Creepy - Walk Among The Whispering Willows & The Server Ocean

Episode Date: August 6, 2026

Walk Among the Whispering Willows***Written by: Brady Garner and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Content warning: child abuse***The Server Ocean***Written by: gloomara and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Happy October.

I don't even care about the summer loving people who just let out a groan. We're that much closer to the time of year I've been looking forward to since... Well, since all this started, I guess. Okay. I'm going to roll under the stories today because there seems to have been

a slight turn in the mailbag this week. I didn't get anything from listeners that I can tell, but I did start getting some letters from coworkers here at the station that I've never physically interacted with, and they seem to be under the impression that I'm... Well, that's between me and Dale. Isn't it Dale? I don't even think about bringing HR into it. I know you're the one lurking in the shadows when I leave here at night. Or maybe you aren't. Either way, let's handle this, like... I was going to say like adults, but I know you paid for that Elfa males retreat,

so really more than anything, it seems like you just need a hug. Not for me. You burned that bridge. And I'm pretty sure you're the one who started the fire in the break room when you set the popcorn setting to 30 minutes instead of three minutes. It's 2026. What kind of monster is still making popcorn in office microwaves? And I swear if you ever bring in food. We're going to handle this like dark-aged peasants.

And you don't want to play that game with me, my friend. I've been building up an immunity to rat bites. I don't sleep much. Okay. First up, from writer Brady Garner and narrated by Owen McCune. Creepy Presents, Walk among the whispering willows. Settle down now, children. Grandpa's got another story for you.

Yes, it is another old one. another from my childhood. It's something your parents and your grandmother would not believe. They'd rather trust the stories in the newspapers and the rumors around town than what actually happened. But believe me when I tell you, there is truth to every word I say. It's a story of an old friend of mine. A friend I miss dearly to this day. Yes, you are correct, young one.

You could have called him my best friend. I was his and he was mine. But like all good things, my young kin, even the best childhood friendships must come to an end. I tell you, youngsters, the loss of my old pal was one of the hardest things I've ever had to overcome. But I believe he would have wanted me to carry on his story, to pass it on, so his memory would not be forgotten.

Tonight, I'll tell you the story of my friend Robbie and me as we took a walk among the whispering willows. It started back when I was just a little one, around your age, in fact. You see, back then the houses that now reside on Willow Street, the same street you all pass by on the school bus on the way to school every morning, had yet to be constructed.

Back then, there was a grove of actual weeping willow trees in their place. It was a small grove, but large enough that one could still get lost within. large enough that when you stopped and looked in through the trees of long, swaying leaves, you could not possibly see through to the other side. Old Robbie and I, we would pass by that grove every morning and night as we rode our bikes to and from school. And it was uphill both ways, of course. Oh, never mind.

That's just an old joke that you'll understand when you get older. Every day as Robbie and I rode our bikes home, we would make sure to pedal just a little faster. just a little softer as we passed the old willows. Around town back then there was a myth. A myth that whoever had planted the willows, since the trees are not native to the prairies and therefore had to have been planted, had enchanted them.

Well, enchanted some said, but others would have said cursed. It was said it was cursed because children tended to disappear within the waving willow leaves. but enchanted because those that disappeared had gone of their own free will. They'd wandered into the willows with a reason to disappear, and something within the trees granted them freedom from what haunted them in reality. It was that these children would follow the whispers of the wills until they found it.

It was not a monster, per se, and not a creature either. let's just call it an entity. This entity, though it went by many names, was mostly called the planter. The planter was never thought of as an evil or malevolent being. It was simply known as something that was to be respected and given space. Some described it as a living, breathing tree, a solid, unmoving mass of bark and branches that whispered to the children. Others said it was more humanoid, with white bark skin to match the willows it guarded,

and long arms to hold the hands of the children as it whisked them away. Regardless of what it was, Robbie and I were terrified of the thing, of the legend. Or so I thought, at least. Robbie and I had been best friends since I could remember. We would spend our days playing jacks or shooting marbles, always with broken. and bleeding knuckles from where the teacher had wrapped us for talking and giggling at the back of the class. In the months leading to his disappearance, however, he seemed to pull away. At first, I thought nothing of it. Sure, we played less and we giggled less. We shot fewer marbles,

and often our bike rides around that time were spent in silence. But I knew his father had just returned from his deployment, and I figured that Robbie was just spending quality time with his old and the innocence of a child. It wasn't until the day Robbie walked into the willows that I finally clued in that things might not be all right at home for him. I remember it clear as day. Robbie came to school late with an eye that was black and blue and an arm in a makeshift sling.

I remember becoming furious. Who did this to you? I asked. Was it Tom and his gang? I whispered as he sat beside me. They were the older boys who sometimes stole our good snacks from our lunch kits, you see. All Robbie did that day was shake his head and stare at the board. I remember looking over at him and seeing tear drops on the paper on his desk.

Right then, I didn't care who'd done it. I was furious, and I wanted to avenge my pal. So when he took off home before I could ask him who had hurt him, I tell you, I peddled that bike as fast as I could to catch up to him. And I caught him just as he rode to a stop in the ditch beside the willows. As I came around the bend in the road, I saw him. He had dropped his bike in the tall roadside grass and was locked in a thousand-yard stair into the waving willow leaves.

I called out. I called out as loud as my young lungs could shout. Robbie! I shouted. Robbie, stop! Wait! I screamed. My sneakers flew round and round on the,

the pedals. Around and around went the chain. In the motion, my shoelaces untied, and through the chain, around and around my shoelaces went, sending me sprawling onto the rough asphalt. Ignoring my skinned knees and forearms, I leapt to my feet and shouted once more to Robbie. Robbie turned to me, he raised the hand, shook his head, and walked into the willows. By the time, by the time I was I limped my way to wear Robbie's bike lay, young ones. It was already too late. My best friend in the whole wide world had heard the whispers of the willows and had followed their gentle summoning through the waving leaves of the grove. I remember that moment like it was yesterday. My heart racing, my palms slick with sweat, blood dripping down my knees.

I followed Robbie into the grove of the whispering weeping willows. I don't quite remember how I knew which direction to go. I just remember the vague outline of Robbie's figure passing through the leaves ahead as I trudged along through the moss-covered ground. A few feet into the trees, I heard the first whispers. They said, leave him, let him be. A shiver ran down my spine when I heard it. I knew what they meant. The trees were guiding Robbie to the planter. When Robbie reached it, he would be gone forever. No, I shouted. Robbie, stop, please.

I quickened my pace. I needed to reach Robbie before it found him. After what seemed like an eternity, an eternity being bombarded by whispers which had grown ever more adamant that my old pal did not want to be saved, I reached the edge of a clearing and I saw him. I parted the hanging leaves at the edge of the clearing and peered within.

It was as if the trees had decided in unison to stop growing in a perfect circle around a giant willow in the center of the circle. Robbie stood before this tree. Head tilted back, and tears streaming down his face, he stood. I leapt forward. I needed to stop him.

But something snatched up my ankles and held me back. With terror in my heart, I realized the leaves of the willows had snared me. The grove was doing all it could to stop me from reaching Robbie. I kicked and screamed, but I was powerless to move, and my cries seemed to fall short of Robbie's ears. That was it, then, children. That was when I saw it.

The planter peeled itself away from the tree in the center of the clearing with the sound of creaking and cracking bark. It was enormous. It must have reached nine feet tall, its skin and amalgamation of white and brown bark. Its face was made of conformed blended tree knots. Its arms, long and thin, donned the appearance of branches. It peeled away and knelt before Robbie. On the wind lay out a low rumbling whisper.

Come, child, it says. as the planter pulled Robbie close and wrapped him tightly in a hug. I cried one final cry as the planter stood, took Robbie's hand in it, and guided my best friend to a great knot in the giant willow. The planter laid its other hand on the tree and muttered a chant. Before my eyes, the bark of the tree appeared to swirl and morph until a small doorway appeared on its surface. Robbie turned to face me one last time.

I saw my pal's face for one last time. The solemn and tear-ridden face of a beaten child was replaced by a smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Behind Robbie, the planter turned the knob and swung the door wide. Robbie spoke to me, and he sounded a thousand miles away. Goodbye, my friend. It's okay. I can be happy now. He turned together with the planter and stepped through the doorway. As the door faded, I was released from the snare of the willow leaves.

I sprinted to the tree in the center of the clearing, but it was too late. The door was closed. I was not meant to follow. Well, that, my young kin, was the story of my husband. old pal Robbie. I want you to remember that story as you drive by Willow Street on the bus tomorrow. Remember that you never know how badly someone is hurting and that you should look out for your best friends and your siblings as best you can. What's that? Oh, that old willow tree in the backyard? Ah, yes. I suppose not all the willows from the grove were chopped down after all. from writer Glomara and narrated by Alicia Atkins.

Creepy presents, The Server Ocean. I was 5,000 miles deep into the Pacific servers. Billions of machines. Stretching thousands of miles in all directions. The dark gray steel surface vibrated and hummed. It was a cacophonous facsimile of the organic life that used to thrive here. Decades ago, there was greenery dotting the Pacific. We used to have server stations on Tahiti, Hawaii, Samoa, and other unnamed and uninhabited islands.

The computing space was much more important, however, and the islands needed to be cannibalized by the continuous expansion for data storage. It was a worthwhile trade-off. 60 miles until destination. The voice from my neuro port echoed within my skull. I will be there soon. 20 minutes, if I kept my foot on the pedal and didn't take any breaks. I was the seventh repairman sent for this job. I signed up for this gig for a substantial discount on a parking ticket.

30% off is a steal. The original price I had to pay would have killed me. The greater of the risk, the greater the reward, after all. I steered and weaved my bike between jagged metallic signal pillars that shot out hundreds of meters into the sky. The antennas and server blades were all from different companies and stations, all stacked on top of one another, weaving into themselves in a warped monstrosity of wires and poles and lights,

fighting for dominance. They pierced upwards in haphazard directions, creating colossal forms that appeared like massive talons reaching for a savior. On my journey, I noticed flayed corpses spread thin on the broken mechanical surface, corpses who most likely belonged to the repairman sent before me. They probably lost direction or weren't quick enough to effortlessly dodge the station pillars. Their poor bodies baked in the scorching sun, which then turned them into melted sludge that dripped into server caverns below.

They were a reminder that this job had a devastating cost. And it's another reminder of what happens when you cheap out, and don't buy the premium noroports. It may put you into three lifetimes of debt, but it keeps you alive. Your duty is below. The optical attachment flashed red arrows on the screen of my cooling unit, pointing below the metal surface. I screeched to a halt and spun around the spot I needed to descend. I parked my bike and lit it aisle.

I looked down into the broken and maimed entrance inside. It's a deep dive. I unlocked the winch from the wheel. the back of my bike and hooked my harness onto the cable. On the head-up display, the timer read two hours and 45 minutes. That should just be enough time to make the repairs and get out. I stepped down, balancing on a shard of fiberglass that I used for a makeship step. I tugged on the cable to make sure it was sturdy and squeezed myself down, nearly cutting my suit on the sharp and broken server blades in the process. I dropped into the abyss.

Fifty meters. Millions of layers of glass and wire and plastic surrounded me. There used to be an organized system to find which servers belong to which, but that process was deemed too expensive. And the endless construction quickly made them obsolete. The demand for new technologies, new AI systems, and newer, faster products required even more computing power. 500 meters! In a mad dash to create more data storage, companies rushed and began to slap their servers on top of one another. It turned the old system of refined stairs,

hallways and rooms into a chaotic mess of compressed haphazard layers of copper wires, silicon, and flashing lights. This slapdash method of data storage meant that repairs were needed to untangle the mess that was created decades ago. You'd think the wise idea would be to bulldoze it all and start over. But to entirely destroy 63.8 million square miles of area would be an impossible task. So, repairmen would instead be utilized. 2,000 meters.

The further down I went, the older the technology appeared. In the distance, I heard the massive stream. of the ancient ocean roaring throughout the server caves, funneling down and attempting to cool the roiling heat, pulsating off the rusted machinery. Billions of cooling vents rushed all the heat from the computers downward, which prevented the overheating of the surface. However, this meant that the servers below now burned far too hot

and boiled most of the water away. The remaining streams were now nothing more than roaring, boiling rivers, blasting massive fumes of steam into the caverns. This ocean has outlived its usefulness. It is now just a worthless reminder of what it used to be. The red arrows on my head-up display began to flash, indicating I was getting closer to the spot I needed to fix. The wipers on my visor wiped the condensation from the steam away,

and I swung myself forward, where I found purchase on a wide clearing of cracked plastic tubes and broken metal. I found myself in an ancient cavern that used to be an organized server system before the idea was abandoned for our current one. The plastic and glass chips cracked underneath my boots as I moved forward. This area I found myself in was similar to the office spaces of old, where it consisted of dozens of halls and doorways, with labeled signs made for human eyes, which hadn't been necessary in a very long time. The steam misted through the space like a haunted fog,

threatening to burn away any unsuited poor soul that found their way in its path. The cooling suit kept me stable enough to keep moving. Destination near! The arrows began to blink and direct towards one of the server hallways. I saw a large sign that labeled the entrance. Unfamiliar with these old words, I scanned it and the Neuroport spoke. Ohio. Wow. That place hasn't existed in a long time.

I'm surprised someone's device was still connected to an Ohio port of all things. The iron door that was previously underneath the entrance sign was ripped from its post, where its pieces were scattered nearby on the ground. My headlamp shined in the dark and broken server ruins. The red LEDs that dotted the walls were still barely operational, and flickered on and off. Apparently, electricity still reached these depths. I looked up at the gaps between iron railings and copper wires

and saw a vast distance above me, shadowed in deep darkness where there existed millions of blinking blue and white lights, beaming from various cables and machines. They reminded me of stars, which I haven't seen since I was a child. Here, I snouted. from my daydream and focused back on my duty and fiddled with my pouch, unhooking a fiber plastic bag with the client's fix inside. I scanned the smaller sign above the broken server port. Sandusky, Ohio. A couple of seconds of whining machinery crackled to life, and then stopped,

spitting out a year's old server chip with a click. Looks like Ohio is still going strong after all this time. I pulled out the damaged chip and tossed it to the ground, where it clattered with several others of the same model. I inserted the new one, where it slid back inside. A green light appeared, indicating that my job was done. Thirty-five minutes left on the timer. Looks like I get a bonus for completing a job a little early. I typed in the return code and readied myself for the cord to yank me back to the surface. Hopefully, this repair was worth all the trouble. I sure as hell don't want to do this again. Six thousand miles away, in a ruined, uninhabited zone that used to be Sandusky, Ohio. An elderly woman had finally noticed that her phone

was back online, after a grueling three weeks of no service. This was a common occurrence with people of her status level. An ironic existence considering her old home had been smoothed over by one of the world's largest data megacenters, encompassing the entirety of the state of Ohio, in half of Michigan. She is just one of the many civilians that try to make their existence work under its shadow. She limped into a ragged hovel,

pieced together from the wooden ruins of human homes. It existed under the shade of a white steel canopy that jutted out from the megacenter's exterior, out of sight from the security drones. She struggled to sit down on the dirt rough ground and powered on her old phone. It powered on with a dull chime. Fortunately, it had enough power to send out a singular message, and then right after order a new repairman to fix the server chip that powered on her device for several precious minutes.

She asked her AI companion to send her daughter a message, where it then generated a crude image of what is supposed to be a dancing giraffe saying, Burr Day. The message reached his destination, where it was then promptly ignored by its recipient. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative Commons share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express

written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.