and run, and as I did I saw the creature's head tilt slightly in my direction. tears streaming down my cheeks, I ran back to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me, blocking with a chair and praying to whatever God might listen that it wouldn't find me, and it did no good.

I could hear footsteps on the stairs, and I could hear the sound of heavy breathing in the hall. I could feel its presence nearby. Somehow, in a way, I don't know that I can describe. I could feel it. like a weight on the edge of my subconscious. I knew it was coming for me. I could hear its low, heavy breathing, and I could hear the sickening squish of my mother's flesh as it chewed on her.

I could hear bones cracking and the weak whimpers she made. As it consumed her, I knew it was coming closer to my door. And so I did the only thing I could, I opened my window and climbed out. No sooner I bed saw that I heard the sound of my bedroom door flying open. In the moment before I dropped down to the ground below, looked back to see the shadow in the hall. I didn't look back again.

That night I woke up a neighbor by pounding on their back door until they answered. They called the police for me, who found only blood. Nothing else. We buried empty caskets. and they concluded that my parents had been killed during a home invasion. I was sent to live with my grandfather, and that was that. I don't talk about what I saw very often. Most people in my town don't believe in their moth.

Long ago, when I tried to tell them the truth, they dismissed it. Writing me off is nothing more than a poor traumatized boy who just lost everything. But I remember all too clearly what I saw that night, and I know now that I am not the only one who has seen it, I will keep digging. Hopefully if I dig deep enough, I might be able to find out what it truly is where I came from and maybe even how to kill it. One way or another, I will force this bedtime story to its happy ending. For more information on this podcast, including how to do.

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