Creepy - Yamadhin

Episode Date: November 17, 2025

Yamadhin***Written by: Z.D. Doctherman and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Where the Dead Children Play***Written by: John Reed***Content warning: child death***The Last Town on Earth***Written by: Kathleen Wolak and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Milks of the World Podcast (yes, it's real): https://open.spotify.com/show/3IUMQVrfGYuTnrpngs58bV***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.

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 are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, everyone. Before I get into anything,

I have a little housekeeping to take care of as I've been shirking my duties lately to our patrons. So let's take a second to thank our new patrons. Curtis Blackhurst, Nate's Great 148, Isabel Noble, Andrea Surty, Topher South, David Rhushe, Rhoek, Rowan Gallagher, and Challenge Accepted. To see how you can support the show and get rewarded,

please check out patreon.com slash creepypod. and as I said I was going to try and do some more podcast shoutouts as well. This one isn't horror, but it's definitely, let's say, irreverent? Perhaps even a good palate cleanser after October as we take a break from scares for a couple of minutes before getting back to watching horror movies like I do the rest of the year. If you're looking for something completely ridiculous and different from anything else you've heard, go check out milks of the world. Yes, milks.

The only milk review podcast that exists, and yes, they checked. It's an absurdist comedy podcast that focuses on shipwrecks, original bumper stickers, and dabbles in memes about siege warfare. Oh, and they do literally review milk as well. Throw in a touch of dead bodies and cannibalism for good measure, and you've got milks of the world. You will love this podcast if you're demented. Also, it is a seriously real podcast that exists.

Check out milks of the world. wherever you listen to podcasts. The Spotify links in the show notes. Okay, so some of you have messaged me saying you want to hear more from Eddie Graves, the old overnight DJ who used to work at this radio station, and I'm happy to oblige. Honestly, I was probably going to do it anyway. So here's another blast from the past.

Good evening again, my fellow, creatures of the night. Eddie Graves with you as always, keeping the graveyard shift alive on Radio After Dark. Sad news from up on high. No matter how much you've all been enjoying our midnight dares games for the last month, the powers that be have decided to, um, hold a plug.

No, that's too diplomatic. They gave it the axe, the guillotine, and whatever else people use to dismember each other. Blah! As fun as it was for me to do all I could to summon the darkness with Bloody Mary, baby blue, and our in-house Ouija board seance,

maybe the disaster that was, in turn, light as a feather, stiff as a board. And the midnight came. Don't forget that one. The station manager evidently got an earful from the FCC after last night's session of, The ritual I'm not even allowed to repeat in name only. Evidently, the oxygenarians are on the FCC. It thought it went a little too far.

I even referred to it as being satanic. Come on. Is that where we're at? I thought the satanic panic was dead and buried. Management hated it, but you folks loved it. So, well, I would never condone such actions. If you were to write and call into the station and the FCC to voice your displeasure at this decision, well, I would just consider that, as the poet laureate said,

you fighting for your right to party. For those of you who wanted to play the ritual for yourselves, sorry, can't share the details of where we got it from. Suffice it to say it was not from any playground or any... book you're going to find at the library. And between you and me, it didn't end when the song did. Feels darker in here today, don't you think? Anyway, tonight we're keeping it lights.

No games, no mirrors. Just stories. Up next, the candle that burned in reverse. Stick around. Keep the lights low. And don't repeat anything you hear. Unless it'll bring in bigger ratings. Ha!

You're listening to F-Efft after dark. Times have changed, huh? I still haven't heard from any locals who remember Eddie. It might be fun to have him as a guest on the podcast to do a sort of full-circle thing. We'll see. In the meantime, let's get to why you're listening to me at all. First up, a chilling tale unfold as a family legend becomes horrifyingly real, demanding a deadly pack to protect its sacred woods.

From writer Z.D. Doctorman and narrated by Alicia Atkins, creepy presents, Yamadin. Inhale it all, Eric. That mosquito larvae and the morning storm smell of northern Minnesota. Not a bad little cabin I got, right? But it's long past time to sell. Not much up here, but walleye, birch, and water. Until what happened to the Mathers and the Stevenson's last, year there wasn't any drama either. Tragic, really. Any missing person's story, you have to suspect the worst. Guess we do have our little legend of the deer vine. White and purple buck, wrapped in vines and leaves, branches coming out of its hide. You must have heard of it. Someone must be making a killing off of all those bumper stickers and shirts, even if no one's really believed in

the thing for 50 years. No one except my uncle, that is. Then again, he wasn't exactly playing with a full deck, if you know what I mean. Hansen Anderson. What a name. Blame our ancestors back in Stockholm for that one. The man worked at the Port of Duluth, pulling 10, 12-hour shifts for three decades. That'll make anyone a little messed up in the brain. He bought this little three-bedroom beauty for a cool 67,000 back in 1993. But the housing crash and 08 did him in. So he sold his house in the city and moved up here.

My mom always said Hanson was off because he and Eleanor never had kids. Just ate away at him year by year. That and his final tour in Vietnam. Came back different. My dad just thought his brother swallowed too much lead paint as a kid. On my family summer trips, he never uttered more than a few words at a time. Always stay alert, Janie. Killer Hawk up above. Sunset like a wound. Weird stuff to say to a 10-year-old girl. Now, I might talk a lot of junk about my uncle, but one thing no one doubted was he loved Eleanor to death. He was like the tether that kept his mind harnessed to the earth. That woman could just raise her eyebrow at something off-kilter, he'd said, and he'd piped down like a well-trained puppy dog. I remember how he'd drive to two harbors to get her favorite tulips for birthdays and have to be.

anniversaries. Cooked her walleye dinners then as best he could. She was probably the best thing about those summers at the cabin. That and the times we'd catch bass, play cards into the night. I'd always remembered the sunsets that poured out orange and red till 10, 11 in the evening, the mournful wail of the looms. And the weird way my uncle looked at the woods. Let's load up those boxes in the trucks. mostly old photos. There's Hanson, maybe two weeks before he died. He was working on that second cabin over there.

You can see the foundation by the sawed-off birch trees. Oh, he was going to build a whole army of them to rent out to tourists who didn't want to rough the boundary waters by canoe. Even said he'd build them all himself. Plank by plank, nail by nail. Big words for a man of 63.5. Hell, if I'd known you back then, Eric, we could have hired you. Not every day you get to know a logger and carpenter wrapped into one.

Imagine you've chopped down enough trees to fill a football field in your time. Huh. Well, have you? It's a simple yes or no question. Once he got this idea of the cabin development, my uncle started to whackin trees down with his chainsaw like he was trying to break some kind of world record. Then he'd laugh every time the boom made the birds dart out of the branches. Some things are better off dead than alive, he told me once, foot on the trunk of a fallen pine.

Weird stuff for a 16-year-old to hear. See those antlers up there, Eric? Now, that's just a normal albino deer. Rare, sure. But I've seen them in field and stream, pictures online. But that's not what my uncle said he saw. It was about three weeks into the second cabin project, and even though it was summer. the temperature dropped about 30 degrees in 10 minutes.

Got a quick chill so the hair stood up on his neck and back, put down the axe and went in to get a jacket. When he came back, right there, standing on that cabin's foundation was the buck. Spindly red flowers coming off its antlers, thick fronds protruding out of its ribs, wrapped in deep green vines. The thing just stared at my uncle real hard. At first, he tried to shoe the thing away, pretend to run at the beast, but the buck didn't move.

So he started to yell like all hell, go back into the forest, you damn dear, with a few choice words thrown in that I won't repeat. Flailed his hands like they were on fire. Still, nothing. Deer just looking back with those hollow amber eyes. So, Hanson stormed over to that tool shed, you see, off to your roll. right there and fetched his chainsaw. I bet he was chuckling to himself with every step he took.

If this doesn't scare that thing off, I'll cut one of those antlers and let that good-for-nothing mutt down the road chew on it. Hanson went to rev the thing, but the blade didn't start. He drew closer, pulled the court again, nothing. Now he was getting really sweaty and frustrated, and probably would have tossed that chainsaw at the deer if this had gone on for another minute. But just then, the buck stood up on his hind legs, some eight feet tall, wrapped in greenery, antlers like giant claws, backlit by the sun. Damn thing stood there like he was waiting for me, daring me to come closer. This is where it gets a little weird, see. The deer's eyes, remember, this is what the old man said, started swirling in their sockets round and round.

A buzzing tingles sped through my uncle's fingers, down through his torso, tingling, buzzing like one of those fly zappers. He tried to lift his arm to start to chainsaw, but it wouldn't move, nor with his legs. Then the blood started pumping through his head and innards like juice through a straw, booming heartbeat in his head. Lips dried up, frozen. He was just frozen in place. Hansen said for the first time in his life he was scared. That's when a sort of spirit, a presence, invaded his mind. He forgot all about the chainsaw, the cabin, the trees, all about everything.

The deer vine was talking to him, telepathically. It whispered a single word straight through the corridors of his brain. Yomadin. A fishing break was just what we needed, Eric. damn sweaty in all this heat. But I told you, a little Ned rig even with the sun blazing overhead, Wham! The small mouth are all over it.

Right in between those rocks always does me good. Sorry I hooked you in the leg, bud. Flyers got it out with too much of the skin. I didn't rip too hard, did I? Well, Eric, it's a simple yes or no question. Anyway, I'm not mad about it earlier, just so you know. It's all right to laugh, Eric. I don't expect you to take this all in without a chuckle.

No one much believes in the deer vine anymore. I laugh at it too. But I didn't tell you what the deer did next. Hanson stood there, this snowman cold feeling dripping down his skin. A million images a second raced through his mind. Dirt filled with earthworms. Lake trout in the shadow field depths. Thousands of deer.

I'm talking generations before and generations to come. Their antlers rippling in the sunlight, guarding the forest, pointing the sharp tips of their antlers right at him. That's when he started to feel real sick, clenched at his gut and fell to his knees. When Hansen woke up, everything was quiet. Sky, trees, wind, not a sound. The temperature was back to normal too,

but his hands were shaken. He was breathing, hot and fast like he'd just run a marathon. The deer vine was gone. But there was one image that circled in his mind those next two days. Something Hanson couldn't even bring himself to tell my dad. Something he tried to bury deep until it was too late. Let's get this damn bed frame out of here before we do the furniture. It's the one I've slept on ever since I was eight years old

and caught my first bluegill up here with Hanson. "'Dam bastard made me chop the head off myself. "'You kill it before it kills you. "'Now how the hell is a four-inch fish gonna do more than spine me?' "'Shute, didn't mean to squish your fingers in the doorwell. "'You heard, Eric?' "'Now, don't grunt. "'It's a simple yes or no question.

"'Well, since you asked me to tell the rest, here's what happened. "'I could hear old Hanson's voice on those phone calls with my dad. After two days straight of these Deervine visions, hallucinations, whatever you want to call them, my whole family was more than a little worried about my uncle. There was talk of getting him down to Duluth for a checkup at the VA psych unit, or some last-minute shrink appointment even out at the cabin. But we didn't want to go that route, not until we had to. It was the seventh phone call in those days that pushed my father over the edge.

Hansen just kept uttering a phrase over and over again. Yamadin. Yamadin, you better not do it. You better not. So, Dad decided we'd make the four-hour drive up to Tyndall Lake the next morning. There was no real plan for what to do once we got there. I suppose he thought of us being there might calm the old man down, even though the two of them mostly fought within 15 minutes of seeing each other.

My dad had a thing for leaving to go up north before sunrise. He made sure we packed the car that night full of kayak paddles and bug spray and fishing even though he hated fishing. That way the whole car ride was crammed. Everyone felt just as bad and tired as he did while he was driving. I remember that day. Gray gloom, bulging with clouds. Humid is all hell.

A lot like today, huh, Eric? We pulled up the dirt road. Yep, that one right there. Just a little after nine. As soon as we got near that dock, my dad slammed the brakes. The car swerved in the mud and my neck snapped forward. Hanson trundled towards us, flailing his hands, mouthing something. My dad sprung open the doors and we popped out.

My uncle's face was red, flushed. I could see his hand shaking as he pointed down to the lakefront. tried to call. Cell phone's down. It's in the lake. I made out what was a log, part of a boat torn off maybe, floating in those waters. We hurried closer. Get in the canoe, my dad yelled.

My dad, who grabbed the oars from the storage room, met me at the dock. You paddle as fast as you've ever paddled. You hear me, Jamie? You paddle like all hell. I nodded, and we both. We both jumped in. The water splashed beneath our strokes, kicked up into our faces. Dad, right, me left.

We split the water and wished towards the form and the soft waves. Like a giant starfish. Clothes. Hair. Twelve, ten, eight feet away. We could hear my uncle's voices at skimmed the water, snapped into our eardrums. The deer showed me. Showed me what would happen.

arms, legs, fingers. My dad grabbed the head, flipped it over. I've never seen a face so purple. Bloaded. The eyes rolled back in the woman's head. Eleanor, Hanson's wife. My dad put his fingers under her nose, felt for breath. Checked the pulse.

Nothing. Too much nothing. We dragged her into the boat, but there was no point, but it would have been even worse just to leave her there. We pulled back to the shore, and Uncle Hansen was screaming at my mom, pointing to the ground. Eleanor's tracks, look at the stride. She was running, and right there, behind her, four hoof prints. He was right. Two human footprints, four deer hooves. Coincidences exist, right, Eric? Coincidence far more likely. You're than some magical deer dragging a woman out of bed and drowning her.

By the time I turned around, to look for my uncle, he was jogging off into the woods, rifle in his hands, about as fast as a 63-year-old could go. Shoot, I need another beer. Thanks, Eric. Grab that gun down for me, the one hanging over the TV. That's the one he ran off into the woods with that morning. Winchester Model 70

Don't worry It's not loaded Eric Just pointing it at your sweet little face to have some fun Anyway, you like killing deer Right Eric Nah, I don't mean you get off on it I just mean you like hunting, don't you? Just a simple yes or no question

Good Then why don't you take the damn thing too Say I sure am giving away a lot today, aren't I? Guess this place is a bunch of bad memories. Besides, my hunting days are long past me. So, to answer your question, yeah, I shook. But you get this ice chest numb, not a quaking panic kind of shook feeling when you see a dead person. Hanson came back later that day and just didn't want to talk to anyone.

The police showed up shortly after my uncle really. returned and started the questioning. A few wimpers turned into tears. Tears even became sobs. Poor Uncle Hanson. Still, I can't deny there was a part of me that thought maybe. Just maybe, these Deervine legends had twisted his already messed up brain and pushed him over the edge. Made him drown his own wife. I just prayed to God I was wrong. We sat around the dinner table that night after the ambulance took her body away. Cops would be back after the autopsy. My mom whipped up some hot dish and we all shared some grain belt beers that night.

Even me at 17. It was a dinner so quiet. It was like the forks didn't even want to clank against the china. I gotta get out of here, he said, at last, hand stroking his face. Let that damn buck have his force back. Why don't you come stay with us for a while? My mom said. She looked at my dad, who gave a hesitant nod.

Brothers, they were, but that didn't mean dad wanted old Hanson crashing with us for a couple of weeks. We've got the extra room. We'll make it real comfortable for you. Take you to Martha's. You're just about the only man up north with a taste for West Indian food. Hanson chuckled. Sounds good, Nancy. If my brother will have me.

You know we will, Han. My dad said without making eye contact. He clenched his hands together, stared hard at his thumbs. We'll leave first thing tomorrow, make the funeral arrangements. I could see Hansen's bottom lip trembling, just holding back the tears. It made me and my mom tear up, too. I'll rent a place in Duluth. Sell this damn cabin, Hanson said.

Only problem is, a few weeks down in the cities won't be long enough for me to teach this girl to be a kid. killer. He punched my arm and rubbed my hair. I managed to faint smile. We went to bed early that night. I couldn't get to sleep, though, just thinking of my aunt, bloated, face like gray-blue porcelain, floating in those waters. Strange sounds came from upstairs in Uncle Hansen's room, like shuffling feet, a low, almost animal rumble, crumpled paper, words he was saying to himself. The next morning, my dad busted into my room before I could even open my eyes. Uncle Hanson's not answering his door, he said. We're going to break the lock.

Glad we had the breading to fry those bass up. Expiration date, be damned, am I right? Don't worry. I wouldn't poison you. Not for a million bucks. Anyway, sofas loaded, boxes are taped up, that'll go down to the dump. This bonfire is the way to celebrate a long day of work. Cheers. What's that?

All right. Guess I might as well tell you how it all ended. Why I got this cabin in the first place. That morning, the temperature must have dropped some 30 degrees overnight. Sky was a gray, icy chalkboard. Felt like snow was coming. Snow in August. You believe that?

I rubbed my eyes and went upstairs with my dad to Hansen's bedroom. Knocked once. Twice. Nothing. Called his name again. My father undid the screws on the door so we could get in. Father threw open the door. The first thing I saw was the covers torn clean off the mattress,

crumbled in a pile on the floor. My uncle's shirt was hanging on the ceiling fan, jeans on the nightstand. Normally, Hanson was a meticulous guy with his things. Off in the corner, I spied piles of bunched-up paper. Picked a few of them up, handed them to my dad. I didn't want to know what the old man had been writing. We opened up the first piece, but it was drawings, dozens of them.

A deer, beheaded, branches of trees stuck in its cheeks and jaws, bleeding from its neck. The drops of blood he'd drawn made snake-like shapes all over the sheet. The next paper was the same, except this one, it looked like the deer's eyes had been gouged out. Other pages, it was the tongue. On one, the edges of the paper had would look like a garland patter, the kind you'd see on a china plate.

But when I looked closer, I saw that pattern was made of words, or one word, rather, written over and over, looping all on itself so it looked like vines. Yomadin. I felt my body shaking. A chill like some raven's call rushed down my back. I may not have loved the man, but he was family after all. I put down those tears and clenched my fist.

It was time to find handsome. My father sped downstairs to tell my mom what had happened, said the three of us would split up and search the woods around for any sign of him. The cell reception wasn't working that day, so he agreed to meet back at noon if nothing turned up. Then a second round of searching, if we had to. We'd call the police if we hadn't found it by sunset. It was a plan.

We each picked a direction and headed off. I went north, right down that path there, taking about 50 steps, calling my uncle's name, 50 more steps calling my uncle's name. Went on like that for about a half an hour. By then, my throat was growing hoarse. I stopped yelling out as much. The damp sweat on my belly and back, and all that cold, made me shiver as I marched on.

Silence, except the crunch of quigs under my feet. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. I ducked under some pine branches and into a small clearing. Ten, fifteen minutes later, it was a quiltwork of dense trees and shrubs. Almost time to head back. Suddenly my foot hit a rock. My ankle snapped to one side, and I tumbled to the ground. The pain rushed up my tendon, and I grabbed at it, clenching my teeth.

Not like this. I didn't want to give up looking for him like this. There, right on the ground in front of me was a small pool of blood, blood winding west into the forest, the kind you'd find from a shot deer making its escape from a bullet that missed the lung. It was something. A possible clue. I pulled myself up and started hobbling on my sprained ankle.

I took a few gender steps forward, spikes of pain every other beat. But I followed the blood trail even when it zagged through the underbrush or dissipated into a slow dribble. I yelled for my uncle as loud as I could. Hansen! Let's get out of this place, Uncle Han? There's nothing good up here. Nothing good. Everything was real quiet.

Too quiet. The coal dropped even further. A few snowflakes fell, carried by a slow wind. Then I heard it. A wild, crackling roar maybe a hundred feet further west. Yomid it! Yamad it! Hansen! I said. Stay where you are! I sped up. The pain booming in my foot. No matter. Let the adrenaline take over. I pushed through the low brush and snapped branches as I darted towards my uncle's voice. All of a sudden, his form came into focus on the ground. He was leaning back against the trunk of a fur, holding his neck with one hand and his stomach with the other. Blood marred his fingers, guts, shoulders.

All I could feel was the rush in my body, the rush to help. I leaned in toward him. His eyes were wide, bulging as he spoke. A tree. There, in the woods. That's where the buck comes from. That's Yomadan. I looked down and saw his stomach, punctured with what looked like three sharp bones.

His flannel shirt wet with blood. I did my best to hide my shaking hands, to steady my wobbling voice. You're not doing so good, Han. We got to get you to the cabin. His eyes were distant. Like a man who's trying to make out a shape in a cloud. I tracked the buck for two hours. Hiding.

Sneaking up. Army crawling behind him. Then he gets to that tree. Start shimmering. Like water splashing in the sun. And fades right into it. Disappears. We got to get you something for your wounds.

Now. I tried yaking him up from his armpits, but he wouldn't bunch. I tried to get him. again, and the pain shot through my foot. I bit my lip to stop myself from swearing. The blood seeped from him, faster than I thought blood could. I'm telling you the truth, Janie, he snapped. Then, his face shaking, he moved into a whisper. Soon as the buck disappeared, I heard a voice, booming like a million thunder clouds. It was the name. the name of that tree the name of whatever cursed earth spirit spreads itself through the forest becomes leaf and bone and flesh in that deer yamadan yamuddin

as he spoke this last word his eyes dropped shut his hand slipped from his neck and went limp there i could see a deep serrated cunt maybe the wit of my forefinger across The chainsaw. So he'd gone out to kill the deer vine once and for all. But something had happened, whirring blade to the neck in all of his mad ravings. I slumped down and covered my face with my hands. Felt the wet, warm puddle of tears collecting in the lines of my palms. No pulse.

No breath. So much nothing. As his hand slid off his gut, I saw a dozen other puncture wounds. What I thought were something like bones sticking out of him were something else. Something I couldn't believe. The broken off antlers of a buck. All right. Just about time to put out those coals, don't you think?

Crazy how that ember hit your coat. Could have been second-degree burns, you know. Anyway, you have someone who can patch it up for you, Eric? What do you mean, not sure? It's a simple... Well, you know the rest. Anyway, we must have downed what, ten beers apiece today? It'll be worth the hangover to have all the packing wrapped up.

Thanks for all your help. Just so ready to sell this place and move on. See, the deed went to my dad and, well, he thought it'd make a good graduation gift since he swore he'd never come back to Tyndale Lake again. We put my aunt and uncle in the ground about a week later. Autopsy said Eleanor's drive. Growning showed no signs of found plague. My uncle, massive blood loss from a chainsaw wound.

Then he probably fell on the antlers on the ground, coroner said. Bad luck, but not what did him in. Me and my parents told the police he was exactly the kind to play fast and loose with power tools. All the other stuff, we just kept quiet about over the next few years. To this day. But I know what you're thinking. Was the tree real? Well, why don't I show you, Eric?

Let you decide for yourself. It's getting colds tonight, too, isn't it? Strange. Temperature must have dropped 40, 50 degrees, just like that. Clouds out there look like snow. Snow in August, I tell you. Coincidences are the darndest thing. Keep walking, Eric.

It's just a ways up here. Maybe one more minute. I ever tell you what I've felt since I started spending time up here, Eric? That tree has a way of making you feel certain things. Like maybe my uncle should have never felt that first pine, let alone the 10th or 20th. Makes you feel how the loons and the squirrels, even the damn bass at the bottom of the lake, need those trees for shade, for life. That it's there forest, not ours.

You ever feel anything from a tree? and all your days out on the job? Simple, yes or no question, Eric. Here it is now. Over times, I get a vision of a man with a chainsaw in his hand, surrounded by 20 bucks. White and purple ones, covered in vines and twigs, all of them. Their heads bowed, antlers pointed at his belly.

How that man raised the chainsaw above his head. how his arms froze, even while that chainsaw kept revving. Then the bucks approached. They gave him a chance to stop building the cabins, didn't they? To give the forest back, saw how the first buck snapped its head, drove the tip of its antlers right into the old man's belly. Then the next buck, a shank to the intestines. The others rushed in, frenzied, gorged him through.

through and the chainsaw fell tore right through the flesh of Hansen's neck i saw how he hobbled away let the trail of blood right to the point where i found him yamuddin showed me see yes eric those are deers surrounding us surrounding you one night yamudin showed me something else my own severed head rolling from the cabin doorway down into the river. That would have been my future if I didn't do right by Yamadin. So I made this here tree a little deal. I promised that I wouldn't be like Hansen. I'd stop the carnage in these woods. I could even bring Yomiden others. The Mathers and the Stevenson's were the first. A few tourists the cops still haven't found buried deep underground near the border. Loggers, developers, clear cutters, all of them. Tell me, you ever seen a tree like that? That beautiful white hide of bark?

That purple strip down its side. It's a simple yes or no question. Don't cry, Eric. Really? You're not a bad guy overall. Should be those bastards up top who own the company, right? You didn't do anything wrong chopping down all those trees, did you? It's a simple yes or no question.

The bucks are getting closer, Eric. Their antlers sparkle almost in the moonlight, don't they? The soft falling summer snow. But tell me, do you think they're sharp enough to kill? It's a simple yes or no question. A simple yes or no question. No question. Next up, a man warns a seeker of a haunted playground where lost children exist in silence,

and those who go searching for it never return. From writer John Reed, Creepy Presents, Where the Dead Children Play. I know where the dead children play. I wish I could unknow it, but I can't. And now, God help me. You're about to know it too. Are you sure you want to go through with this? I really wish you'd change your mind.

No? Maybe you'll feel different if you hear a little background. Oh, I know. You think you already know everything. Let me tell you, you don't. Maybe this will help you to think differently. Perhaps you'll find some common sense in these words and turn around. Please don't look at me.

like that. I don't look at the waitress. She knows to give us our space. Just enjoy your coffee. You don't like coffee? Well, then I can't help you, can I? So listen, I don't know you. I don't know what your favorite baseball team is,

or if your favorite celebrity is, or if you prefer pasta or steak or avocado toast. But it doesn't matter. You're my family. my human family. And if they get a hold of you, well, you won't be. You'll become something else.

Not something more. Something much less. Something much darker. You won't be us anymore. You'll be them. And I don't want that. Because I've seen them. I don't want that for you.

I don't want that for you. I don't want that for anybody. Enough hedging. Okay, friend. I'll show you the spot, but only because you'll eventually find out somewhere. Maybe from someone who doesn't care as much as I do. But first, you have to indulge an old man and listen.

I don't know how it started. And I sincerely doubt anyone else does either. Maybe that playground is just a thin spot. in the fabric or reality. Maybe it sits atop an old Indian burial ground or the town was cursed by an ancient witch. Who knows? All I know is that the first of the dead children predate my generation. And they certainly predate yours.

Some are dressed in a fashion that hasn't seen the light of day in well over a hundred years. If you care to look, you'll see clothes that might have been made by a pioneer family. and others that probably come from the Sears and Robo catalog. There's a good amount of faded gingham. Lots of denim overalls. I think one even wears some sort of buckskin. That's all what you'd expect out of a good ghost story, though, isn't it? Maybe less what you'd expect is the Care Bears jumper

or the Mighty Morphan Power Rangers shirt. One pretty little thing that used to be a boy is wearing an eyes-odd shirt. I swear. And, of course, there's that one little pink dress. There's also a tiara, albeit some more crooked on the head. And even a glittery wand with a star on the end. Yes, yes. That's the outfit little Susie Parker was wearing.

I see the light in your eyes. That's why you're here, isn't it? Of course it is. That kind of reward money is. a powerful motivator. The problem is you think you'll find her, but you won't. Not really. You'll find a creature that looks like her, but it's not her.

I promise you that thing is not Susie Parker. It's not even a child. It's not even human. A ghost? Maybe. But it's something more than that. Where is this place, you ask? Oh, it's close by.

Patience, my good man, patience. I'll show you, because why wouldn't I? But you'll need to leave me your car keys and some directions about your estate first. You think I'm being overly dramatic? Sure. But the price of my story is you giving me instructions for your next-of-kin. Take it or leave it. These documents seem to be fine.

It's your funeral, as they say. But I don't say it because doesn't a funeral require a body? Of course it does. And yours will never be found. Stalling again? Yes, I suppose I am. How about some more coffee? No.

Okay, then. Let me tell you how I found it. and then we can go there together. How does that sound? Good. I thought you'd approve. It was about ten years ago, I suppose, that I stumbled on the abandoned playground

when I was out for a walk near the railroad tracks. There's a little cul-de-sac, see, where the houses end, but the roads keep going. At the end's a little walkway into the woods. So, how to place. How could I resist exploring? It was a hot day, too. Too hot for any good exercise.

So I was just meandering. Path into the woods appealed to my sense of adventure. I don't mind telling you, though. Did after about five steps in? I questioned my decision. Five steps. That's all it took for the temperature to drop a good ten degrees. I thought I was cracking up, so I walked back into the cul-de-sac.

Temperature went back immediately to its blazing summer norm, five steps back down the path, and the coolness set in. Not a pleasant coolness either. There was no mild summer breeze. This was a wet, clammy cold, unnatural in the best of circumstances. It was so out of place here that I felt my equilibrium being tested. Yet I walked on. No, we are not the same.

We are not. I was not looking to solve the great mystery of the century or make money or get famous. I was looking for a diversion. Frankly, whatever you're looking for is ghoulish and leading you to an end. You can't even imagine. After about 20 paces, the path turned and I could no longer see the cul-de-sac. I gave serious thought to turning around then, frankly, what to God that I did, but I didn't. Of course I didn't.

I was being drawn in, I suppose, though I certainly didn't recognize it at the time. Twenty more paces, and I couldn't hear traffic or birds or wildlife. I was cocooned in a preternatural silence, 20 more paces, and I found a shoe. It was a red converse lying on its side, unlaced. Just one. Who leaves one shoe behind if I'd been a bit more up to date on my local events? I would have clocked the fact that little Logan Whitman had disappeared a few months earlier. Wearing?

You guessed it. Red Converse shoes. But my ignorance was bliss. So on I walked. A final 20 paces revealed the playground. in all its morbid glory. The swing said, a slide, merry-go-round, a jungle, gym, and a teeter-totter.

Rusted, crooked, abandoned. It was clear that no child had visited this playground for a very long time, or so I thought. I stood there in that strange midsummer cold, looking at the most unnatural playground I have ever seen. You know how you can look at old places and imagine them in their heyday? Happy people taking full advantage of whatever you're looking at.

This playground was not like that. All I could see was darkness, even in the noonday sun. Darkness both spiritual and physical. You laugh? Well, I suppose I don't blame you. This playground has not been touched by a living child in at least five years. I thought to myself. And for once I was right.

The key word here being living. But no matter how you slice it, there was something compelling about the place. Who builds a playground in the middle of nowhere? Who abandons a perfectly good playground? Where are the children? Where are the squirrels and the birds, for that matter? I needed answers. Or at least I thought, I needed answers.

Really, I was just curious and titillated with a mystery. I wish I would have walked away right then and there and forgotten that God-forsaken place. I didn't, though, did I, since here we are today. So I left that day. I walked back past the darkness, past the red shoe, back into the sunlight and warm temperatures. I stopped for a moment and look back. It was as if there was some sort of invisible wall separating two very different worlds right here. I had to know more.

I came back at sundown. You know how in every horror movie there's some idiot who consistently makes the worst decisions and ignores every proper instinct a human being should have? That was me. But it felt like a story, you know? And I'm a wannabe writer. How could I pass up a good story? I could already see the title.

The Forgotten Play Place. Where have all the children gone? I could have written it. Thinking that way, it was a bad decision, of course. Going back for research, that was a much worse decision. But this isn't a story about good decision-making. If it was, you wouldn't be asking,

and I wouldn't be telling. Anyway, as I was saying, I returned later that same day as dusk began to settle in. Strangely, the playground was the exact same temperature at night as it was during the day. Still silent, still just wrong. As wrong as a place can be. The hair stood up on my arms and the back of my neck as I watched the light slip away from the godless horizon before me, then a swing started moving. Just one swing, and just a little bit, at first

anyways. Soon, two swings were moving in syncopated rhythm, no breeze nor visible means propulsion at hand. What the hell? I remember thinking to myself. How could I have known that this was just a warm-up act? And the real show hadn't even started yet from the far end. From the far end. of the park, a figure emerged from between two bushes. It's worth noting that there's nothing on the other side of that playground but dense woods and somewhere back there, the railroad track. Yet a young boy walked into the tableau just the same. He's probably about eight or nine years old, wearing dungarees.

Dungarees, for God's sake. And the gingham shirt. If he saw me, he gave no indication. occasion. Instead, he walked to the slide and started silently ascending the ladder. A moment later, he rode down the silver chute soundlessly. Are you listening to me? Silently. That boy made no sound. There was no sound of joy, no sound of laughter, no scream of delight or terror. There was simply nothing. Once he reached the ground, He looked up at the slide's summit for a moment.

Then again, he noiselessly ascended. In the woods, two girls entered the scene, hand in hand. The girl on the left looked like an extra from Little House on the Prairie, whilst the girl on the right wore T-shirt proclaiming her love of the Backstreet Boys. Despite their differences, they approached the swing sat and locked step. Pioneer girl turned to look at me, and I tell you, my blood froze. brother, it was ice.

Her expression remained neutral, but the sensation of being seen set my nerves on fire. I was ready to bolt, but my feet seemed rooted to the ground. Pioneer girl turned a look at Backstreet Girl for a second, and then they turned back to the swing set. Pioneer Girl reached out her hand,

and the chain leapt into her hand. Backstreet did the same. with the same results. Wordlessly, soundlessly. They sat down and began slowly swinging back and forth. Behind them, the young boy once again climbed the slide. I felt a wet spot growing in my pants. I'm ashamed to say it, see, but I want you to understand the sensation

that being in their presence brings wanted to run. I wanted out. I'd rather be sitting in the dentist's chair getting a rook canals, sins anesthesia. But instead, had somehow been appointed to observe this tableau. Three other children appeared. One was wearing one red shoe. They all took their places on or around the playground equipment.

Without a noise, they enacted this pantomime of play. There was no joy. Do you see? It was like they were doing what children were supposed to be doing, but I can't. can't emphasize this enough. They were not children. These things were just a grotesque fabrication of what it meant to be human. So they played, according to what one could call play if one had never seen a child before in their life.

They swung, they slid, they climbed, and not one of them made a sound. even the equipment, which was manifestly rusty, made not a squeak nor rattle. And there I stood, a mute witness to something no man was ever meant to see. After about an hour they started to leave one by one until it was just me and Pioneer Girl left. She had her back turned to me. I held my breath until I was sure I was going to pass out. Finally she turned to me And that was really the first good look I got at her face

What to God I never would have had this opportunity It's the eyes, you see Where the eyes should have been there was Nothing Only blackness At least that's what I thought at first But slowly I could see something that resembled spinning circles of fire That's the best I can explain it.

You know how the old-time hypnotist would have some sort of charm like a watch or a necklace. They would make you fall under their spell? Well, let me tell you, brother, whatever the mesmerous have doesn't hold a candle to that damn eye fire. It spins, it turns, it reaches out to you. It calls you in. I can see you don't believe me. Well, why would you? Why would any same person believe this load of clap trap?

Best if you just file this is the ramblings of a crazy man and walk away. Oh, now, you're listening? Fine. Where were we? Oh, yes, pioneer girl and eyes made a fire. She reached her hand out to me. It was a gesture I've seen a thousand times. Any child feels safe having a trusted adult Hold their hands

So they'll reach their hand out and take theirs Just as natural as the sun rising in the east In truth be told My hand reached out halfway to hers Before my warning bell started ringing A moment passed where we simply looked at each other My eyes reflecting panic Her eyes

Reflecting Hellfire Then I ran God help me I ran like the coward I am. I ran until I got home and stopped, but in my heart, I think I'm running still. Then I did the full thing, the thing that brought you here today.

I went to the old English tavern, and I blabbed everything I had seen. Usually no problem, right? No harm, no foul. How's I didn't know there was a real feature writer for an out-of-town newspaper there that night. Well, I guess I don't need to tell you and change my life,

and not for the better. Since then, there's been a handful of people like you who look me up, wanting me to show them where the dead children play. Mostly it's just morbid curiosity. There's some we're trying to cash in on reward money for what happened to some of those lost children.

The worst, though, the very worst, are the parents who are hoping against us. hope to regain the child, they know is dead and gone. Have these people never read Stephen King? This type of thing never works out well. In these past ten years, I've shown a half dozen people the location. You know how many of them are still alive to tell the tale?

Yep. You're right. None. Each one was cocky or desperate enough to think that they would be the one to one to earn the reward or save the children or perhaps drown their grief forever. All I know is that I'm left with a detritus of each vain attempt. I hide their cars. I contact their loved ones.

I fabricate a story that makes more sense than a haunted playground that doubles as a graveyard. So tell me, what can I do to dissuade you from this path you're set on? Will you take money? since that seems to be what's motivating you. I have $20,000 in savings. It's yours if you walk away right now and never speak of this again. Deal?

Deal? No deal, huh? It's your funeral then, friend. Actually, I guess it's not, since as I sat there will be no funeral. Just a lot of paperwork and tears from your loved ones, you selfish get. I went back once more. Can I tell you that?

Yeah. It was after I led her particularly distraught mother to the head of the path. I suppose that I somehow agreed with her that the nightmare in the cul-de-sac might somehow be better than the nightmare she lived with every day of being a mother of a child missing and presumed dead. Had I seen her child? She begged me in tears.

A little brown-haired girl was last seen wearing a backstreet boy's shirt while I showed her the way, but I didn't stay for the reunion. Why? Because I'm a coward. That's why. But I'm a curious coward. I had to know if she had found her peace, and maybe, just maybe. Mother and daughter had shuffled off this mortal coil together and found a place that could spend eternity together.

So, more fool me, I returned a couple of days later at sunset to the cursive playground to see what it transpired. The children came out. Not in the same mortar as the first time, and there was an extra child or two. But other than that, everything was the same, almost everything. After all the children were out of the playground, monitors showed up and took their places on the periphery. I recognized them, each and every one, that I had shown the location of the haunted playground. They just did like sentinels watching over where the dead children play. But that's not quite true, is it?

How can you watch when you have no eyes? Only a spinning fire in your eye sockets. And the desperate mom? Oh, she was there. But she didn't even look at Backstreet Girl. Backstreet girl didn't look at her. Again, when they went to leave, Pioneer girl walked up to me and extended her hand.

I ran again, and I swore I would never go back. And I haven't. Now you know all I do. Is there any way that you can be persuaded to just leave? Any way? No? Okay. Go ahead and give me your keys done.

No? I'm not interested in shaking your hand. I'm not doing you any favors. I'm damning you to an uncertain eternity, you fool. If that's it, then I suppose you might as well follow me. I won't be going down the path, but I'll show you where it is. I'd wish you good luck. But instead, I'll just say goodbye.

You poor man, may God have mercy on your soul. May God have mercy on your soul. mercy on mine, too. I know where the dead children play. I wish I could unknow it, but I can't. And now, God help me. You're about to know it too. Are you sure you want to go through with this?

I really wish you'd change your mind. No? Maybe you'll feel different if you hear a little background. Oh, I know. You think you already know everything. Let me tell you, you don't. Maybe this will help you to think differently. Perhaps you'll find some common sense in these words and turn around.

Please don't look at me like that. I don't look at the waitress. She knows to give us our space. Just enjoy your coffee. You don't like coffee? Well, then I can't help you, can I? So listen, I don't know you. I don't know what your favorite baseball team is or if your favorite celebrity is or if you prefer pasta or steak or avocado toast.

But it doesn't matter. You're my family. My human family. And if they get a hold of you, well, you won't be. You'll become something else. Not something more. Something much less. Something much darker.

you won't be us anymore. You'll be them. And I don't want that. Because I've seen them. I don't want that for you. I don't want that for anybody. Enough hedging. Okay, friend.

I'll show you the spot. But only because you'll eventually find out somewhere. Maybe from someone who doesn't care as much as I do. But first, you have to indulge an old man and listen. And finally, in Clyde, New Hampshire, teens vanish every October 1st, leaving only pools of blood behind. Years later, the truth emerges. From writer Kathleen Wallach, and narrated by Megan McDuffie, creepy presents, The Last Town on Earth. On October 1st, 1965, 16-year-old Jeremy Boyd was murdered and his father's chest.

general store in the almost non-existent town of Clyde, New Hampshire. They never found his body, but the blood that was left on the uneven wooden floor, well, it was too much for anyone to survive without it. He was in the stockroom, stacking crates of maple syrup when he vanished, leaving behind a pool of blood about five feet wide. The police were completely stumped, no evidence of forced entry or anything to indicate a struggle. Even the glass bottles of maple syrup were all intact, but Jeremy was never found. After a month of fruitless searching, Mr. and Mrs. Boyd had a funeral for Jeremy, and everyone in town turned up, food in hand, to the repast at the Boyd's house. The folding tables set up in the Boyd's living room creaked under the weight of casseroles and deviled eggs, and the town began to move on.

Stories swirled, of course. Perhaps Mr. Boyd accidentally killed Jeremy by knocking something on top of him when they were moving inventory in the stockroom and panicked. Maybe Jeremy ran away and didn't want to be found. But for the most part, the residents of Clyde did what New Hampshire folks are famous for and minded their own damn business. Mr. and Mrs. Boyd ended up closing the general store and moving to Florida. Nobody ever heard from them again, and the boys, along with their store and their tragedy, were forgotten.

Until October 1, 1966, another Clyde resident, Cynthia Lane, was preparing breakfast in her kitchen when she heard her daughter's scream upstairs. Mrs. Lane ran up the stairs, nearly slipping in the process, and burst into her daughter's room to find a pool of blood and nothing else. The following year, it happened to the Ramirez family. Their son Bobby vanished while he was working on his car in the garage. The next year, it was Jenny Green. One a year. Always October 1st. Always 16-year-olds, and all in Clyde, New Hampshire.

By summer, 1969, the whole town was in a panic. The story had even creeped into national news, and Clyde became something of an urban legend. In August, the Grosyne, the Grosyne was in a panic. gruesome Manson family murders forced everyone's attention out west and the disappearing children of Clyde were forgotten. The small police force continued to be no help as each year, families anxiously held their breath and parents kept their teen children in their sight until midnight. Families, believing the town to be cursed, began migrating out of Clyde, with many leaving

New Hampshire altogether. By 1971, the town had seven disappearances on their hands, The trouble was, with no bodies or any evidence of foul play, law enforcement could only do so much. This was at a time when it wasn't unusual for a trouble, or just plain bored teen to hitch a ride out west. Police Chief Capri tried to reason the blood puddles away as satanic rituals these kids are into these days, and even lied to at least two sets of parents,

claiming the blood was likely from an animal. The truth was the department was overwhelmed and wasn't getting any help from the surrounding counties. He just needed a break. The parents of the last teen to vanish were Mr. and Mrs. Hull. They had just sold their house and were about to move to Connecticut when their daughter, Angela, convinced her parents to let her go on one last date with her boyfriend Larry. It was September 30th, and they were set to drive off in the morning, so they figured Angela would be safe if Larry didn't let her out of his sight.

At some point, on her way from Larry's car to her front door, Angela disappeared into thin air. Unlike the other parents, the hulls had means, but all the independent investigations in the world still couldn't produce their daughter, just as all their calls for Capri to be replaced as police chief fell on deaf, resourceless ears. After the disappearance of Angela Hull, the last remaining families with children under the age of 19 left Clyde, and it started to look and feel like an actual ghost town. Capri even got a few calls from frazzled mothers who claimed to have seen their missing daughter or son for just a moment outside a coffee shop window or passing them on the street. Funny thing was, the kid always disappeared within seconds.

1972 was the first year where no disappearances were reported in Clyde. Capri felt better sweet on October 2nd of that year. He took himself out to the diner, across from the dilapidated police station, and ordered himself a piece of cherry pie. Capri settled into the booth, withdrew a cigarette, and looked around the aging diner. He noted how many waiters and waitresses there were, even though he was the only customer. A young, blonde. waitress placed his pie in front of him and knocked twice on the counter. Capriene nearly had a heart attack when he looked up to see Angela Hull staring at him. But she looked different. Her skin was tinted blue and there was a large gash on her neck. Why did you kill us? Priest sputtered and shook in the

booth. Angela? Is that you? Blinked and in Angela's place was Martha, the usual waitress who worked nights. Who the hell is Angela? I'm telling you, Capri, it's time to retire. Pree took a deep breath and tried to focus on lowering his heart rate. He knew this job was going to kill him. When he looked back up, there was only Martha moving around the empty tables. They're going to find out, Capri. Capri gasped as an icy hand grasped his wrist. He looked up to see an angry Bobby Ramirez staring at him. His heart Thumped so hard he could feel it in his eyes. Once more, Capri blinked, and once more, the diner was empty, except for Martha,

who was muttering to herself about how filthy the tables were. Capri, shaking and covered in cold sweat, felt around in his pockets for the key to the shack where all the children who vanished now resided. His heart was in his throat as he placed the key on the table, wondering what in the hell he was going to do. It's time to go, Capri. Jeremy Boyd appeared in the booth directly across from the beleaguered police chief and smile. The wound on his neck where Capri let all the blood spill out onto the floor of his father's store,

looked as fresh as it did the day Capri gave it to him all those years ago. Capri managed one last gasp before falling face forward into his last meal, barely touched Cherry Pie. Martha didn't even notice until his still-lit cigarette singed his skin enough to produce an odor. The key was recovered from the table, but none of the other police officers had any

idea what it could possibly go to until a rookie noticed fresh blood and brown hair on it. Weeks later, a lab returned the hair comparison results, and the police learned that the hair on the key was likely from Jeremy Boyd.

By now, the police had found priest's shack where the bodies of all the children were mummified. Parents were contacted and some form of closure was reached, but the one thing the police could never figure out was how that air managed to stay on the key or where the fresh blood came from. 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.