Creepy - Trail Magic

Episode Date: May 5, 2025

Trail Magic***Written by: Arthur Jay***MVSH***Written by: John Beardify and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Floater***Written by Tewahway and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

All right, back from camp. Still have all 12 toes? I'd say it went pretty well. Now it's time to get back to business. So will you please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Ashley Clark, Jenny Neela, Alison McCausky, Dr. Verm,

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Now is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or, most simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, when a man decides to spend some time away on an extended hiking vacation, he runs into some new acquaintances on the trail. First, fellow hikers, then something else.

Creepy Presents Trail Magic Written by Arthur J. They call it trail magic. The world of long-distance hiking has a lot of rituals and superiors. superstitions, but rarely do we stop to consider the origins of these traditions. At what point the historical events become folklore? Folklore that warns us of the terrible retribution of breaking natural law.

Folklore that teaches us to be humble and treat strangers with kindness. Stumbling upon a tucked-away container full of treats feels like a blessing will out on trail, but little did we know that it would lead. To a curse. I got into camping as a child, joining up with the local scouting program, and it stuck with me as an adult. I loved to head out onto the trail and wander through the woods.

Nothing beats laying in my hammock at the end of a long day of walking, feeling the cool air as it blows through the leaves, wrapped in the glow of moonlight. The experience centers me. As such, I had pretty much all the gear needed to complete a long-distance hike from years of weekend backpacking trips and gifts from family members. In the wake of my divorce, I decided to take the leap and start a 1,500 mile through hike as a way to escape to ruins of my old life.

The first month passed solemnly as I adjusted to life on the trail. The first week was tough as my body adjusted to walking for hours on end, both up and down steep inclines, across rivers and along paved roads. Blisters formed and calloused over as my feet and heart-hardened with every mile I completed. The physical strain and the mental stress built as I tried to figure out my new life on the trail. Doubts crept into my mind as I grew frustrated with my equipment, bending tarp steaks in the hard soil or tipping over a top-heavy cooking pot and spilling my dinner all over the ground.

With each morning spider web in my face, I grew more incensed. Anger bubbled over as I got soaked, pushing through the afternoon rainstorm. Then, ten days in, I threw my trekking poles across my campbell screaming before breaking down and crying for 20 minutes. On that day, I learned one of the most important lessons of the trail. Embrace the Suck. I learned not to ignore the negative things. but acknowledge them. In my despair,

I understood that to fight against things you have no power to control, created suffering, and forcing these situations only caused more pain. After my emotional upwelling, I faced a choice, give up or carry on.

I thought back to my first year as a middle school teacher. Exhausted and overworked, I sat at my desk staring up at the ceiling, questioning every decision, I'd made in my life. My mentor teacher walked in and gave me the best piece of advice I have ever heard. Never quit on a bad day.

At that moment, I resolved to clean myself up, retrieved my trekking poles, and finished setting up my hammock in the dark. I slept till the mid-morning hours and took my time cooking a meal by a fire before I got out my phone to check the weather and maps. With a squall of storms rolling in, I evaluated my morning. supplies and decided to bunker down in camp for a few days, letting the bad weather pass me by. Then I got detoured about three miles to a small town to resupply. After three days of a much-needed rest, I packed up my gear and hit the trail with a better

understanding of self-care. You'd think heading out into the middle of the woods on a 1500-mile hike would preclude some isolation from people. But in reality, the trail is used often by both day hikers and other through hikers. In fact, I don't think I spent a single day in solitary for the first two months. Thankfully, most interactions are superficial, brief nods or verbal acknowledgments. But ultimately, when doing a through hike, you end up in a tramley. A tramley is another tradition of the trail, and they develop as hikers run into each other multiple times a week at shelters, water sources, and resupply towns.

Oftentimes, Tramley members share resources and them, makes the financial burden of a five-month-through hike easier. I developed a tramley with three other hikers, Boots, DIY, and Duchess. I've been hiking for about three months before I got adopted by the family, preferring to hike alone with my thoughts, but I've always been a sucker for a flickering campfire and found myself sitting with DIY after I set out my hammock. Then I met Duchess and Boots. Before I knew it, we were meeting up in towns.

I'll admit, for as much as Boots's political rants annoyed me, it was nice to have a group of people to check in with throughout the day, supporting one another. Obviously, these were not their birth names. Trail names are another tradition in the through-hiking community. This nickname is given to you by another hiker and typically describes a part of your personality. Many will carry this name with them throughout their track and often will adopt this name once they've completed their journey. I believe the tradition started with hikers at the Appalachian Trail in America and spread out amongst the hiking community.

Boots got his name due to his footwear. See, most hikers wear lightweight shoes. But boots wore these thick black combat boots to look like they weighed five pounds each. He claimed they gave him better ankle support. But I suspected he simply liked the way they looked. He loved to talk on trail, telling stories about his life in the Navy.

He was very proud of his military service. In fact, he hiked with an American flag on his pack. When he set up camp for the night, he attached the flag to his rope and ran a flag up a tree with his food bag. Boots was a lot like that conservative uncle you try to avoid at family gatherings. His stories were just an excuse for him to share his own opinions, and when challenged, he would back off. But stand firm in his entrenched opinion. admittedly a few months away from conservative news was probably doing him a world of good while boots was crusading his outdated views on the world DIY was busy recording his vlogs

DIY had a YouTube channel and was doing the hike as a way to produce content for it most of his gear was made by hand or improvised from nature hence his trail name do it yourself or DIY I admit he had a deep ball in knowledge on outdoor skills, which was impressive, considering he looked to be all at 20 years old. He was always willing to show anyone how to build a fire that would start with one match or point out plants that could be eaten around camp. He carried very little in the way of supplies, preferring to forage for raw materials from which to make his bed each night. As such, he hiked very quickly and was often the first person at the shelter or campsite. He used this extra time to film himself setting up his

tarp shelter and building a fire to boil water collected from the near. resource. Oftentimes through hikers are so tired by the end of a long hike, they forego the luxury of a campfire. But DIY would always have enough deadwood collected to keep the fire going till hiker midnight, which is around 9 p.m. Duchess was hiking royalty. There are three long-distance trails in North America, Appalachian, Pacific Crest, and Continental Divide, each over 2,000 miles. hikers that complete all three are called triple crowners. She managed to do all three trails within three years. After spending months completing a long-distance trail,

many hikers experience a sense of loss or aimlessness. This post-hike depression can do a number on even the most experienced hiker, and Duchess experienced it after completing the AT. Her solution was to pack up her gear and head west, starting in the desert of Arizona and hiking up to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail. Towards the end of PCT, she decided to stave off the depression by going straight into the CDT. With the triple crown completed, she chose to live her life on the trail, only getting off trail to raise money through motivational speaking jobs.

Within a few weeks, she had all the funds she needed to resupply and hop back on a trail. Though we were a tramly, we each hike. our own hikes. Boots preferred to get up at the crack of dawn and brew some coffee before he packed up and hit the trail. He always left the mostly full kettle at camp for Duchess and DIY to have a warm cup. I've never been a coffee drinker. Then Duchess would clean and pack the kettle away in her pack and return it to him that evening. Not being a morning person, I was usually the last one up and packed right away. Since I prefer to eat breakfast bars while walking down the trail, I didn't have to waste time cooking and cleaning.

So I would fluff our campside or sweep out a shelter before hitting the trail. With my late starts, I'd pass each of them on the trail as they stopped for lunch, and they'd pass me in return when I stopped for mine. I prefer to have a hot lunch, stepping off trail and setting up my twig stove to boil water for ramen with spam and instant mashed potatoes. Everyone would take a short break with me while I cooked, taking advantage of my gravity filtration bag to refill their water. DIY would let me know what shelter a camping spot he was going to set up at,

and I would relay the message to Duchess and Boots when they came by. Most nights, I'd be the last end to camp. I would sit with DIY by the fire after setting up my hammock and eat a cold-cut wrap for dinner while he spoke to the camera about his day and explained another bushcraft skill. Then I'd hang my bear bag with the others, easily found even in the dark thanks to the American flag. Once the camera was put away, boots would come over to shoot the shit while Duchess read a book in her tent.

Once she turned her headlamp off, we knew it was time to quiet down, and before long we'd put out the fire, making sure it was good and wet before getting into our sleeping bags for the night. The only thing to break up our routine was running into trail magic. It is a fairly common practice at the start of the season. Families like to show their support for their loved ones and others within the hiking. community by filling up the coolers with sugary drinks and calorie-rich snacks. Pass-through hikers have even set up makeshift kitchens at trailheads to cook hot meals for hikers. But as time goes by, more and more hikers fall off trail in the magic wanes. My first assumption as I approached was that some day hiker got drunk and forgot to take a cooler

with him after camping at the nearby shelter. As I got closer, I saw that there was a sign on it that said, not all that wander are lost, please take what you want. I knelt down, careful not to lose my balance with my pack, and I opened it up to find that it was packed to the brim with sodas and snacks, beef sticks, chips, snack cakes, full-sized candy bars. I felt a rush of excitement like I had when I was a kid on Halloween. I took off my pack and set it down on my ground cloth before diving in.

After sampling, nearly one of each kind of snack from the cool, I forced myself to shut the lid for fear I'd eat the entire stash. It was nearly lunchtime for me. So I got out my cook kit and started to boil up water while I munched on the trail magic. About an hour later, DIY came through the trail, walking fast and talking to his camera. He'd been pointing out some type of tree that was good for collecting resin when he spotted me sitting by the cooler. He wrapped up his video and sat down next to me, excited to see what the cooler had in store for him. I was surprised when he pulled out a surge soda.

Partially because I hadn't seen it in there when I was looking around, but also because that drink had been discontinued in the early 2000s. Not long after Boots and Duchess came up the trail and spotted us by the cooler. Both of them were surprised to see the cooler out this far into the hiking season and gladly dived in for a few snacks. Duchess found her favorite snack cake, a coconut-covered snowball, and took a peach tea. Boots was thrilled to find a six-pack of beer. He tore a can from the pack ring and popped the top. We sat for a good 30 minutes talking about hikes and enjoying the

snack while we noticed someone walking up the trail. The guy looked to be in his mid-forties. The clothes that hung off him, swallowing his emaciated frame, were dirty. Several spots had been patched in both the shirt and jeans. He wore sandals and his feet looked. He wore sandals and his feet looked far darker than the rest of his exposed skin, caked with a layer of dirt. He walked with a slight hunch with his long hair dangling in front of his face. It was clear from his lack of pack that he was not a hiker, more likely a homeless person wandering the trails. It wasn't unusual for the homeless to use the trail shelters in the off-seasons. Stranger made no indication that he saw us as we watched him trudge up the trail. After a few minutes, he reached

the plateau and turned his head up to survey the top of the hill. His face was haggard, with an unkempt salt and pepper beer that reached from his chin to his chest. His most distinct feature was his right eye, which was milky white and cloudy. DIY gave me a questioning look. I just shrugged and stirred my cookpot. Boots finished his third beer when he turned around to see what we were all looking at. He straightened up and let out a small belch. Duchess simply snacked on her snowballs as the man made his way towards us.

Boots was the first to greet the stranger, introducing himself by his trail name. The stranger nodded in acknowledgement. When the stranger didn't say anything else, Boots introduced the rest of us. The stranger turned to each of us and nodded. Boots tilted his head in annoyance at the man's lack of introduction before popping open another beer can. DIY asked a man what he was doing out on the trail. But all the man didn't respond was smack his lips. I realized he was looking down on my cook pot.

I asked him if he'd like some and he nodded before making his way over to sit down next to me. Boots rolled his eyes. Over the past few months, I'd heard his rants about welfare queens and homeless drug users bleeding our country dry. So I'm sure this seemingly homeless man eating my hot lunch irritated him to no one. I poured the cooked noodles into my spare silicone cup and handed it to the stranger. He accepted it graciously before taking a sip of the hot broth and croaking out a thank you. I expected him to spill some of the broth as I had filled the cup to the brim, but he held the cup surprisingly still for a man who looked like a sudden breeze could whisk him away.

Boots made a snide comment that the stranger spoke English. Duchess arched an eyebrow at his thinly veiled racist remark as he shot back the rest of his beer and DIY busied himself with whittling a few steaks for his tarp tent. The stranger finished up his soup and handed me back the cup with words of thanks. I asked him if he'd like a drink as I made him move to open the cooler, but I found a black leather boot pinning the lid shut. I told boots to move, but he refused. He told me that I was more than welcome to share my supplies with the stranger,

but the trail magic was meant for hikers, not the homeless. I looked up at him in surprise, but he stood his ground by the cooler. I got up to look him in the eye and told him that he was full of shit. I told him we were all dirty hiker trash, and he wasn't the king of this trail. Gepjeet slid between us and ordered us to back off. After a few more seconds of posturing, boots and I separated. I'm not homeless, the stranger said in a soft but confident tone. I apologized to him as I gave him my water bottle.

DIY asked him where he lived. The forest has always been my home, he said. At this, Boots scoffed and Duchess nodded. Of all of us, she had the most hiking experience, and I believe she agreed with the notion that the woods were her home. Boots got the final word by telling the stranger that we at least work to buy the supplies needed to be out here, not just beg for food.

After drinking his fill, he stood up and dusted his clothes off. I have not begged, he said looking boots in the eyes. Strangely, he looked taller than he had when he first walked up the trail. But had I begged, I'm glad that at least one of you would have shown me some humanity. He looked over at each of us with a sad smile. When he got to me, he said, Thank you for your kindness. And started back down the trail.

We watched as he disappeared down the green tunnel. No one said much about our odd interaction with the stranger as we made our way down the trail towards the shelter house. At the shelter, DIY started on the fire ring, and I set up my hammock. Then we all gathered around the fire to cook dinner. Boots pulled out the remaining beers and offered one to each of us. I turned him down before calling him an asshole for taking all the beer. He bitch that I would have given all the food and drinks to a good-for-nothing bum,

Duchess called him out by reminding him that she was technically homeless. That gave him pause and he stammered that she was different. I told him the only difference is that he got to know her before he found out she was homeless. At that, Boots left the fire ring and huffed his way to his tent to sulk for the rest of the night. About an hour later, Duchess and DIY made their way to the shelter and I was left to put out the fire. blinding flash of white awoke me as the air concussed. The thunder mixed with the sound of falling limbs to create a sound that was felt rather than heard. I swung from my hammock in time to see the top of a tree shimmy its way toward the ground,

charred and speckled with bright sections of hot coals created from the lightning strike. In the dark, I fumbled to turn on my headlamp and find my clothes. Duchess yelled for everyone to get to the shelter house as I ducked under my tarp. The shelter was only a three-sided structure, but everyone was able to squeeze into the back as the storm blew in. Hale, the size of golf balls, pelted the campsite. The sound deafening as the roof rattled under the assault. We watched as Boots' tent was riddled with holes as the stones tore through the thin nylon rainfly. Thankfully, he made it out of the tent a few minutes before the hail started coming down and sat wide-eyed next to us in the shelter.

The wind snapped thinner trees like toothpicks and uproof. it a few more. All around us the forest air to fall apart, making us jump with each wet slap of a trunk hitting the ground, several dangerously close to the shelter. Flashes a lightning spider webbed across the sky like a giant strobe light, each flash showing us the drastic changes of the area before throwing us back into darkness. A lightning bolt streaked across the sky, shaking the ground with its thunder, causing me to step back away from the front of the the shelter. The storm intensely ebbed and within 15 minutes, all was calm at the camp. The clouds moving west, lightning dancing between anvilheads. We sat in stunned silence as we looked at the

devastation in our campsite. Duchess pulled out our weather radio and dialed in the National Weather Service. The radio reported clear skies with no mention of an emergency alert for the storm we just sat through. DIY looked down at his camera, and I realized he had recorded the storm. I sat next to him as he reviewed the footage. A cold shiver ran down my spine as the camera panned over the campsite, and a flash of lightning revealed the stranger staring into the camera. I called Duchess and Boots over, and they both stared in disbelief at the screen.

In a flash, he disappeared into the darkness. DIY looked stunned. He said he hadn't noticed anyone in the camp while he was recording. I suggested that we go out and look for him, but that just shut me down. She said there was no way we were going to wander off out in the dark looking for a dude who seemed to just disappear. We made the decision to bed down in the shelter for the rest of the night, but none of us got much sleep. In the morning, we surveyed the damage. Boots' tent was completely destroyed, and its' point was completely destroyed.

pack took a major beating from the hail. My hammock and tarp were remarkably fine, saving slightly under the way to tiny hailstones. Our packs took a beating in the wind, but aside from tangle bear lines, everything survived, no worse for the wear. We looked around for the stranger, but there was no evidence of anyone else in the camp. We decided to hike together as a group in case a stranger pop back up again, safety in numbers and whatnot. Boots cussed. at himself as he packed away his broken tent. I suspected he was dealing with a slight hangover from the trail magic beer. Duchess looked resolute,

but I could see her looking up from her pack from time to time surveying the area around us. While we packed, DIY looked over the maps and affirmed that we were still two days' hike from the nearest resupply town. The day's hike was uneventful. I hiked out in front to set the pace for everyone, and we all stopped for an early lunch, as no one felt that hungry in the morning. A few hours later, we approached the shelter house. With the previous night fresh in our minds,

we didn't want a chance getting caught in bad weather, in the dark without shelter. So we decided to call it a day and started to set up camp. We each set up close to the shelter house. Even DIY chose to forego his usual tarp shelter in favor of sharing the wood floor with boots. We all agreed to help him collect firewood. We should have stayed together,

but we decided to split off into pairs. Duchess and I went off to collect small sticks. After collecting arms full of sassafras squaw wood, we went back to the shelter to drop it off. We could see from the already started pile that boots and DIY made several trips back to camp to drop off the halls at dead wood. The scream shot through the trees like an emergency siren,

causing Duchess and I to freeze. Out of the clamor, we both heard one, One clear syllable that sent a jolt of fear straight up our spines. Bear. We dropped our wood and ran towards a shouting. Duchess broke away from me as we ran past camp, but encouraged me to keep going. A scream of pain echoed through the woods, and I tore my eyes away from camp toward the source of the sound. Boots was curled up in the fetal position with his forearms up over his face.

His right arm bent at an angle that told me it was broken. DIY stood on a tree trunk shouting and waving his jacket up and down to distract the bear. The bear was up on its hind legs, snarling at him. I joined in with a yelling, trying my best to look large. The bear took notice of me and came down to all fours, and I saw that it had a milky white eye. I moved towards its good side and encouraged boots to crawl towards us. At first he didn't respond, and I feared that he'd gone into shock.

but after a moment he started inches way towards us. The bear noticed the movement and made his way to bite of boots lag when a red mist enveloped the head of the bear. It roared in pain and pawed its face. DIY and I pulled boots to safety as Duchess unloaded another shot of bear spray to cover us. We started to cough as the spray dispersed in the air,

but it was nothing compared to what the bear was going through. It thrashed its head back and forth trying to wipe its eyes with its paws, but only succeeded in pushing the pepper spray deeper into its fur. In a manner of seconds, he turned and ran out of sight, crashing through the trees. Boots was able to get to his feet, but from the way he was grabbing his right side, we guessed he had a few broken ribs. We carried boots back to camp and did our best to fix him up with our first aid kits. The bear claws managed to carve a long series of cuts across his chest. but his jacket took the brunt of the swipe.

We were able to use superglue to seal the wounds and stop the bleeding. His arm was broken in several places from the impact and there was a deep bruise forming along his ribs. I helped DIY to splint his arm and wrap it into a sling. He winced in pain as the adrenaline started to wear off and his body began to feel the pain again. It was clear that he was going to need to get to a hospital. DIY got back out the maps they determined if there was a faster way to get into town. Who would thank Duchess for saving his life and asked her how long she'd been hiking with bear spray. Our trail was nowhere near bear country, and most hikers would be itching to shed a few pounds by sending the can of spray back home.

She explained that she always kept some with her gear and I realized that the can was more for dealing with men than was attended for actual bears. DIY found a shortcut bushwhacking off the trails. There were several steep descents and one river crossing, but they could get to town before nightfall if they kept a good pace. Duchess and DIY left their packs with me at the shelter in order to make better time. I gave him my emergency survival kit and DIY grabbed his compass. Duchess left me the bear spray just in case the bear should return. I watched them disappear down the trail before starting a fire and filtering some water for the night.

It was after dark when I heard the rustling from beyond the light of the campfire. I was about to shout out for help, but I looked back over my shoulder at boots whose eyes were wide with fear. I shut my mouth and grabbed the bear spray as I turned down my flashlight, pointing it in the direction of the sound. The shadows danced on the bark of trees as I swept the light left and right looking for whatever was out in the night. Not seeing anything. I blew three short breaths into my whistle and listened for any response. Boots stood up and hobbled over to me, the adrenaline from fear letting him ignore the pain of his ribs and arm.

A massive rumbling from the treetops caused us both to turn and dive as a massive beast dive-bombed at us. I scrambled to get back to my feet, but as I did, the bird sunk its huge talons into boots back, tearing through his clothes and flesh, instantly pinning him to the ground. Boots let out a wheeze as the eagle clenched down and punctured his lung. It hunched over it, a peck at his arm, ripping it off at the elbow and downing it in one fluid motion of tilting back its head. Then, with a flap of its wings, Boots' body was lifted off the ground, his legs dangling lifelessly as he disappeared. into the night. I scrambled into the shelter and blew hard on the whistle,

no longer in short burst, but as long and loud as I could, causing me to get light-headed. Hasn't anyone told you that you shouldn't whistle at night? The stranger stepped out from the shadow of the woods and sat down next to the fire, picking up a stick to poke at the embers. I sat back in the shelter holding the bear spray out,

ready to pull the trigger if he made even a single movement towards a shelter, I understand you're afraid. But you have nothing to fear from me. The stranger said without looking up from the fire, You showed me kindness, and we shared a meal together. I will not hurt you. But the others, they were indifferent to my humanity. Not that I am human.

Still, without compassion, humans are just animals and animals are subject to the law of nature you honored me with your kindness and in return I have a gift for you

he pulled out a bag from his pocket and placed a small acorn on the floor next to the shelter before he left he tossed the poking stick into the fire and watched as the flames licked up the bark Then he simply walked into the trees and out of sight. I sat in the darkness till the sun rose the next morning.

In the daylight I was able to talk myself into packing my gear and walking the trail towards town. Along the way I found that animals did not scurry away as I approached. Many simply watched as I trudged down the trail. I hiked through the day and into the night, only stopping to filter water. In town, I went straight to the authorities and reported Duchess and DIY missing. Their bodies were found three weeks later along with the remains of boots. The official report claims that the bear came back in the night, killed boots, and dragged his body off into the woods.

That didn't explain why he was found 12 feet up in a tree, but the story made more sense than what I could tell them. The medical examiner found evidence that DIY had broken. broken his ankle, which may have explained why I wasn't able to swim when he fell during a river crossing. He was found by a fisherman several miles down river, barely recognizable, having bloated in the water. Duchess was found at the bottom of a steep hillside. It appeared as though the rock came loose, causing her to fall. The medical examiner says she died upon impact. I hope that's true.

I never got back on trail to finish the through hike. I took a while to get released as a person of interest in the case. I imagine there are those in the world that still think I had a hand in the demise. But after the bodies were discovered and causes of the death determined, I flew back home and restarted my life. I still go hiking from time to time. But I do so alone and never stay outpillar. past sunset, and each time I go out, I carry the acorn the stranger left for me.

It's weird, but I get the sense that it protects me while out on the trail. I can't tell if it really does, or if it's all in my head. All I do know is that nature plays by its own set of rules, and I never want to meet the game master again. A second story this evening, a woman's past comes back to haunt her when a mysterious underground band resurfaces again after 25 years, one whose concerts were legendary for all the wrong reasons. As memories begin to resurface, she realizes the thoughts that still haunt her might not be over. Creepy Presents M.V.S.H. Written by John Beardify, and Narrate.

by Alicia Atkins. I saw another one today. It was spray painted above the entrance to a sewer, along with an arrow pointing downwards into the darkness. Twenty years later, MVSH is finally back in town. MVSH. Four little letters. I know it's stupid to be scared of them,

just as I know that no one is likely to remember me as the person I was 20 years ago. None of that helps when the memories come flooding back. The summer I turned 17, my life was about music. Grimy, basement mosh pits, drunken field concerts where the amps were plugged into some survivalist gas generator, night drives with the windows down and the radio blaring. The part-time job at Sundown Records paid bums to buy beer for me.

It kept my gas-tank needle half an inch from empty. My parents bit their nails by my future, but I didn't care. Why shouldn't life just go on like this forever? Working at Sundown Records had another perk as well. I got to spend time with Dylan Fuse. He was a big name in the local underground scene, and his music shop reflected in. The walls were covered with concert flyers of bands he'd discovered and made great.

The high-end sound system played only music that met his own exacting standards. My interview at Sundown was just listened to three songs and tell Dylan what I thought of them. When I told him they all sucked, a polished white smile flashed across his face. He put his crocodile-skinned shoes up on the desk and told me the job was buying if I wanted it. Dylan gave me tips on all the most exclusive shows,

even let me borrow albums from the shop. He was charming, he was worldly, and unlike the boys in my high school, he actually knew how to dress himself. It wasn't long before I was head over heels in love with him. That was how it started. I was breaking down cardboard boxes in the hallway beside his office when the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat.

Nobody dared to call Dylan after 5 p.m. Not unless it was an emergency. I still remember the giddiness in Dylan's voice when I pressed my ear against the door to ease drop. Really? They are? I'll be there. Dylan burst out into the hallway just as I got back to my heap of cardboard. Big news, V, he was yelling. MvSH is playing this weekend.

I'd missed a key word in there. It had sounded like its mouth had suddenly filled up with half-chewed meat. Dylan rolled his eyes at my blank expression. Apparently, MvSH was the hottest thing on the scene right now. No one knew who the band members were, where they were from, or even how to pronounce their group's name. MVSH didn't even sell tickets to their concerts. The only way in was to show up with a specific food item.

It served as proof that you had been told about the show by someone close to the band. I nodded along to Dillon's story, not trusting myself to speak. When I was alone with him, my words tangled themselves into stupid, humiliating knots. I always wound up talking to my shoes, and half the time I had no idea what I actually said to him. I was thinking about how unfair that was until I realized that Dylan had just invited me to go see MVSH with him. Sure, I guess.

I finally managed to shrug. My bus must have seen right through my attempt to look careless. There was a sneer on his face as he peered out into the shop. He wanted to make sure no one overheard what he was about to say next. I got goosebumps as he leaned in close and whispered that there were a few other things I needed. to know. I had it all planned out. I waited until my father had finished three-fourths of his coffee and reached the sports section of the newspaper before I asked him if I could stay over with my friend Sarah

on Friday night. We had a biology exam on Monday, I lied, and Sarah wanted to study together. My father glanced up sharply, and I knew I was busted. I had been an idiot to suggest that I cared about school. He knew me better than that. He gazed out the window. He gazed out the window. brushed some crumbs off of his tie and sighed. Saying I could go, but I had to bring Raquel. Trying to hide the horrified expression on my face, I gave him a quick hug and bolted out the door. This was going to ruin everything.

The difference between my sister Raquel and I was clear just by looking at our notebooks. Hers was neat, detailed. Each perfectly shaped letter contained inside the lines. Mine were jumbled and chaotic, filled with stickers, doodles, and my friend's phone numbers. If I tried to leave Raquel alone at Sarah's, she would rat me out for sure. My only option was to bring her to see MvSH as my guest, and hoped that I could convince her to follow Dylan's bizarre instructions.

The afternoon before the concert, we raided the heaps of donated clothes in the Methodist Church basement. We were searching for the ugliest, filthiest stuff we could find. Dylan said that MvSH didn't let anyone in unless they looked like they'd been sleeping at a dumpster for a few weeks. I told Raquel that we could throw everything away after the concert anyway. My sister made a face in disproving disgust. I took a deep breath and did my best to explain to Raquel that seeing MvSH live was a life-changing experience. Does she really think that Dylan Fuse would be wrong about something like that? If she did, she kept her mouth shut about it,

finally settling on a pair of paint-splattered khaki pants and a greasy orange t-shirt. The jeans and tuxedo vest that I picked out for myself were in tatters, but at least they fit me and sort of matched. I was especially proud of a leather belt I'd discovered in a dusty corner beneath some trash bags. Its steel buckle was brick-heavy and handmade in the shape of a grinning skull. Now there was just one last stop to make before we caught a bus to the location that Dylan had given me.

Raquel asked me about the soup when she saw me pocketing two packets of boulillon cubes at the minimard across from the bus station. I repeated Dylan's instructions, explaining that when you go to an MVSH concert, you've got to bring something that shows you know somebody cool. You know, like a password. This time, it's chicken soup cubes.

We got lucky. Dylan says that one year it was oatmeal, and last time it was pig's blood. Raquel hurried after me, asking in hushed tones if I planned to pay for them. I got us a coin locker across from some broken-down pay phones. As we stored our stuff, I reminded Raquel that she couldn't bring anything into the show with her. No wallet, no phone, nothing. Raquel complained about the amount of rules, but handed over her shoulder bag anyway. When the bus arrived, Raquel sat in the front seat, her spine straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap.

I lounged beside her, drumming my fingers impatiently on the windows, and hoping she wouldn't realize how nervous I was. I had assumed that Dylan would be fine with me inviting one extra person. But what if he wasn't? Our stop was near the end of the line, its crazily leaning sign barely visible in the amber street light glow. I was expecting some gritty industrial club, with steel shutters and a line of leather-clad hipsters at the door, but the sidewalk was empty. The factories and warehouses looming over us were either closed down or partly demolished. Mangy cats prowled through the weed-choked lots.

The only sign of life was a pair of white semi-trucks backed up against one of the decrepit buildings. For the first time, I found myself doubting my boss's intention. What if Dylan was just toying with me? What if the whole thing was just some kind of cruel joke? Raquel and I slipped through a gap in the chain-league fence, then turned down a blind alley. At the far end, MVSH was spray-painted above a rusted factory door. A crowd had already started to gather. Their clothes were just as ragged as ours, and there was a packet of boulogne cubes in every hand.

I spotted Dylan's silky smooth hair right away. We had made it. As my boss approached, that feeling of relief vanished. Without his expensive clothes and soft lighting of the record shop, Dylan looked old. He licked his lips when he saw me, and suddenly I wanted to puke. I wondered what an adult man was doing inviting a teenage girl to an event like this, then wondered why it had taken me so long to ask that question in the the first place. The hungry expression on his face soured when he saw Raquel at my side,

immediately asking who she was. My sister, Raquel. He became angry, repeating that the instruction was for one guest only. Right. You invited me, and I invited my sister. I found myself getting angry on Raquel's behalf. Who did Dylan think he was? She had just as much of a right to be here as anyone else. If that's a problem, we can just leave. Dylan said that it was no problem, clearly still thinking he had a chance. He looked at Raquel's outfit and snorted before telling us to play dumb at the door. Raquel snorted, saying it wouldn't be hard to do.

There was a sarcastic edge to her voice that I'd never heard before, and it occurred to me that maybe my sister was more than just the whiny teacher's pet that I'd always believed her to be. Maybe during these long years of high school, she had changed too. A breeze blew down the alley, carrying dust, ripped up plastic bags, and soggy newspaper pages. One of them stuck to Dylan's pants and he pried it off with two fingers, as though it was some disgusting laboratory experiment. At the far end of the alley, the factory door opened with a metallic screech. We all clapped, even Raquel. But our cheers died in our throats when we saw this sick.

hulking figures that walked out of it. If they were bouncers, they were the most intimidating security team that I had ever seen. It wasn't just how eerily similar they all looked, with their bald heads and pale skin. It wasn't even how large they were.

It was their eyes. There's no emotion in them at all. The six of them were surveying the crowd like we were all cattle waiting to be processed. I had been to concerts with sketchy security. sometimes motorcycle gangs or ex-convicts. But this was different. Something was wrong.

Before I could express what I was feeling to Raquel, the line started to move. The six strangers were even more disturbing up close. Something about their pasty skin reminded me of cold porridge, or graying meat left out to spoil. Their outfits were made of stitched together strips of ragged old clothing. Clothing that looked a lot like ours. Two of them were scanning the concert goers with metal-detecting wands. Raquel gripped my arm.

She whispered to me that she had her phone. What? I snapped. I wasn't worried about not getting in. I was concerned about what those pale strangers might do to us if we gave them an excuse to do it. Dylan had made it clear that MVSH was ruthless about enforcing their weird rules, and if they dragged us out of line here, in an industrial wasteland far from any health, Help? Anything might happen.

She reminded me that Dad wouldn't have let either of us go if she didn't agree to take it. I bit my lip and handed out my hand to Raquel. Hand it over. Using Dylan's broad back as cover, I slipped my sister's cell phone down the front of my pants. If it triggered the metal detectors, I could just point to the steel belt buckle that was covering it. They wouldn't investigate further, I hoped. The closer we got to the six of the six of the same. of them, the less confident I felt.

Those beady black eyes never seemed blink, and there was a smell to them. Something irony and astringent that I couldn't quite identify. Raquel looked over her shoulder at me as rough hands separated us. Their metal-detecting wands moved over our bodies. Raquel disappeared through the lightless factory door, just as my belt buckle set off a horrible electronic whine. The large figure in front of me pointed wordlessly at it. Forcing my mouth into his sheepish smile, I took the buckle off for a closer inspection.

As I did, I shook the phone further down my pant leg. The strangers passed the buckle around, then handed it back to me. Their metal detectors passed over my hips and thighs, but there was nothing there to trigger them anymore. Looking almost disappointed, they waved me through. I couldn't see anything. But from the way the crowd pressed up against me, I guess we were in some kind of corridor. I called out to Raquel, but she didn't respond. I had an awful feeling that if I stopped or stumbled, I would be trampled to death by a mass of shuffling hipster feet.

Everyone had gotten over the shock of the sick strangers at the door. People murmured and shoved each other forward, eager to see what MVSH had in store for them next. We filed out into a much larger space. and stage lights came on from above. It was a sort of square room that had been set up on the factory floor, with solid metal walls that were about three times my height. The stage hung overhead, casting fractured shadows onto the excited faces around me.

When MvSH walked out on stage, the applause was scattered. The band members were the same grim, burly figures who had been working security outside. What the hell was going on? A hairy hand squeezed my shoulder and I jumped. Dylan was right behind me. He kept jabbing his finger at the walls and shouting something, but the band had already started playing. I couldn't even hear him even if I wanted to.

It was easy to lose him in the crowd. Dylan had been right about one thing. I had never heard anything like MVSH before. When they began their first set, the droning buzz felt like I stuck. my head into a hornet's nest. The chug-ch-ch-ch-chug of the bass reminded me unnervingly of chomping teeth. People glanced at the faces around them,

unsure. Was this really the band we had all gone through so much trouble to see? Despite their doubts, the crowd began to dance along to the music, probably hoping, like I was, that what we were hearing was just a build-up to something less disturbing.

I bounced and swayed along with the rest of them. I wanted to lose myself in the music, to forget about the sense of unease that Dylan's wild-eyed expression had left me with. I kept seeing the same face as I moved through the audience, which was more tightly packed than ever, but there was no sign of Raquel. That nagging sense of wrongness was getting stronger and stronger. Sprinkler switched on overhead, soaking us all with oily, lukewarm water. The dance room filled with the out-of-place cozy scent of chicken.

in broth. The bullion cubes we'd all brought with us were dissolving. The nasty liquid puddled around our feet, making the metallic walls and floors even more slick than they already were. Someone threw a shoe at the band. I was no longer the only one looking around anxiously for an exit. About half the crowd was loving it, or at least they had convinced themselves that they were. They slam dance in a sweaty, frenzied mosh pit just below the stage. oblivious to the creeping claustophobia that the rest of us felt. That was where I finally spotted Raquel, spinning her wet hair and pumping one fist above her head.

She was having the time of her life. The hipster beside me bumped into me. He blinked, wiped water from his expensive glasses confusedly, then turned back to the band. It didn't make sense. We had both been standing still. No one had slammed into us. or forced us to collide with one another,

which left only one explanation. The room was somehow getting smaller. Was that what Dylan had meant when he pointed to the walls? That they were moving somehow? Squeezing through all those slimy bodies to reach my sister probably took just a few minutes, but it felt like it took hours. Raquel threw her arms around me.

I wasn't sure what she was screaming, but from her big grin, I understood that she was thanking me bringing her here. Her smile faded when she saw the worried look on my face, the way I kept pointing away from the stage. I tugged on Raquel's arm, but her slick skin slipped right through my fingers. She shook her head, and her disgusted glare showed me exactly what she was thinking. She had spent all those years studying, all those years being the good daughter while I went out and had fun. And now I was trying to drag her away from her first night out.

Raquel shoved me away and started dancing harder than ever. The soup-reaking water was almost knee-high and rising. Up on stage, MvSH hammered on their instruments. Did they even know how to play them? Or were they just making as much noise as possible to cover the rumbling of engines hidden inside the walls? By the time Raquel and the rest of the audience realized what was happening, it would be too late.

Sticky flesh and wet clothing pressed in on me from all sides. The claustrophobic feeling made me want to scream, and eventually that's exactly what I did. My shrieking became so loud that I could almost hear it over the music, but nobody nearby paid me any attention. They were all convinced this is just what they had come here to see. No matter how much I squirmed, I just couldn't move. Only when the pressure had pushed my belt buckle so deeply into my skin that it hurt did I think of the phone I had smuggled in with me. I twisted my arm until I could reach into my jeans and pull it free. The rectangular screen glowed like a lighthouse beacon on the dim dance floor. The band stopped

playing. An angry cry rose from all sides. I had broken MVSH's rules. Through the wall of irritated faces, I caught a glimpse of Raquel, looking more furious than any of them. Someone swatted at the device in my hand, and suddenly I was being shoved, lifted, pulled in all directions by a mob of strangers. I kept a death grip on the phone, fighting to punch three digits on the screen, 911. One of the MVSH members grabbed some long, cruel-looking tool that reminded me of a noose on a pole. It closed around my neck, dragging me backwards over all those angry anonymous hands, onto the stage. I clawed helplessly at the rubber cord that was cutting off my air supply.

The audience cheered. Please, let me go. I whimpered. A cheery voice blared from the phone speaker, inquiring about the emergency. The crowd fell silent. The MVSH members looked at each other. One grabbed me by the arm and dragged me off stage. The others picked up their instruments.

ready to continue their performance. She repeated the words again, asking about information about the emergency. The operator's words echoed eerily from the abandoned factory walls. I was being taken back out the corridor we had walked in through, toward the alley door. The MVSH member tightened his gripper on my bicep until I thought my arm would snap in half. He hadn't said a word, but the message was clear. He could beat me to death a long time before the police could arrive. Oh, geez, I apologized.

I must have called by accident. I'm so sorry. I hope the operator couldn't hear the quaver in my voice. There was a pause. She implored if I was indeed all right, her voice dripping with doubt. No, I'm fine. I think I just rolled over in bed and hit a bunch of things. numbers on my phone. I lied. I'm not going to get in trouble for this. Am I? I mean, I'm still a

teenager. The grip of my arm loosened, and I backed out the rusted door. The MVSH member let me go, but stayed within arm's reach, ready to pounce if I broke her unspoken deal. Click. The MvSH member's black eyes glared at me expressingless. I continued backing away. holding the glowing screen on in front of me like a magic amulet. I was ready to hit redial if you tried anything, and we both knew it. I have a sister in there, I began. If you could tell her. Another MVSH member came running out of the shadows, carrying that awful pole in his hands.

I turned to run and felt the whoosh of the pole as it swept over my head and slammed into my wrist. Pain exploded in my hand. Raquel's phone shattered on the asphalt. I expected to hear chasing footsteps behind me, but instead, the steel-shuttered door slammed shut. It was like the pair had never been there at all. Deep within the guts of that abandoned factory, the concert was still going on,

its unsuspecting audience being pressed tighter and tighter until... What? Until they were all crushed alive while the band played on above? I didn't want to think about it. Because somewhere in that crowd was my sister. My wet clothes stuck to my skin, reeking of chicken broth, and reminding me of what was happening back there. I had to get help,

but finding my way through the winding alleys between the warehouses was taking forever. And even once I got back to the road, there was no one passing through this derelict district so late at night. Caught somewhere between exhaustion and panic, I waved my arms at anyone that passed by. The first car didn't stop. Neither did the second. After what felt like hours, a grizzled 50-something in a pickup truck pulled off the road, but he kept his hand on a glove box pistol just in case. He didn't have a cell phone, but he would take me as far as the gas station where I could

make a call. By the time my garbled story got out, and the police closed in on the factory, it was almost dawn. MVSH, the two white semi-trucks and their carpentersh, and their audience had vanished. With so many sudden disappearances, I had imagined that the case would make national news, but none of the journalists my family contacted were interested. After a while, I began to see their point. A traveling band that crushes his audience into goo? Not even the weirdest tabloids would consider running a story like that. The police said nothing about my sister's disappearance, only reassuring us that the investigation was ongoing. I started doing some digging of my own, and what I found was bizarre.

Despite being such a supposedly phenomenal band, there was absolutely no information about MVSH online. What little there was got taken down almost as soon as it appeared. But even so, it was clear that I wasn't the only one who had lost a loved one to their deadly concerts. Someone on an anonymous forum claimed to have seen MVSH, carrying plastic sacks of pink sludge into their white semi-trucks after one of their shows. Someone else said she found a heap of ripped discarded clothing in the woods near where MVSH had performed. Two days into my search, I began to receive bizarre, threatening messages. They were nothing but a jumble of letters and

numbers, but scattered inside the chaos were eerie details. The name of the drink I'd order at the coffee shop that morning. They addressed at the friend whose apartment I'd visited the night before. After that came the phone calls. There was never any voice on the other end of the line, only a bunch of garbled noise and screams. It was the sound of MVSH concert. As soon as I stopped investigating MvSH. The messages and phone calls stopped. Did I want to know what had really happened to my sister? Sure, but not enough to die for it.

I learned to live with the past. I went back to school, eventually getting a doctorate in literature, and taking a teaching position at a forgettable college in the southeast. Bands don't even come through this state while they're on tour, much less this unimportant town. And yet, Two days ago, the music professor approached me in the cafeteria with an excited sparkle in his eye. A super experimental band was coming to town, he explained.

One so exclusive that they didn't even charge tickets for entry. All we had to do was bring a few spice packets, and they would put on a show that would change our lives forever. For our final story this evening. Well, I don't want to ruin anything for you. So, creepy presents, floater, written by Tiwawa and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. It's hard to know how long I've been drifting, bobbing, ebbing, flowing with the mostly gentle current. The fact that I know anything at all boggles the... the mind that I should no longer have access to.

It feels like an eternity ago. The point at which I wasn't soaking wet. In fact, I'm not totally sure I remember what it was ever like to be dry. Despite the horrible feelings in my gut, the bloating and pressure, I don't feel any real discomfort. not like before at least the worst thing i'm capable of remembering is also my strongest recollection everything before it feels like a conjured dream with details that don't quite add up like a puzzle with improperly shaped pieces i think at some point i was in love but maybe that's a thing that's

That's just the gas. That terrible aforementioned memory is what, I suppose, led me to becoming so wet. I remember thrashing, turning into splashing, screaming, turning into gargling, and a strange, salty taste in my mouth. My feet felt as though they were entombed in concrete, a nemesis to my own body. all that movement struggling and action all for nothing God how I wish I could just move even just the tiniest bit I'd absolutely love to turn my head to be able to take in my surroundings

but honestly I'd settle for a twitch of my pinky to paraphrase the lizard king himself I was down so goddamn long that everything looked like up to me. I knew once I woke in this state which way was up in a literal sense, as it was the opposite of where my body lay. That is, until the gas pains, if you can truly call it pain, began. Shifts and changes, twists and turns of the current, liberated my shackled feet. I'm not sure how. I couldn't so much as squeak my eyeballs half an inch downwards to see anything.

I felt myself rising, ascending from the darkness to the strange light that tickled my peripherals for what felt like an eternity. Driven upward by my gut, I was certain that I was shedding my mortal coil. And yet, that certainty betrayed me. As I gracelessly bobbed above the surface, I swear I felt a wrenching in my lungs. It seemed as though they hadn't received the memo from the rest of my body yet. Nothing filled in my chest but briny fluids. Somehow, I found it hard to care. Now I see the sky.

It's all I've seen for an immeasurable span of time. While not terribly exciting, it's so much better than the alternative. A short while after my body emerged from its watery metamorphosis, a particularly cruel tide caused me to flop onto my belly. Limp, like a rag doll, I was powerless to resist. Robbed of the serene blue above me, all I received in return

was the haunting depths from which my body had escaped. A dark, unforgiving abyss. Sight is all I have, and thus I hungered for stimulation. I've considered how I'll finally end, and what will give me release from this passive prison, but for now, I satisfy my mind with the views, although I wish I could see something new for a change. But lo, my prayers are answered. Something snags my leg briefly, turning me to face the mass I float towards. Land ho!

I can almost smell the sweet sense of the forested land on the breeze. Feelings I didn't know I had have begun to wash over me. Tall, lush, and beautiful green foliage looms overhead. It's a testament to nature's artistic virtues, contrasted against the sky. The land under me, presumably sand, crunches and shifts as the tide gently places my body on the shores before receding once more. Perhaps this will be my new home for a while. Plenty of sights to take in. But I can't help but wonder how much longer I'll be stuck in this body.

Suddenly, something catches my eye, if only my eye could follow. A shifting something moving in the nearby shrubbery? All thoughts of release wash away as I hear a squeaky wine. A small dog-like creature, maybe a coyote, appears in front of the front of the skyny, my sideways bent head. A paw lands squarely on my sternum as more of the beasts come into view. The first one's snout is right in front of my face, blocking my view. All I see is saliva dripping down pointed fangs, as I feel a small twitch in my pinky finger.

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