Creepy - The Year With No Full Moon

Episode Date: March 13, 2023

You don't know what you have until it's gone...***Written by: Laugh Man and Narrated by: Atticus Jackson***Bonus episode: "The Chip Man" written by Lamont Turner***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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or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. The Year with No Full Moon Written by Laugh Man And narrated by Atticus Jackson It all started

The year with no full moon The first month went unnoticed It was cloudy and overcast four days in a row But that was not out of the ordinary for wintertime We bundled up before leaving our home and sunk our necks into our collars as we quickly passed from work to car to house, never paying much mind to the skies above. More often than not, the days were long and gray with crisp air that stung the lungs if you took too

deep a breath. Nothing about those days said something strange was afoot. It was winter. Everything was as it should be. I began to exude some new tricks. that I didn't pay much attention to until things began to crumble around me. I developed ticks in my shoulders and neck. At first I thought I had just pinched a nerve,

so I kept popping muscle relaxers, hoping it would do the trick. It took me a while to realize the involuntary movements weren't going away. In the second month, a shift in atmosphere had occurred, but you couldn't quite put your finger on what had changed. Noticably, people were uneasy and cranky. Interactions with others, even those you knew well, turned sour quickly. Rage seeped into daily conversations, resulting in explosions of unwarranted hate. After these vernacular assaults, half-hearted apologies were exchanged later in the day,

and then days turned to weeks and months. Then, no apologies at all. It became expected to have someone flip out on you at the drop of a hat, in turn making you come undone on the next. A general chill filled the air. Something was just off. It became more aggressive and confrontational. I was never like that. I was a shy kid with debilitating social anxiety that.

extended into adulthood. If invited to a party, I would people watch from a distant corner and slip out quietly with no goodbyes. On the daily, I like to exist in the background with my head down and little to no impact on others. But suddenly, I began to lose my cool on anyone crossing my path. I could feel the anger form in my gut and crawl into my torso, or once. it would seize as crippling apprehension. But now, words of hate and belittlement were vomited compulsively. When I was done purging these horrible thoughts to whoever was on the receiving end, I would snap back into reality and feel disgusted by my actions.

I used to apologize profusely. My shoulders and neck twitching uncontrollably as I stuttered over my words. Now my hands simply rise to wipe away the chunks of hate that may be lingering on the corners of my mouth. And I moved on with the rest of my day. We all felt something different. But no one turned their gaze to the skies for answers. Or so we thought. NASA noticed.

Astronomers noticed. blown away by this strange phenomenon of what appeared to be a missing moon two months in a row, scientists found themselves asking why, but never pondered what was next or if it would continue. As rumors began to spread and more eyes turned to the sky for answers, what little moon we had left turned into a silver slice only occasionally visible, or sometimes not at all. By the time they moved past the initial excitement of something so historic happening and thought about the potential consequences.

It was too late. What could they have done to bring back a full moon anyway? Pull back the curtain blocking its beams? Dread spread like wildfire amongst the scientific community, but their lips remained sealed. They didn't officially tell us anything. Maybe they were sworn to see. secrecy or didn't want to stoke conspiracies. Maybe they didn't know what would happen next.

Almost every major news story in history has been leaked to the press. Keepers of secrets can't help the impulse to give out just enough information for the media to run with or to cling to. But there was nothing. Not a peep. They hold up in their facilities, gated their entrances, and faded into the background without ever uttering a word of warning to the public. The third month, that's when the animals changed. Mass beechings of mammals struck the shoreline seemingly overnight. Livestock suffered seizures spreading like a disease from cow to goat to pig, leaving chickens to back away at their fallen friends. Hordes of insects disappeared. And every day at sunset, just as that fire,

fiery ball disappeared below the horizon. Everything went still. No wind blowing. No cricket singing. No waves crashing. Nothing. The silence was deafening. Zoo animals were the saddest to watch deteriorate. In the cages and enclosures, they just stopped. Stopped eating. Stopped. Stopped moving, stopped grooming. They huddled together in large piles all clawing and crawling on top of each other into a mass of fur or tusks of skin. They lay there in what looked like the depths of despair, bunched together with wild eyes. No amount of luring, attention, or raw meat could get them to move.

The strong odor began seeping from the creature heaps where workers discovered the animals at the bottom of the piles had died and begun to rot. Unable to move the upper layers of the massive beasts, the smell grew stronger as death crept up its peak. Birds live slightly longer than the other animals for unknown reasons. They filled the sky in slow-moving succession, chirping so loud your eardrums would rattle. We wondered if Hitchcock was on to something, but they never attacked us. However, in the months to come, they all took a nose dive to the ground at full speed, with no intention of stopping. You never quite realized how many existed until they were all dead at your feet. Only bloody piles of smashed beaks and feathers remained, along with some human casualties.

As the tufts of feathers started to blow away, a mangled, huge. human hand or punctured face would surface. We didn't get a sense of how many people died until the plow trucks came. The smell was wretched. There was nowhere to go with the Caucasus, both man and foul. So the trucks scraped the ground, forming massive mountains of decaying bodies. Rumors spread that domesticated dogs broke free and were wandering the wilds and packs. I didn't have any pets at the time, and my immediate neighbors did neither, so I can't

verify a mass exodus of man's best friend. I do know the dog down the street suddenly fell silent. The one left noisily on its leash from the time the owners got home from work until the lights went out for bed. I took a stroll past the house one evening, deciding to walk to my local post office when I noticed a chain laying on the ground with a collar still attached to it. I knelt down reaching out my hand to inspect it further, but paused when I noticed chunks of fur and some blood around the edge of the choker. Sparky was inscribed on a little silver medallion splattered with gore. I looked up at the house, which was completely dark and still. A gentle ripple in the curtain, as if someone were watching me from within.

Is Sparky running wild with his housebroken friends? Or did this silent house propose more sinister motives? These are the dark places I didn't allow my mind to wander. So I quickly moved on to retrieve my mail. The first public murder happened in the fourth month. It came as a shock to see it live from my living. television. I didn't care much for the news these days, except for obsessively watching the full moon report that flooded the airways 24 hours a day. It was mystifying, even though it was

essentially the same report repeatedly. I wondered if there was some kind of subliminal messaging going on as I felt hypnotized by my TV. The rest of the news? All doom and gloom. but wasn't it always? I can't remember a time before all this full moon business where the headlines weren't smeared with shocking truths or harrowing catchphrases hammering into our minds that the world was a terrible place full of terrible people and that maybe you're one of them.

But this news hour was different. An immensely pregnant meteorologist announced on air with seemingly no remorse that her unborn baby was, in fact, that of her very married co-worker, a leading news anchor and family man extraordinaire, right in the middle of her highs and the lows speech. Her words fizzled out, and she stared off camera. Her head tilted ever so slightly, causing the studio lights to twinkle in her eyes. You could see the thoughts calculate. in her head by the way her forehead pulsed in response.

She instantly looked insane. And then she said it. She just blurted it out. Anchorman Joseph Tallander is the father of this baby. We've been sleeping together for two years. His wife doesn't know I'm pregnant. There was a long pause. I think someone gasped in the studio,

but it was muffled by the shuffle. of rushing shoes on the floor like screeching sneakers on a basketball court. You can hear someone yell in the distance. Cut it! Cut it! My TV screen went black for a moment before the old television test pattern appeared with its rainbow of vertical colors

accompanied by a high-pitched tone. I muted it and went to the kitchen to make some food. It went on like this for 40 minutes. So I slurped up some ramen and obsessively refreshed my full moon. moon app checking for updates. I couldn't bear to turn the TV off. It was the first time in months something happened on the news that actually felt live.

I didn't want to miss any of it. Suddenly, the test pattern went away and a commercial came on about halfway through its run advertising the local surplus store. They were having a full moon sale. I should get in there. When the news finally came back on, missed a new one. Talander and his supposed mistress were nowhere to be found. The two faces that appeared in front of the camera were glossed over bearing robotic smiles

trying to allude nothing had happened for all the viewers just joining the program. They proceeded with the week's headlines. Some menacing doctor did this, an abandoned child did that. Still no full moon in sight. The same stories I was listening to prior to this real-time soap opera. disappointed I slouched back in my chair when suddenly a voice erupted from the background of the newsroom floor and the anchors froze

their eyes shifted off screen brows furrowed a look of panic spread across their faces when they realized whom the voice was coming from why they didn't cut from air this time I don't know maybe the suits was seeing a jump in ratings for one Once, where is she? Was screened. The voice closer to the camera.

Then the extended arm of a woman appeared. Her voice angrily instructing everyone to stay still. Barely in the frame, a piece of metal reflected in her hand. A gun. Don't move. She commanded firmly as the anchors to her left began to squirm in their seats. Where is she? She demanded again, stepping in the full view of the camera.

It's Talander's wife. That is very clear now. I began to shift to the edge of my couch, eyes wide and disbelief that this was actually happening. I couldn't look away. I didn't want to look away. Somewhere off camera, you could hear Talander emerging from the back of the studio instructing his wife to calm down. The last thing you want to tell a disgruntled woman,

especially one with a gun in her hand. Mr. Talander entered the screen to the right. His wife took a step forward and cocked the gun, and his hands quickly went up as he realized the severity of the situation. Beads of sweat immediately lined his forehead. His face went pale. He didn't know she had a gun. Word started pouring from his mouth as he fumbled through his thoughts, declaring that it was not true,

and that the very pregnant meteorologist was confused. His wife took another step forward, and he stopped talking and winced, looking at the floor, hoping that averting his eyes would stop the bullets from flying. Then a silhouette appeared in the background. The pregnant belly emerged into a sliver of stage. light, and Mrs. Talented's gaze shifted. The woman emerged from the depths of the studio somewhere past the husband, her face unmoving like a doll, her hands on her belly.

When Talander noticed his wife's gaze flick past him, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the expectant mother standing there exposed. He released a loud squawk shouting, No! Turning to protect her right as his wife shot three times. I jumped in my seat at the sound of the blasts. My heart rate rose from the excitement of it all, followed by a pleasing sensation, warming my entire body as I watched this unfold.

The lack of full moon had definitely changed something in me. And this live moment of death just proved it. I felt gross. but I also felt satisfied. Mr. Talander went down hard, a thud on the floor that sounded like someone dumping a body from a second-story window. A short skid of skin against polished concrete erupted as he came to a halt and lay there lifelessly, blood beginning to pool on the floor around him.

The wife aimed again at the unmoved pregnant woman, and shot again. causing her to hit the ground with the force of two. Someone shrieked in the background of the station. Mrs. Talented stared at her husband's lifeless figure for a moment. Her bottom lip quivered and she released a bitter giggle. Maybe shooting him wasn't as satisfying as she thought it should be. At this moment, anything is possible in that brain of hers.

She looked around the room at everyone staring at her. A single tear fell from her eye as she blinked herself back to reality. Some staff members covered their faces and only peeked through the cracks of their fingers. All were scared she would open fire on them and were ducking behind chairs and shelves. She scoffed, put the gun in her coat pocket, and walked out. The pregnant woman survived. She had been shot in the shoulder. The baby survived too as she gave birth to it right there on the floor of the newsroom.

The trauma from the shot and drama from her words caused her to go into labor when she regained consciousness. Well, that may have been the first live birth on primetime television. What's that old saying? With, uh, death brings new life. I'm not sure this is what they had in mind. Oh, the baby wasn't Talented, by the way. He was right. She was confused.

seemingly another side effect of the times. Months five and six brought more death, chaos, and mystery. Apparently the incident at our local news station wasn't the only murder people witnessed that day. It was just the beginning for nationwide homicides, riots, looting, the works. Law and order was still lingering, but barely. At this point, it seemed anything was possible short of zombies. If you were out after dark, you'd often see people staring up at the sky.

Dark figures staring at the ends of their driveways, in fields, on sidewalks, in the middle of the street. It was so eerie. It was like they were hypnotized, waiting for forever. They stood there searching for a reason, meaning, and answers. Anything to make sense of the day. deteriorating world around them. I almost hit a guy one night when I got out of work late. My street isn't well lit.

Small town, few lamp posts, that kind of thing. And there was no natural moonlight to offer even a shred of illumination of what was ahead of me. I tried never to be out after dark because of the obvious. It's creepy as hell out there. I approached my little town. My headlights dimly cast it. a yellow beam when I had to slam on my brakes to stop from hitting a man. Wearing all black, he was standing in the middle of the street, staring up, like many others

I had passed on my way home. My tires skidded across the pavement, and I came to a stop about eight feet away from him. I screamed obscenities through the windshield, but he didn't move. I cracked my window just enough to be heard and shouted, Hey, asshole! Angrily beating on my steering. steering wheel. No acknowledgement. He didn't even flinch. I'm not sure he knew I was there. Fuck this. I said to myself and laid my hand on my horn. That got his attention. His head set into motion, turning to face me in short jerky movements, almost as if not attached to his spine. The rest of his body remains still.

When his gaze fully met mine, his eyes reflected the glow from my headlight like an animal's eyes in the dark. That impossible yellow-green shine with nothingness behind it. His body jerked around to match the direction of his gaze, and I quickly tapped the automatic lock button in my car. I don't know what was up with this guy, but I did not want to find out. His skin was a shade paler than living flesh, and he had lesions on his bald head and neck. His mouth hung slightly ajar. His jaw moved up and down in small motions like he was chewing something or wanted to. He didn't blink, not even once, and took a step toward my car, his head cocking to the side with curiosity.

Frozen with fear, I repeatedly whispered to myself, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. As he progressed forward until his knees came into contact with my bumper. His gaze fell as if surprised to find that something separated us. He placed his knuckles on the hood of my car. Oh, God, oh God, oh God! Oh God! I said louder as he pushed down. I'm dinting my hood beneath his clenched fists and locking eyes with me once again.

That animalistic glare reflecting back at me. Drill dripped from the corner of his mouth, catching the breeze, strings of it slipping into the night. I held my breath for a moment, gathering some courage. Hey, man, I'm sorry! I sputtered through the windshield. Then he let out of the air. a screech so loud I had to cover my ears. His head turned to the sky.

The sound stretching to unbearable volumes echoing off neighbor's houses and alleyways. His neck pulsing as the sound left his jowls. He looked back at me now, panting heavily. Slime pouring from his mouth, soaking his shirt as if salivating at the sight of food. His knuckles sank. further into my hood as he braced to pounce. Suddenly, a screech in the distance erupted from somewhere a few blocks away. An echo of what I had just witnessed. An answer to his call. It can mean only one thing. There was another one, just like him out there in the dark. Or worse. There were many

of them. His head jerked in the direction of the sound, and he released a short screech in response, and began galloping into the night using his arms as additional legs to get to his counterpart faster. I gripped my steering wheel and squeezed my eyes tight, trying to slow my breathing. What was that? I thought. I shook my head trying to ground myself in reality. and stepped on the gas pedal immediately heading home, not stopping for anyone or anything as I drove. Not after that encounter. Over the next few months, I decided it was best to not leave the house.

I had already converted to working from home for my job, and that pretty much fizzled out shortly after. With the daily pandemonium, normal life was becoming null and void. so I started adapting. I am incredibly fortunate to live in a small town. Yes, there are still creatures, but hopefully less than what a city would produce. I live right on the main road, a few doors down from the local grocery store.

Before shit really hit the fan, I loaded up on as much food as I could get my hands on with a long shelf life. I did it little by little each week. in hopes no one would notice. I gathered some supplies from the surplus store. You know, the one having the full moon sale? I did not gradually stockpile necessities from them. That was a shopping spree in its purest form.

If there was anyone who'd understand being prepared for end-of-day's type feels, it was surplus store employees. They didn't question me at all. In fact, they added on to my already large list. They made a fortune off me that day. My only shortcoming was prescription medication for my anxiety. I refilled what I could and began having them with a pill cutter in an attempt to ration. I knew it wasn't a good idea because I already felt like I needed more in order to feel normal.

But I figured half a pill for longer was better than running out completely. I had plans to raid a pharmacy before it became impossible to go outside, but I was too late. Someone had beat me to it. It was too risky to go see what was left. This was the direction we were headed, where it wasn't safe to go outside. I watch horror movies. I know what happens. But when it's actually happening to you, you exist in a haze of disperienced.

belief. Sure. I'd like to think I know exactly what I would do in these scenarios. In zombie movies, you're convinced you'll take out your loved ones with no hesitation. That is, until your loved one is standing right in front of you, eating someone else's brain, and eyeing up your noggin for seconds. Because you don't believe it's actually happening, you hesitate. And by then, it's too It's a little. Hesitation equals death. Plain and simple. I boarded up my house in month 10.

I had enough food and water to last seemingly years. My job dried up and eventually 404 online. And then one day, there was no online. Once the internet went down, I knew any sense of help or an end wasn't coming. So I decided to make an impenetrable fortress out of my small home. I parked my car in the backyard in front of a couple of windows to make them harder to access. I covered it with a dropcloth and threw a bunch of junk on top, including some shrubs and trash to disguise the vehicle as best I could.

Luckily, inside, I only had two doors to anchor that both opened inward, and I added multiple steel barrel bolt locks and floor stoppers to each. I plastered my windows with newspapers and boarded them up. Because my house is so old, I don't really have a basement, with the exception of a root cellar that can only be accessed by a door in my kitchen. It was the perfect place to store my supplies. And it was filled, floor to ceiling. In the attic, I made a small lookout area using a turbine in my ceiling.

It pops open like a hatch. It secured clothes with the latch and padlock that I installed, and they shove a wood block in between the blades to stop them from turning before opening the hatch in order to avoid losing a finger. The opening is just big enough for my body to fit through with my arms over my head. And it's my only way out if there's a fire or threat. Dangerous? Yes. But the alternative is being out there with murderers, creatures, and who knows what else.

I'll take my chances with the hatch. And if I become trapped and die by fire, well, maybe that's better than dying at the hands of the freaks outside, nor becoming one of them. During this whole makeover, I've had some time to think. And it occurred to me that I'm not only doing all of this to keep others out, but also to keep me in. I was currently medicated, though my supply was low.

I didn't want to find out what I was capable of once my meds ran out. I can handle a little OCD, but if something more severe happened, if I hurt someone, if I killed someone, I couldn't live with myself. What's being pieced together over the year is that the full moon was regulating human behavior. Much like the abominable. and flow of the tides, it was controlling the ebb and flow of human emotions, too.

Once a month, the moon would dawn its beautiful, dimpled glory and full, illuminating the skies and drowning the stars. What we didn't know was that that big silvery ball was keeping our bad impulses at bay. Ever hear someone in retail say all the crazies were out shopping during the full moon? well, they weren't wrong. The monthly release was enough to regulate emotions in small doses. Without it, all of those people reached their peak and never came back down, succumbing to their impulses.

Another year has gone by, and Christmas time was approaching. Or at least what I had presumed had to be close to it. I lost track of the date long ago. There was fresh snow on my roof that sprinkled into my attic during an excursion to the hatch one day. I'd like to pop out a few times a week to survey my surroundings and determine the state of my neighborhood. Moreover, just to get some fresh air. It gets a little stale in here sometimes. I lost communication with my next door neighbor about a week ago.

We posted monthly signs to each other in obscure locations that could only be seen from his attic window to my hatch, so to not draw attention from unwanted eyes. Last week, his sign didn't change. And this week, the puffs of smoke from his chimney went from a steady roar to a fizzling line to nothing. It was too cold to not have a fire going that many days in a row. Something must have happened. There were a younger couple with a small child. I hoped they were okay, but I didn't feel safe enough to find out. I prepared myself a holiday meal, which consisted of some jerky with a powdered gravy packet I had from a few years ago.

The lukewarm mix helped disguise the taste bringing a little seasonal flavor to my meal. I found some old tubes of wrapping paper in the attic, so I gift wrapped some boxes of food and random objects I had laying around to change the atmosphere, and an attempt to feel normal. I even found a Santa hat and one of those stupid ugly Christmas sweaters from an office party a few years ago. Back when attendance was mandatory. I popped the batteries out of a flashlight and into a cassette player I found in a box of my parents' old effects. I also found an original Peanuts soundtrack.

My dad was a huge fan of the show in his youth. It was Christmassy enough, so I popped it in, and Lucy and Linus began as I tossed a chunk of Dura Flame onto my fire, and settled on my couch with my gravy-soaked jerky. I looked around the room and thought, what a sight this must be. My window's completely blocking all life from outside. Food boxes wrapped in decorative paper. A lonesome man in a Christmas sweater and Santa hat. I have to admit, though, I was thriving in this atmosphere.

What more could an introvert want than to be left totally, utterly alone with everything needed at my fingertips? At least for a little while, anyway. I smiled to myself in what I think was the first genuine smile since this all began. I looked down at my beef jerky and took a deep inhale. And then coughed profusely because turkey gravy covered beef jerky is actually disgusting to smell. But I took a big bite anyway and chomped away. And that's when I heard it. A small scratch on the outside of the house.

At first I thought I imagined it. It wouldn't be the first time I conjured up a noise or a voice from deep within my brain. Maybe it was just the wind disrupting some of the junk around the edges of the house. Being boarded up inside completely alone for this long, you tend to see and hear things that aren't real. But my stories of delusions will have to wait for another day, because I hear the scratch again. And this time, it's traveling. I immediately click off the cassette player and listen with every fiber of my being. Was it the music that brought them to my shelter?

Could they hear it outside even at this low frequency? Was it my coughing fit that drew them to my seemingly abandoned house? Or the smell of this horrific holiday meal? Was it even a person? The shrieking creature from a few months ago resurfaced in my mind, and I shuddered at the thought of it being outside my door. It's been so long since I've heard it. So much time had passed for it to mutate further into a creature thirsty for blood.

My blood. I kill all the flashlights quickly and sit completely still in my chair. The small fire had going popped and cracked and the dancing flames made everything in the room appear to move. Sweat began to form on my forehead. Even though the fire was merely keeping the cold at bay, I heard the scratch continue along the outside wall in front of me. It sounded like a single fingernail scraping slowly along the siding. Across the backside of the brick fireplace, there was a gap of silence.

But it picked back up waist level on the wall past the chimney and headed toward the front of my house. Right up to my front door. I stood quickly grabbing my water bottle, dumped in in the fireplace extinguishing the flames immediately, then stood with my back pressed against the mantle, listening into the darkness, stretching my eardrums to their max. The scratch continued slowly, painfully slow, until it stopped at my front door where I'm met with silence. An empty void I've never experienced.

A black hole on the other side of the entrance. Fear heightened by anticipation. What's going to happen next? What is out there? As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I quickly scan the room looking for the closest weapon. An axe, leaning against the wall by the front door. A wave of distress swept over me. I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut in disbelief that I was this careless, that I was so unprepared.

I allowed myself to feel normal, dropping my guard. There isn't anything normal about the state of my life right now. I'm holed up inside my house in the middle of an apocalypse, where people are murdering each other. Creatures exist, and the whole planet has gone to shit. And here I am frozen with fear in my living room, dressed like a total asshole, pretending it's fucking Christmas time. What a fucking idiot! Bam!

A deafening strike hits the door. I snap out of my woes as my entire body jumps at the sound. Was it a fist? Was it a kick? Silence has fallen again. And I strained to listen for something. Anything telling me what it is in the void behind that door. What does it want?

An eternity goes by, but I can't tell how long it's been. Because my heart is in my throat waiting for another bang on the door. Waiting for it to break. And whatever is on the other side, to finally catch me. I have to do something. I can't just stand here and wait to die. I'm no hero, but I will fight for my life.

I think. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale and look over to the axe. I clinch my fists and gather all the courage I can muster. I listen a little longer, searching the silence. for signs of life, then take a step forward. The scratching immediately begins again. This time, in one place on my door, I take another gentle step forward, and the scratching

increases, moving up and down, faster and faster, harder and harder, as if it's trying to gouge through. I freeze as the scratching continues, my breathing following its momentum. And then I panic and make a run for it, dashing for the axe. But I trip and fall flat on my face over one of those damn presents I wrapped, slamming into the floor. A huge clatter of sound accompanying me. I freeze in pain, but mostly in fear.

Fear and listen. Nothing. The scratching stopped. Is it listening to me? Is it waiting for my next move? I lift my head and look at the door. The axe almost within reach. I rise to my knees assessing my injuries to find nothing severe.

So I crawl very quietly. very slowly over to the door when bam a loud strike hits again I leap from my knees to the axe grabbing it pulling it to my chest as I slam my back against the wall next to the door I clutch the axe tighter swearing to never let go

I am met with silence again silence that can only mean it's listening to me I slowly sink to the floor My breathing is trembling I try to calm down But I'm so close to it Too close to the thing on the other side The thing that is listening for me

Just as much as I am listening for it I hold my breath Squeeze my eyes tight And wait As more time passes excrues The single scratch begins again, this time moving toward me. I slowly turned my head in the direction of the sound as if it were in here with me, straining my eyesight in the dark of my house to see if somehow it's been in here all along,

and it's headed straight for me. How did it know my position so accurately if it wasn't already in here? lonely. The sound travels from the front door along the outside wall and then stops right behind where my body is pressed against the inside wall. I take a sharp breath in and hold it again trying to fight my trembling hands, my sweaty grip on the axe. The scratch traces moving upward and around the shape of my body moves to the center of the center of the wall. of my back and stops. How does it know?

How does it know? It begins to gouge the wall again, growing faster and louder. And I stand there shaking my head, squeezing my eyes shut, wishing it away. The slamming begins on the wall behind me, shaking the whole house. Plaster pieces from the ceiling fall on me.

as I stand there flinching with every strike of the outside wall. It's going to get in. It's going to get in! I drop the axe and cover my ears, frantically shaking my head trying to deny this is happening. The insanity of it all pushing me to my limits. My breathing, uncontrollable as I gasped for air. I completely freak the fuck out.

jumped to my feet and take off running across my house, tripping over more objects as I dashed for the attic. In haste, I shoved the excess panel to the side and climbed up, scraping my ribs on the edges of the square cutout. I threw the cover back over it, piled some heavy containers on top, ran for a dark corner, and crouched down in the darkness. Faintly, I could hear the thing continue to try,

and burrow its way through my exterior walls. I must have passed out at some point from all the stress, because I jolted awake to find cracks of daylight beaming in around my hatch. Only forgetting my circumstances shortly, I immediately froze in place when I realized where I was and remembered why I was there. Too scared to move, and disappointed that I yet again let my... guard down. I had no idea, yet the thing had gouged its way into my house successfully and was waiting

for me to emerge. However, I didn't emerge for three whole days. There I sat waiting and listening. I heard every creaky board settle, every whistle of wind that found a crack, and every single thing that goes bump in the night. I swore was the monster edging his way closer to the attic. I was so cold by the third day that I knew whatever remained of the embers in my fireplace that survived my water bottle were completely extinguished. luckily I was still wearing that stupid Christmas sweater and Santa hat which helped a little I was hungry thirsty and tired of smelling my own waist directly next to where I was sitting so I made a move as I slowly carefully made my way across the attic I found a loose piece of wood and grabbed it hoping I could beat my way through the the monster, or maybe stab it. I was definitely weak from lack of nourishment.

But maybe I'd get another boost of adrenaline. If there were an encounter, my floorboards groaned with every gentle step I took, stopping my heart with each creaky plank. But I kept progressing across my attic. As quietly as I could, I slid the containers away from the scuttle hole and then paused for what felt like how. while I listened for any sign of life below me. I swallowed hard and removed the board covering the entrance and peered down into the dark hallway.

The silent abyss of my house meeting my gaze at the threshold. This must be what it's like to stare into the unknown. My eyes strained through the darkness, trying to sense any movement. My entire body was covered in goosebumps. The silence was so loud that my ears rang, searching for noise. But there was nothing. In an act of faith, I slid through the hole and hit the floor with a thud, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for certain death.

After a few moments, nothing happened. No monsters attacked. No scratches began. I peaked out of one eye, letting it adjusts. to the darkness of the hallway and released my breath that I didn't know I was holding until just then. Very gently, very carefully. I progressed forward through the darkness. I made my way through the entire house like this.

Moved a few paces forward and then paused waiting for certain death. It must have taken hours to clear every room. When I finally found a flashlight, I had to talk myself into turning it on. All I could envision were those reflective green eyes unnaturally set in a human's head staring back at me. I fumbled around the living room, found some food, and ate like never before, gulping water in between bites. Once I had my fill, I lit a small fire. sat on the couch and stared at the flames. I looked over at the wall where my night of terror began.

A large crack went from floor to ceiling and webbed out in all directions. Pieces of the dry wall and debris covered the floor. But there was no hole. It didn't get in. With that realization, I fell into a deep sleep on the couch, only stirring for sustenance and to stoke the fire every few days. After a few months of slowly regaining the feeling of safety and a hint of confidence,

I finally poked my head out of the hatch to look around. Spring was in the early morning air. The temperature was above freezing. Drops of dew glistened and dripped in the morning sunlight on my rooftop. For the first time in months, I took a long, deep, fresh breath in, and held the crisp air, embracing the stinging in my lungs. I exhaled slowly, a stack of white steam leaving my lips. I closed my eyes and did this a few more times, feeling relief for the first time in over a year. I opened my eyes and took one last glimpse

around, savoring in this moment of bliss that I had longed for. I began to wiggle back down the hatch when I heard a familiar sound, not the scratching from my terrifying Christmas experience, not the screech from the dark alleyways of the night, but a familiar chirp of a songbird crooning in the morning sun. I paused with my hands still on the lid of the hatch door and waited. Did I imagine it? Have I finally completely lost my mind from all these months of isolation? Then I heard it again.

This time, there were two little tweets and the fluttering of wings that followed. I pushed the hatchback open and wedged my body back through an excitement of not only seeing a bird, but potentially seeing a normal bird. I was there the day it felt like the sky was falling as they plummeted to their death so the notion that any lived and are doing bird things seemed impossible could it be that not all of them were affected and survived?

My eyes scanned around, squinting in the sun looking for the small vessels carrying this long-lost noise and then I saw them. Two bright red cardinals chasing each other, but not in the harmful threatening way as before. This was ordinary. I watched them a little longer. This spirit reflecting birds of the past with spring on their wings. I actually felt joy.

I gently closed the hatch and returned downstairs to the darkness of my living room. A smile on my face as I held the imagery of the happy birds in the front of my mind. Could this be an end to the madness? That night, I decided to do something I had not done since holding up in my house. I went to the hatch after dark. I made my way up to the attic clumsily with my flashlight and nervously approached the rooftop access. As I got closer, I saw something for me. and thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

I clicked off my flashlight and looked at the floor beneath the opening. A faint halo of light projected a perfect glowing circle that could only be produced by an outside source, an outside light. I lifted my gaze to the hatch and saw the blue beams pouring into my attic. This was impossible. The only way light could get into this space is if... The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, as I hastily fumbled with the hatchlock and burst open the door.

My body forced its way through the opening in haste. My eyes darted around the sky until I found it. And there it was. So full and bright. that I squinted as if looking into the sun. I held my hand up to shield my eyes from its glow. The moon was back, and it was full. I was so overcome with raw joy that I actually shouted aloud.

My fist thrust it into the air. I couldn't believe it. I stood in the opening, smiling, laughing, and staring in disbelief. It's over. It has to be. What else could this mean? In the distance, I heard that faint familiar screech, that haunting sound of creatures in the night. One last glance at the moon. I tucked myself back in through the hatch, my mind racing with possibilities. That night, sitting wide awake, I was hopeful for the first time in over a year. Will the creatures eventually disappear? Could I finally leave my house? Will the world go back to normal?

But how could it? How could we ignore all of the insanity that occurred? So much has changed that I'm not sure we could ever go back to the way things were. People murdered other people in broad daylight. On national television, for God's sake. I don't know if we can move past that. If I can move past that. In the coming weeks, I took inventory of my supplies.

I counted all of my food, water, weapons, everything I had on hand. Spring was upon us. The weather was going to be nice as soon, warmer, and I could potentially go outside. I could potentially find more supplies, or maybe even people like me. Talking to another human sounded both terrifying and exhilarating. Even introverts get the urge to speak sometimes, even if it's just to an animal. As it continued to get warmer outside, I made my plan to leave. I packed a few days' worth of food and water in a backpack,

strapped a machete to my belt, and used the axe to pry the boards for my window. I was perfectly aware that something could make its home here while I was away on my mission, but I had to know I wasn't alone. I was prepared to accept the consequences of leaving my nest. I crawled out the window onto the hood of my covered car squinting as my eyes adjusted to the daylight my pale skin reflecting the light

a slight breeze kissed my face as I took a deep breath and turned my gaze to the abandoned road it's time creepy presents the year with no full moon written by laugh man and narrated by Atticus Jackson

For your bonus episode Creepy Presents The Chip Man Written by Lamont A. Turner Morris took the padlock off the roll-up door and typed his password into the computer on his desk in the receiving area of the warehouse. The Wiggins Brothers logo flashed briefly on the monitor

before the screen returned to black. Morris cursed under his breath and bent down to push the reset button on the hard drive under the desk. Noticing the green power light wasn't lit, he unplugged the computer and tried a different outlet. Nothing happened. He crammed a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed furiously while glaring at the uncooperative machine. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Tom,

his perpetually caustic manager, so early in the day. But he wasn't about to get chewed out for calling tech support without first getting Tom's approval. He checked the cables one last time, and then resigned himself to his fate. He just lifted the phone to page Tom when the buzzer sounded, alerting him to the arrival of his first vendor of the day. He looked at his watch. It was only one minute past five.

He didn't normally have anyone show up that early on Wednesdays. The figures one would show up early when his system was down, he thought. It was going to be one of those days. He pulled on the chain that raised the door, revealing a haggard-looking gray-haired man in a black polo shirt. It was Keith, the chip man. You can come in and check your shelf. Morris informed him. But you can't bring anything in.

The system's down. Keith nodded, glaring at Morris, as though he wanted to tell him something but couldn't find the words. His expression was so forlorn. Morris wondered if the man was about to start crying. Morris noted the dark shadows under the deep-set eyes and the gray tinge of the man's skin. You feeling all right? He asked. Keith nodded again, turned and trudged off to disappear around the corner of the building.

Morris thought it was odd Keith parked his truck around the side when the whole lot was empty. He could have pulled right up to the door. The whole encounter had been weird. Keith had been servicing the store for at least three years, and had always been gregarious. He'd also been one of the few vendors who maintained a strict schedule, nearly always showing up at the same time. The only times Morris could recall him showing up early was when he had to build a display, and he'd always informed Morris of his plans beforehand.

If he got held up and was going to be late, he always called. Morris was about to lower the door when the grocery truck, another early arrival, backed into the lot. He went to the desk and reached for the phone to page the department heads to come back and unload the pallets, and noticed the computer was running again. He clicked on the icon and brought up the screen for logging and vendor items to be sure, and then rushed out to tell Keith he could bring in his order. He rounded the corner, expecting to see the box truck Keith drove. but instead, found an empty alley.

There was no back way out, and a grocery truck was interposed between the alley and the road as the driver maneuvered it into place before the loading dock. The vendors started showing up, dragging carts and pallets up to the door full of merchandise needing to be checked and counted. Usually they arrive sporadically, but on this day they came in a steady stream,

along Morris no time to grapple with mysteries. By noon he had forgotten all about Keith's escape act. His thoughts centered on the tray of cookies awaiting him in the break room. He was just about to lock the door when the buzzer rang, instantly dampening his mood. Raising the door, he was determined to tell whoever was out there they would need to wait until he returned from break to check in. But, seeing the old man waiting on the loading dock had only a few boxes,

he waved him in. "'Let's make this quick,' Morris said as the old man handed him the invoice and bent to open the first box. After everything had been counted and scanned, Morris scowled at the tiny screen on his scanning gun. He took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and compared the invoice to the number on the screen. It didn't match. "'You're missing something?' he tersely informed the vendor, thrusting the invoice at him. "'I forgot to take off the olives.' The vendor said chastened.

He did some calculations and then scratched out the total and scribbled a new total on the bottom of the sheet. Sorry about that. I was thinking about poor Keith when I was pulling the order. His family used to live a few doors down from me. I knew him since he was a kid. Poor Keith. What happened to him? Morris asked, suddenly recalling his early encounter with Chipman.

I figured everyone had heard by now, said the vendor. His daughter found him dead this morning. I think he had a heart attack. I thought he looked bad this morning, Morris exclaimed. He wasn't acting like himself. You mean yesterday? The old man asked. No, it was this morning around five, Morris insisted.

He showed up early. but I had to turn him away because the computer wasn't working. You must have been dreaming. He was found around 3.30. His son has been running his route. Sitting in the break room, Morris tried to process what he'd been told. It just didn't fit. It would make sense that Keith's son would act strangely,

having to rush out run an unfamiliar route just after learning his father had died. But that wasn't Keith's son at the door this morning. No matter how distracted he'd been, Morris couldn't have mistaken someone else for the man he'd seen twice a week for the past three years. The most likely explanation was the old man had been misinformed. It wouldn't have been the first time some bit of gossip and bore little relation to reality after being filtered through a chain of vendors. It was possible that Chipman wasn't dead after all and would show up to make his regular delivery on Friday. employees were required to park out by the street, leaving the spots closest to the store for the customers, and Morris always dreaded the trek to his car.

His legs ached after being on his feet all day, and the humidity of Louisiana summer is often left him drenched in sweat by the time he reached his Buick. This day, however, there was a chill in the air. Morris zipped up his windbreaker and stared at the pall of great clouds overhead, cursing himself for leaving his umbrella in the car. The first droplet splattered on the pavement when Morris was about halfway between the store and the Buick. He quickened his pace, racing against the expected deluge, but stopped abruptly when he saw a man step out from behind the oak tree at the edge of the lot.

The man seemed washed out, devoid of color, his complexion, and even his clothes, an extension of the gray skies above. standing next to Morris's Buick, he lifted his head and stared toward the store. His features twisted into a bellful grimace. His jaw fell open, but the mournful wail came not from the gaping black hole in the gray visage, but from the wind rushing in to throw dust in Morris's face. Morris wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. As a scene before him came back into focus,

he saw the man was gone. For several minutes he stood there, heedless of the rain that pelted him with steadily increasing vehemence. Despite the man's unnatural demeanor, Morris had recognized him. It was Keith. The next morning, Morris, still groggy from the sleeping pill he'd taken much too late the night before, was struggling to log onto the computer when the door buzzer echoed through the back room of the store. He looked at the clock and saw it was exactly 5 a.m. Wishing the store-hag cameras mounted outside like some of the other stores he'd worked at,

he reached for the chain with trembling hands. The door groaned on its track as he pulled it up to peer out into the gloom of an aborted dawn. The sun's rays struggled to penetrate the fog, and the little to augment the light seeping from the receiving door. Morris stepped out onto the dock. He thought he saw the mist congeal into the shape of a man Before breaking apart as it drifted in to greet him But failed to find anything tangible

And the rest of the day Morris alternated between discounting the notion he was being haunted And trying to figure out why he would be Well, he'd always liked Keith He'd never spoken to him outside of work Other than what he had gleamed from the snippets of conversation they had shared between the time Keith's product was coming and his final invoice was printed. Morris knew little of the man's life.

He knew Keith was divorced, with his son and a daughter who had both once worked at the store. He vaguely remembered the girl had quit after some bad business involving Tom, and that Keith had been pretty incensed about it, but even then he didn't know the details. He didn't know where Keith had lived, what shows he had watched on TV, or who he'd voted for in the last election. Why him? What would tie a soul to someone who was little more than an acquaintance?

Morris felt silly calling in late to work the following morning, but he just couldn't bring himself to be there when the buzzer rang at five. As he pulled up to the store at six, dreading the confrontation with Tom, who would likely be apoplectic over having to manned Morris's post for the past hour. Morris was startled by the sound of sirens. From his parking spot by the oak, he watched an ambulance and two police cars rush by to join a fire truck already parked by the side of the store. Rushing to the back of the store, he pushed through the crowd of pale-faced workers to see a trailer protruding through the back wall. A police officer kept everyone from getting too close to the men trying to drink a stretcher over the rubble,

while others prodded at something beneath the trailer with gloved hands. What the hell happened? He asked to know one in particular. It was a new driver, said Debbie, the bakery manager. He said he swerved to miss a box truck coming out of the fog and crashed right through the wall. Good God, Morris exclaimed. Was anyone hurt? The woman turned away and wiped a tear off her cheek with her apron.

That's Tom under there, she said, nodding at the wreckage. There wasn't any other truck. It was just a fog, said another man. Too bad he showed up early before he lifted. Came crashing through the door at five just as Tom was taking the lock off. As Morris watched, the paramedic crouching by the wheels of the trailer look up at the man beside him and shake his head glumly. He suddenly understood the reason Keith had come back. And he knew he would have no more visits from the chip man.

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