Creepy - We Shouldn't Have Gone There & Digestion

Episode Date: June 16, 2022

We Shouldn't Have Gone There***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Digestion***Written by: Casey Larin and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt ***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***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.

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

Creepy presents. We shouldn't have gone there. Written by no one of consequence. And narrated by Rissa Montanez. My twin sister says we shouldn't be doing this. We almost got caught last time. I tell her it wasn't as bad as she remembers. The nature preserve is only.

patrolled on the outskirts, and we slip through the perimeter half a mile back. I still find it odd that there's guards here, but with the restrictions on this land, someone has to enforce the non-human interaction. We live on an orchard that stands directly next to this preserve. All our lives, we've been told there's a federal mandate that no person is to set foot on the land, and penalties for violating this decree are dire. 17 years old, and we've never heard of anyone getting caught out here, even though we know lots of people that have trespassed. Well, okay, not just people, but teenagers like us.

You see, Emma and I are vegetarians, mostly. When we were little, we raised a pig that accidentally got mixed into the rest of the livestock. It wasn't until Wilbur was slaughtered that we realized where he got to. Since then, we haven't eaten another animal, at least not one with kind eyes. Our main source of protein is seafood, but getting fresh fish is always a problem for us. We have a small pond that is kept stocked, but it's not enough to sustain us year-round. Right now, the population is too low to take even one. fish. And the girl can only eat so many veggies before the idea of meat starts to become appealing.

During these times, Emma and I will sneak into the preserve and catch as many fish as we can carry. Buying fish from the store tends to be pricey, so this has always been the most efficient way to sustain ourselves. There's a large lake, one mile into the property that has the best fishing in the state. Do you have any idea the quality of the quality of fish that lives in a thriving ecosystem untouched by man? It's the best we've ever eaten. With fishing rods, backpack coolers loaded with ice, and live bait dug fresh from our garden, our footprint will be small. We've done this eight times and never came close to being caught. Emma seems to think we came close last time, but the patrolling guard was long gone by the time

we crossed the fence. She's always been the worrywart, I've been. of the two of us. Even knowing that none of the guards patrol the actual grounds, there are bound to be satellites that monitor it from the air. I may be a little paranoid in this regard, but better safe than sorry. That's why our fishing spot moves up the bank a little every time we come out. This way, there isn't a visual footprint from us tramping down the grass along the shore. About a hundred yards from our last spot, we set ourselves up. The lake is perfectly peaceful, a true vision of nature's beauty. Water's so clear you can see the fish just below the surface.

Right now, I can spot about a half a dozen, easy. And they're big, Emma takes out a water bottle and drinks half the contents of it while I ready our fishing poles. The lake contains more than just fish. Not far off the eastern shore is an island. large enough to have some very dense woods, so much that I can't see through it. There's always been something eerie about it, but I've never been able to put my finger on why. Countless times I've wanted to swim out and investigate, but Emma won't let me. Sure, I could do it against her wishes, and she probably follow me.

But I'd never hear the end of it. More than likely, she'd refuse to ever come out here again. And I won't venture out here alone. This is the closest we've ever been to the island. And each time we move closer, that eerie sensation only grows. Today, I took a good look at it, and something seems off.

more so than usual. The water's reflection must be playing tricks on me. It reflects the surrounding forest, giving the water the illusion of being an extension of the trees. It takes a few minutes. It takes a few minutes. But I finally see what my eyes have been trying to get my brain to interpret. Emma? Do you see that?

I point just to the right of the island, where it's closest to the shore. What is it, Erica? There's land connecting the island. A bridge we were never able to see before. I start moving in that direction, but Emma stops me. Are you crazy?

If we expose ourselves that much, we'll be caught for sure. I never should have told her my satellite theory. She's heard me talk about wanting to explore the island dozens of times. And I know it gets on her nerves. If we run across it and get back into the trees quickly, no one will ever know.

I know how to appeal to my sister. So I pull out the big guns. If we go, I'll never bring it up again. I don't just talk about the island while we're here. I mention it at home, too. Emma considers the options. She knows I'm true to my word. If we do this, I'll drop it completely, and my curiosity will finally be satisfied. We grab what we need from our packs and store the rest. It's only a few hundred yards further up the shore. It astounds me that this bridge was here the whole time.

We simply couldn't see it before because the island was hiding it. As we approach, I see a break in the trees. The ground is hard here, and the vegetation is sparse. Given the width of space and how it stretches away from the island, I'd say this was a road once. Why would there be a road? Emma asks, there isn't supposed to be vehicles of any kind in the preserve. This road hasn't been traveled in ages.

I don't think this place was always a preserve. I've looked into it many times over the last three years. During World War II, this land was owned by the government. After the fall of Nazi Germany, it was sold to a private citizen and turned into the preserve we know now. As for the owner, I've never found more than a name. Dr. John Harker. I haven't told Emma any of this.

it would only discourage her. The road leads up to the bridge, and we can clearly see it's not a natural occurrence. Over time, vines and grasses have grabbed a foothold and created a mask covering the bridge. If there's a road, it leads to something on the island. Emma doesn't like this prospect. In her mind, something on the island means there's reason to

thing someone knows and is keeping an eye on it. Emma, look at the road. No one's been here in decades. Before she can chicken out, I start walking across the bridge. I had expected it to be made of wood, to be rickety and possibly a danger to cross. It's solid concrete covered in dirt. As if someone wanted it to become overgrown. I'm beginning to think. think it was by design that someone wanted this to look as innocuous as possible to keep anyone from thinking its existence wasn't on purpose. We make it to the island without complication, but that eerie feeling has intensified. It looks darker here, the dense trees not allowing much sunlight through. The entire time, Emma whispers her worries. We shouldn't be. We shouldn't be

here, Erica. Would you stop M? We're just going to poke around, see what's here, then we can go back. I'm not going to let her fears keep me from exploring. We've got hours of sunlight left. Plenty of time to poke around and get in some good fishing. With our worms, a line will be in the water for just less than a minute. And then we'll reel in a really large fish. At most, we need maybe an hour to catch our fill. It'll be hotter, but it's well worth the effort. However, good fishing isn't the only satisfaction I'm going to get today. I am finally going to find out why this island fascinates me so much. It's a true mystery, a rare thing in our world. And I've been a hooked since day one. The island itself isn't very large, maybe a few acres. It takes only

minutes to reach the center, made even easier with the overgrown road. Instead of having to wander around, we just follow the path that will inevitably lead to the secret. What we find isn't disappointing. An old building sits among the trees, tall enough to be just under the treetops. The metal walls are old and rusted, like it's been sitting idle for longer than we've been alive. Smaller structures sit just before the building, concrete shacks with wide openings face the road. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were pillboxes. Machine gun nests from World War II. At the center of the building are two large doors.

Solid metal welded shut. Knocking on the walls, I can tell they're made from thick metal, like a tank. Whatever this place was during the war, it was a well-guarded secret. Despite Emma's complaining, I explore the outside of the building. hoping there's another entrance. To my surprise, there is one, and it's not sealed. In fact, the doors open, just a crack. This wasn't left open intentionally.

Roots from nearby trees grew up from the ground and prided open over time. Using the flashlight I thankfully thought to bring, I go in. Steps leading down are covered in dead leaves, roots and dirt. It smells musty and dank. Nothing living has been here in ages. I've heard stories of long-forgotten government installations, relics of war long since past. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd find one so close to home. Admittedly, I never imagined I'd explore one or even seek such a thing out. Daddy always said my curiosity would get me into trouble one day. I just hope this isn't that day. Emma finally stops complaining as we make our dissent.

Afraid her voice will give us away to someone below. It's absurd to think anything alive is waiting for us. There hasn't been any activity since it was sealed up. I remember reading about some of the crazy things done during the war, about the Nazis doing horrible experiments. They obviously never did things like this on U.S. soil, but who's to say that our own government didn't stoop to their level? As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I realize Emma has her phone out and is recording our illegal search. I'm surprised. I figured she wouldn't want a record of this. The floor is covered in metal grates, the stench of stagnant water underneath. Clearly, even sealing this place up, it was eroded with time, and it's more than the door we came through.

The sounds of water dripping into the pools below echo throughout the dank hallways. We follow the corridor further in, every so often coming across the door. They're all metal, not as thick as the large front doors, but two girls like us aren't going to bust them open. After a while, we come to the end of the corridor. One last door. The handle turns, but the door doesn't open. It's not locked, just closed from decades going unused. I push with my shoulder, forcing the door open until it finally allows us passage. The air here is different, a musky smell that has nothing to do with water. Dust covers old monitors and outdated equipment that I can't even begin to identify.

Whatever the order to abandon this facility, the people didn't leave in a hurry, nor did they take much. Filing cabinets scattered around the space are full. I take out a random file from 1944 and attempt to. to read it. The words are English, but not the kind I can understand. Science was never my strong suit, and a lot of what is written pertains to it. Biological. From what little I can understand. Emma looks over some of it while continuing to record.

These look like experiment notes. She chooses one paragraph to read. Test subject LC-3801. is a failure, clear signs of mutation, physical traits from subject LC are visible, but did not survive the procedure. Running low on usable subjects suggest a new acquisition batch. I don't like the sound of that. What were they doing here, Em? She reads on, but not out loud. Emma is the more science inclined of the two of us. It looks like they were trying to extract DNA from something

and put it into... She trails off. This is an old plot point from a lot of stories. Government agencies performing human experiments to create super soldiers. It's supposed to be fiction, and I ask Emma if that's what they were doing. No. not people.

They were gene-splicing the subject L.C. with red foxes, trying to create some kind of hybrid. Apparently, the red fox is a very common animal in Germany. She surmises that they were trying to introduce a mutation into the wild during the war that would breed and create a powerful menace for the Nazis. Hard to fight the world when free Roman. creatures are tearing the troops apart in the dark. Emma tucks the file in the back of her waistband when a sound alarms us. A thud from deeper in the facility, loud and heavy. We are both startled as it

happens again, and a tremor accompanies this one. Looking toward another door, whatever is thudding around is beyond it. My curiosity is piqued, outweighing my fear. Emma seems fascinated. There shouldn't be anything down here to make such a ruckus. This isn't a small animal that could have tunneled in. The walls are concrete and steel. My sister looks at me, and I'm sure my fear looks just like hers does. But that's not all I see.

Emma is curious from a scientific point of view. All it will take is a nut. Come on, Em, we've gone this far. I take her by the hand as we move to the door. This one opens easier than the last, and a third thud sounds, louder, with one less barrier between us and the source. I'm alarmed as we see a wall covered in buttons and switches that contain small lights. Most of them are red, but the furthest from us, are green.

There's still power here? It never occurred to me to try a light switch. A facility this old shouldn't still have power. Emma beats me to it, and the room is flooded with eerie yellow light. One of the light bulbs explodes in a shatter of glass and an audible pop. But most of the others function.

There are control panels all. over the place, more switches, buttons, and indicator lights. All this equipment is eye-catching. But not nearly as much as the window taking up most of the far wall. We inch ourselves forward, both wanting and not wanting to see what's on the other side. The glass is thick, covered in grime, but not so much that we can't see. There's an unsettling blue light. light, illuminating a cylindrical tank full of fluid in the next room. It's murky, hard to see through. But that may be because my brain doesn't want me to really see what resides inside of it.

It's man-sized, with two legs and two arms. I'd think it was a man, but the head... What the hell? One of those thick arms swings forward. and slams against the glass wall. The source of the thuds. It hits hard enough to shake the walls, dust dislodging from the ceiling.

I focus on the head again, trying to make sense of the mass. I can't tell if it's hair or tentacles, but it moves in the liquid like something alive. My eyes divert from the creature to a plaque at the base of its prison. desperate to focus on anything else. I read it out loud. Subject Lovecraft.

And it hits the wall again, harder this time. It's beautiful, Emma says, and I look at her like she's crazy. Can't you hear it? She tilts her head to the side with the look of awe in her face. Clearly, my sister is hearing something I'm not. And I finally had enough of this place. I go to pull her away from the glass. But she's suddenly at one of the consoles. Her hands begin to press a series of buttons with a confidence she shouldn't have. What are you doing? I rush over and grab her, but it's too late. An alarm blares as the sound of

rushing water comes from the next room. I pull her the way we came. But she finally. But she fights me, saying she needs to stay. When I get her to the door, she pushes me through it and closes it on me. Her laughter carries through as something crashes, and I know it's beyond too late. Going against every instinct I have to get my sister out of there, I turn and run. It pounds at the door, frightening me right down to the core. Adrenaline shoots. through my body, giving me wings as I run back. Forcing the next door closed, I hear that creature burst through the last door,

sending it flying off the hinges. The sounds of pursuit thunder around me as it smashes the final door. I don't turn to see it coming. I just keep running. Making it to the staircase, I can hear voices coming from above, the words of men in uniform

that probably carry automatic weapons. I know I'm in a world of trouble, but I'll take my chances with the men in black, rather than the monster chasing me. Creepy Presents Digestion. Written by Casey Laron and narrated by Cole Burkart. They bought a farmhouse off the edge of I-30. It was sold to Mr. and Mrs. Rotwell as abandoned property, but the couple didn't mind having to renovate. It was fairly cheap, considering, for a sizable, rustic home.

The best-selling point was being able to move away from the city. Mrs. Rottwell had her moments of doubt before signing for the mortgage, mostly on why such a lovely piece of property was abandoned in the first place. Their real estate agent nervously told them that the previous owners had gone missing, but that, please, they shouldn't worry themselves about it, it was usually such a quiet part of the country. The couple had their laughs about ghost stories afterwards. Mr. Rotwell joked about bringing a flashlight to their next signing.

The house underwent assessment and was found to be structurally stable, and so, without further concerns, they closed with the agent and moved in. The couple settled in for the first month without incident. Mr. Rotwell found their new life blissfully domestic, and Mrs. Rottwell busied herself getting the contractors together. On a warm Sunday afternoon, she disappeared down the wooden stairs of the basement

to check the pipes. She popped her head out only an hour later, calling for Mr. Rottwell to see what she'd found. Mr. Rottwell turned the stove off and shambled after her, curious, but still unhappy to have been pulled away from lunch. Mrs. Rottwell led him down to a large gap on the wall that was hidden behind the water heater. edged with splintered wood from the panelled wall, where it appeared someone had bashed it in.

Beyond it was a neatly carved tunnel, lined with even steel that went further than their eyes to make out. Both of them felt uneasy. Mr. Rottwell kept peaking over his shoulder to reassure himself that nothing would sneak up behind them. Mrs. Rottwell wouldn't look away from the tunnel, and fear that. something would come out of it. Mrs. Rottwell argued to go back upstairs and call the agency hired to deduct the assessment. It was impossible for something like this to have been missed on initial inspection. Afterwards, they'd call the local sheriff.

Mr. Rottwell insisted that he couldn't live in this home without knowing what was in it. And, after a spat of bickering between them, Mr. Rottwell ignored the pleadings of his wife and went to go get his headlamp before preparing to crouch into the hole. It could barely fit him, even with his head as close as he did get it to the floor, having to squeeze through inch by inch. Mrs. Rottwell followed, reluctant to leave him on his own. It was a long journey to reach the end of it. The more they progressed through the tunnel,

the more the feeling of dread intensified in the both of them, an uneasy sense of intrusion in their own home. They were silent, until finally the tunnel opened up, and Mr. Rotwell had the space to stand. The couple were met with a door set into wood paneling, an old door that started to rot with age. Again, Mrs. Rotwell begged him to leave the matter alone. She was scared. Mr. Rotwell declared that he was going to settle it right now and opened it. They found themselves in a white room, completely, empty and pristine. No furnishings, no fixtures, as far as they could see. Besides Mr.

Rotwell's headlamp, there was no lighting in the room, yet it was completely illuminated. No shadows, none at all. It made it impossible to tell where the floor and walls connected. The air felt sterile and thin to breathe. Mrs. Rotwell gasped and fled the room. Mr. Rotwell circled the perimeter with wide eyes before finally coming out, confused and dissatisfied. As he crossed the threshold, his headlamp broke, and his wife screamed. They found their way back into the tunnel in complete darkness,

now alive with discussion and speculation. Mrs. Rotwell insisted that the rational explanation existed to the room. It must have been a drug den, a defunct one after the previous owner had gotten into it with the wrong people and was. consequently disposed of. Mr. Rottwell was of the opinion that he didn't care where it came from. He would board it up as soon as it was inspected. They emerged with the agreement that until they were

certain what it was, the basement was best left alone. Mr. Rottwell arranged for the inspector to come later in the week. He arrived on time, a little too condescending for either of their tastes, and followed the couple to the basement. Mr. Rottwell showed him, where to stick his head behind the water heater to find the tunnel, and they waited as the inspector poked around for it and made mumbling comments under his breath. Mrs. Rottwell asked him what he thought, and the man stood up straight and told them that he couldn't find it. Mr. Rottwell checked behind the water heater himself, with the intent to put his hand through the tunnel and scorn the inspector for missing something so obvious,

only to realize that the hole was truly gone. like it had never existed. The wood paneling appeared untouched in original condition. Mrs. Rotwell took pacing around the basement out of stress. The inspector apologized, asked a few questions about the condition of the house, as well as their mental state, and, after a promise to send someone to check for gas leaks, left without another word.

Mr. and Mrs. Rotwell had the worst. argument of their relationship that evening. Mrs. Rottwell pleaded to board the entire basement up as planned and leave it all to rot for the peace of mind. Her husband paced around the kitchen aisle, all the while cursing and screaming, his mind is set on returning and ending the matter once and for all. She managed to calm her husband only slightly, and they both went to bed tense and unsatisfied. The night had waned on into the early hours of the morning, when Mrs. Rottwell awoke, sweaty and terrified, to an empty bed. Mr. Rottwell was gone. The flashlight they kept by their bed was dawn as well. She dot up and went to retrieve the handgun they kept in their bedside drawer.

As she approached the basement, Mrs. Rottwell could see light down the stairs. She braced herself as she descended, keeping the gun close to her chest. As she approached the water heater, she saw the hole as it had never been before, large and gaping. The corner is just visible behind the metal tank. Without a moment of hesitation, she fit her shoulders through and crawled. The room was still closed when she emerged. The door stood as it was, slightly sunk into the earth. She opened it. It remained as it had been, pristinely, unnaturally, white. There was no sign of her husband.

Mrs. Rotwell could already see him inside, puzzling over a thing they should have never let into their lives in the first place. However, when the door was open, the room was empty. Nothing had been changed, nothing added. She thought she saw something dark and red in the middle of it, but as she blinked, it disappeared, a figment of the imagination. Mrs. Rottwell entered. She was about to call out for Mr. Rottwell,

wondering if he would pop out of a panel in the wall and shock her. No response. Her breath caught. She jerked back towards the entrance, only to find that the entrance had disappeared. She yelled in horror and dropped her gun. She pounded on the wall. She shrieked. At some point, she resorted to kicking and then pointless swearing, but the door did not open.

There's no indication that there was a door in the first place. All that was around her was white. At some point, she slumped to the ground, partially leaning against the wall. wall. Now she realized she was crying, tears running down her face. Across from her, she heard a terrible screeching of metal prying open metal, and she glanced up. Mrs. Rotwell saw the hand pistol being split apart. She could see from where she lay on the floor, the metal of the body peeling back like it was cut open with a can opener. As the casing unraveled more and more,

the parts of it that now touched the floor disappeared into nothing. No, not disappeared. It crumbled into the floor, as the mechanics were crushed and deformed. It was being digested. She sank against the wall, mouth agape, horrified.

Already she did see the cuffs of her sleepwear beginning to unravel. It came apart, and then the cloth split in two, the threads twitching and then winding down to nothing. Mrs. Rotwell couldn't breathe, her lungs constricted, panting in terror and oxygen deprivation. She watched in numb wonder at the, the sight of it. The gun

had been fully erased from existence. A tear appeared at the top of her foot. Miss Rotwell sobbed. There was no pain in it as it opened further into a slight and long red slice across the arch. Desperately she felt against the wall for the sign of the door,

scrambling to get up. Mrs. Rotwell was unable to stand. The ligaments in her feet were beginning to pull away from the muscle. As she turned onto her knees, she shut her eyes tight to avoid seeing what was becoming of her legs, and she screamed. There was blood, blood where her knees touched the ground. Even that was gone in moments. Eventually, Miss Rotwell could no longer kneel. She had no legs. She stared up at the white ceiling of the room, flinching away from the brightness of it.

The edges of her vision were spotty. The spots grew in size, and colors swam in front of her. In another minute, she was blind. And that's all there was. Later in the week, the couples were reported officially missing. Someone had arrived to inspect, as promised, only to find an empty house. The relatives in the city were contacted and informed. The house was not declared abandoned until after the memorial ceremony months later.

It was bought by respective speculators and listed for purchase, being mostly ignored by those looking for respectable land. On a sunny month in spring, a young father came to assess the property with his agent. It was suitable for him, a great open yard for his children. good land for self-sustained farming, a modern two-story farmhouse that was roomy, and only in need of slight renovations. There were a few tense negotiations with the real estate agent, mostly to ask if his children were in any danger of going missing themselves in the area. After he was assured of the safety of the area, he closed on the house and began making

preparations to move out. idly daydreaming of a life and rural country. 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 story's author.