Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep27: Episode 27: The Beast in the Forest

Episode Date: April 29, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/ Our opening tale of terror this evening is ‘The Council of the Black Woods’ by the wonderfully talented Ryan Brennaman, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/31 Our second captivating story is ''Every night armed thieves come to our village; one night they stopped coming'', an original work by Aralmin, again kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/Aralmin/ Our third fantastic offering is ‘Have you ever heard of the Childhood Psychopathy Diagnostic Observation Scale?’, an original work by Queezy Panda, also kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/queezypanda/ Our penultimate terrifying tale of horror is ‘The Doll’, an original story By UnaCumMachina, once more kindly shared with me and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/UnaCumMachina/ We round off this evening’s entertainment with ''I Found a Box of Letters in my Dead Parents' House" by the very talented Logan966, also kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: https://www.reddit.com/user/Logan966/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon of the world. It shows us that the control we think we have is but an illusion, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion. Five tales of terror for you this evening, and we begin with the Council of the Black Woods by Ryan Brennam. Now before we begin, as always, a word of caution.

Tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. There's a calling among the woods, whispered among the whispers of the midnight breeze. A calling, hushed and wary, that beckons to a cabin settled within the snowy mountains, at a lowly place surrounded by a mob of white furs and pines. A dreary shack, with walls of rotten full of holes. A truck sits idle outside, its engine cold and its cab empty.

Headlights flicker, their strength wavering in long, struggling breaths that dance across the west side of the cabin. A snow shovel rests on the porch. A cool crimson creeps down its handle, dripping into the snow. Although the blinds are closed tightly and both the front and back doors are locked shut, they can't conceal the sounds, the horrors committed within that house. The sharp scraping of a table's feet against a naked wood floor A deep, throaty moan, indistinguishable of pleasure or pain

And a wet sound, almost reminiscent of pigs feeding from within a trough All of this, over the light cackling sounds of a gentle, healthy fire These sounds continue for some time They are ravenous, feasting sounds As the wind blows through the trees, blowing snowflakes into flight, gifting the dark with their chilling splendor, the noises start to falter.

They fade and the snow drifts towards the ground, falling between the dark. It is then, in that silence, that the whispering quickens, hastening to utter a lonely name. They beckon, they call Dakota Black. The front door flies open,

and the man, Dakota Black, stumbled onto the porch, melting the snow beneath his fingertips with a warmth of blood, his and someone else's. It covers his arms and hands, his chest and his face. It encompasses his mouth, smeared like jam. His sin sticks between his teeth, and he leaves the porch like a drunkard, barely managing to grab onto the snow shovel before he does so. He trips over his own shame and fear, landing face first into the fresh snow. He lets the shovel lie. Lights into him like a hundred greedy mouths, but he doesn't care. He shudders, but not from the cold.

He is afraid because he is watched. He is afraid because they are here too soon. The whistling he hears is not the wind, but the breathing and wheezing of ancient, frigid nostrils. He needs not see them to know. This isn't how he envisioned their meeting, and he isn't happy. Still, he prostrates himself, face down in the snow. He spreads out his arms and legs. He is vulnerable, but he's left unharmed. He rises, as they allow, but only to his knees. In frightful reverence, he keeps himself humble before them. for the council of the black woods.

He knows their true names, but he doesn't dare think it. He buries the thorn in his mind, buries it deep, beyond the hope of light. There's only one which sees initially, but he knows there is not only one. It exists like a nightmare,

unfitting for the physical world. It's faceless, skinless, its skull like their head of a deer sits atop broad shoulders. It doesn't shine in the moonlight. It's grey like winter, hollow. The rest of its form hidden behind a nightmare cloak crafted of skin, human skin. Human faces torn and stitched together like the patches of a quilt. From within the heavy cloak a skeletal hand emerges, gesturing forth.

And the terrible whispering said to it. him, never was he to respond. How? He has not a clue as to whether the creature before him mock or whether it was a simple inquiry. His rage has decided for him. Adrenaline seizes his hands, and he pulls clumps of grass from beneath the pool of snow. And he screams. He screams into the night, releasing his pain, his guilt, his fear into the frozen scar. He frees his hands and brings them to his face, feeling it as though he were blind. He rounds his cheeks and pinches his ears. He claws at his nose, and his fingertips glide across his chap lips.

He is unchanged. He is Dakota. That isn't good enough. Why? he asks. Born of the ink in the woods, the council board. bleed into the night. Dakota beholds them with a horrid, wanting lust. Such a horrid majesty, he thinks, his eyes feasting upon them. What splendid variety? A beast scampers across the ground. It's naked, like a man, but it is so clearly not. Spikes blister the skin, particularly down its

spinal column. Its fang jaws hang agape. and not by choice. It is seemingly broken, rendered useless. The torn flesh by the corners of its mouth seemed to confirm that theory. Like an ape, it clings low to the earth, only stopping every so often to re-adjust its damaged jaw. It looks young. Another creeps out on stilt-like legs, walking forward on all fours. Pairs of antlers sprout all the way from the base of its human skull, across its sloping

shoulders and across its mud-caged backside. Its true face hides behind an emotionless white mask. Dense branches snap like frail kindling as one behemoth emerges from the woods. Snow nearly invisible as it falls across its matted white fur. As tall as the shack and with a girth as wide as his truck, it stood indomitable above all the rest, red eyes blazing. One hangs from within the trees, clinging to the bark with all four arms. Its eyes glitter yellow like feted stars. Another looks like a wildebeest, or perhaps a buffalo, that learned to stand on two legs. It clambers through the snow on bulky legs with harm, so long they graze the snow. Its eyes, like those of a shark, solid, ebony and unfeeling.

Why so many? he asks. I all wanted to see Another creeps low Body of tattered Rotting fur Another stalks the perimeter Only its hooved legs are visible Its torso is covered by the black

And then There's the one that steps out of the cabin From behind Dakota He wants to rise But he knows he can't He restrains himself even as the thing Towers over him His face used to be human

they all used to be human it dropped something beside him before returning to the council something heavy blood splatters red constellations across an ivory sky it's the other man a large portly man glazed brown eyes

his gut torn asunder as if ravaged by wild dogs the young one the one with the broken jaw starts whimpering. It's anxious, gaunt and hungry. It slavours red.

Dakota no longer pays attention, not to the council. He drools as well. The body. His sin has been returned to him. Perhaps as another chance. If the council watching, he feeds once more. He shreds, tears,

pries without remorse, without care. He does so until his body betrays him And the pain in his lungs is too great He feels like he's drowning in dry air He coughs in a fit Spraying blood He falls over Hoping this is it

He hopes the pain he feels inside is no longer the cancer He wonders if, now You'll start to change But normality is restored He can breathe again through an aching throat. He hates it. His body feels like dying, but he will not allow it. Through great heaving breaths, he rises from the ground, daring to stand before them. It's an insolence that riles the council, all of them showing physical signs and sounds of disgust,

except for the one in the cloak of faces. What do you want from me? he shouts at them, arms outstretched. It has become too much for the young one, impatient and inexperienced to bear. He lunges forward, ready to devour, but Dakota doesn't hesitate. The shovel is lifted from the snow and the broad, metal head meets the creature in its gut. Dakota angles the hit downwards, delivering the beast to the frozen earth. There, it flails only for a minute before Dakota brings the shovel down again. and again.

The beast cries for help, but none of the others assist it. They're intrigued. They watch, time and time again. With furious screams, Dakota brings the metal shovel to the creature's pale flesh. Spikes snap like bone, but Dakota decides it's not enough. The shovel isn't heavy enough to do real damage, so he starts stabbing, slicing with the shovel's thin, sharp edge. It isn't hard to cut into the creature's paper-like flesh.

It wails, and the shovel breaks. Dakota doesn't stop. He beats the creature with what's left, clubbing him with the shattered staff. His screaming doesn't die even as he starts stabbing the quickly fading beasts with the splintering edges of the handle. He stabs and stabs, long after the creature has stopped moving.

panting he looks to the others uncaring for their silence what more do you want he asks his legs feeling weak what more could you possibly need you really want this he feels the terminal pain rising in his chest the air of poison my dad told me the tales he mutters he told me told me what he told me what he were cost immortality. What cost? Dakota looks at the mangled corpse. He has fed. A great, great cost for desperate man. The creature in the cloak of faces steps forward, moving lightly across the snow. The others around the perimeter seemed to do the opposite. They retreat backwards, just a hair, just a step. The one with the one with the one. the cloak stands not a meter from Dakota's face, and although it has no eyes, Dakota knows it can't look away. It is confused. It is scared, and Dakota doesn't know why. He hears it whisper, from somewhere within the cloak is the cost of desperate men, a ticket for a spirit to enter,

to turn and mold a degraded body and a weakened soul that has partaken in the unforgivable, It's ever an irreparable connection between vessel and spirit. Only when weakened can a soul, can a body be properly moulded. Dakota takes a step closer, daring to stand face to face. Are you saying, I'm not worthy? The creature tilts its head. You are. Dakota swallows his fear.

Well, then why? because you are strong. Dakota can't stop shaking. His fists clench. I need to be one of you, he demands. Make me one of you. One of us, it asks. Say it.

The creature rounds him, moving around him clockwise. It whispers, What do you want us to make you? He gasps as he says it. as the creature places its skeletal palms upon his shoulders. Wendigo, the night pauses, the wind dies, the moon dims in the sky, the council has faded, all except for the one that whispers in his ear. The cloak opens wide, and before he can say a word, Dakota is pulled inside into the black.

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every night armed thieves come to our village. One night they stop coming. By Aralmen. I live in a village in a small country in Eastern Europe. The area is very rural, mostly farms and houses. To the distance you can see a mountain range and to the opposite side is the highway.

Our area has never been developed. every cause of the government to fix the infrastructure goes to deaf ears. There aren't any streetlights and most of the houses are connected by gravel roads, which I suppose is an improvement to the dirt roads we used to have. I suppose partly the fact that the area is unheard of and partly the fact that it's remote and partly the fact that no one is armed is what made the place enticing to thieves. I live with my family and a small house.

There are five of us, my parents and my siblings. Everyone in the village knows each other, but I am only close to four of them. One night while I was helping my family with farm work outside, it was getting dark and I could hear shouting and yelling a little ways off. I wondered what the commotion was about. A little bit later, one of my close neighbours, John, was running and shouting, saying thieves had come and taken his livestock. So a group of us had gathered with whatever improvised weapons we could get

and headed to John's property. All we could find was a broken fence and empty pens. After this incident, nothing happened for the next few days, and we hoped it wouldn't happen again. We were very wrong. I was about to go to sleep on one particular night when I heard sounds outside. I went outside to see what was happening,

and I could see not too far off on one of the neighbour's houses there were four dark silhouettes. It appeared like they were carrying something. I went back outside, and I went to wait my family. All of them were groggy and annoyed that I'd woken them. I told them to stop making noise, because the thieves had returned.

They all got up, especially my dad, and went to find a shovel as we all huddled next to the window to see what was happening. Suddenly we saw a shadow pass by the window, and it sent a chill. up my spine. It was one of the robbers and he was armed. He was dressed in all black, including

a balaclava to cover the face and was carrying a rifle. We watched helplessly as he looked around going from house to house. He stopped at one of the houses in motion with his arm as several others dressed in the same manner and armed came to the spot. We saw them hauling several items, mostly garden decorations and also a few chickens. When they left, we could see in the distance some lights turning off and heading towards the highway. After this incident, it just became a regular occurrence. Sometimes they would come every night, sometimes they would come every few days.

We called the police. When they showed up, they'd stay a while, but then leave. They didn't know who was doing it, but they couldn't afford to stay there for long. we asked them desperately if they could leave patrols in the area every night. It would only be a matter of time before they broke into someone else's house. We called anyone we could. News agencies, investigative reporters, anyone in the media just so we could get word of what was happening. Finally, someone came from one of the investigative journalism shows on TV to report on the area.

They interviewed the people and told us that they would go and... and asked the police department about the thefts. We thanked them, as we told them that they had been the only ones to try and help us, and no one else was bothered. Some of us suspected that the local police themselves were involved. We didn't know what to do, but when we began to organise ourselves and were post-centries throughout the village, they had let us know if the thieves were there.

We also began to fortify the houses with whatever we could, to keep the thieves at least from coming in. Things, though, went back to usual as the thieves kept coming back. This time we saw that they were trying to break into our next-door neighbor's house, belonged to Mark, one of our close neighbours, is directly across from us. We were scared.

They tried with whatever they could to break the door, but nothing was working. Mark had barricaded all his doors. Then one of them aimed at the door with his rifle, and fired several rounds and then continued to try to break in but it wasn't budging. He put something really tough in place

and finally they gave up they looked around and saw our house we prayed they wouldn't come but they did they did the same thing trying to knock down our door they didn't know it but days earlier me and my siblings

had helped our dad brick up the doors so if they tried to break the door all that will be waiting for them would be a brick wall they tried everything they could but nothing was working frustrated the thieves fired several rounds

into several houses and then left the next day all the people gathered in the village we knew things were going to get even worse at this point and it was time to make a decision we could stay and try and hold them off or leave

some of us didn't even wait around, and just gathered their belongings and left. My father had decided that we would stay. We pleaded with him to leave. Someone might get killed, but he insisted on staying. There was nowhere that we could go anyway. We ended up being among the few people that had decided to stay. Hearing that we had, our close neighbours asked us if they could come and join us. Mark, Peter, David and John, along with their families. We agreed, and at least we would all feel safer together. When night fell, we all got quiet, if we listened for anything. Tonight it seemed like the world had gone mute. All we could hear was one of the wind chimes from John's house

moving with the wind, making things that much more eerie. We waited and waited, but nothing. I wanted to stay up but sleep was getting the better of me. I was awoken by the most blood-curdling scream I'd ever heard. After that we heard several shots. We went to see what was happening, but all we could see was the black truck that the thieves usually came in, speeding towards the highway. We waited for an hour and finally agreed to go see what had happened, but only five of us, John Mark P.C.

Peter, David and my dad went out, armed with shovels and steel pipes. We waited for them to come back. Finally, when they did, they said they couldn't find anything. All they could find was blood on one of the pens. My dad told everyone there to stay until the morning, and after that it would be safe to leave. No one disagreed. When morning came, all of our neighbours went to inspect their houses. Some of them had been broken into and looted.

Asked my dad worried seeing the blood, and he showed me the spot. It was in the pens where the neighbours keep the animals. It didn't make sense. Why would they shoot the animals? We wondered who'd scream like that, because it was the most unnatural scream I'd ever heard. For the next few days, we'd all huddle up in our house, including our neighbours, and waited out until morning.

nothing seemed to happen after the third day one of the neighbours that had left came into the village and asked us what was going on he was so scared that the thieves would come into his house that he'd left with his family without even locking his door in fact his door was ajar

we went to inspect his house with him it was exactly how he'd left it nothing had been touched at all we became worried what had scared off the thieves so that they'd stopped coming. After this, word started to get around that the thieves had gone for good and many of our other neighbours began to return. Things slowly began to get back to normal.

One night, before I was about to go to sleep, I looked out the window for a while. I looked at John's house across from us, and for a split second I could see what looked like a shadow, and it scared me had the thieves returned again I told my dad what I'd seen

and all of a sudden everyone gathered by the window to look out my dad went to get his shovel as he told us to stay inside and lock the door he ran to John's house and knocked and John came outside

they talked shortly and he went back inside and got a coat along with a shovel my dad ran back to the house as we opened it, and he said we would go out with the neighbours to see if the thieves had returned. That night my dad and some of our neighbours, including John, went out to see if the thieves were around. After an hour or two, the men came back, but the sight of them walking through the streets, and near the other houses, had alarmed the other neighbours, so they all came out to see as well,

and they asked the men if the robbers had returned. Well, they could only reply that, someone had seen something and they were seeing if something really was there. Finally my dad came back. It had been a false alarm but none of us slept very well that night. After that night, things really did seem to go back to normal, but I wondered for how long. In order to calm my nerves,

I usually like to head towards a small park, not too far away from here by bike using the highway. We were told by the police not to do it. it and they'd even threatened to take our bikes but we didn't care the highway was our only link to the outside world so we took it to get where we needed to go now on this particular day i rode my bicycle to a park about an hour away in another town using the highway in this town there was a park with a small lake that i would go to to relax i stayed there for a few hours bathing in the sun and watching the water sparkle after a while i decided to hem back to home. As usual, I took the highway back, careful to avoid cars and passed through our rough gravel road as usual.

It had become dark now, so I got off the bike and walked to our shed. We had quite a large shed where we stored various farm tools. When I entered, I put the bike inside and then I heard a sound. It wasn't the first time I'd heard a sound in there. I mean, we'd found a rat inside once. I looked around. The shed had two rooms, so I looked at the other room. I saw what seemed like a face peeking through the doorway inside. I was frozen in fear. I was trying to make sense of what I was looking at. Was it a person? I looked, but there's no way it could have been human. Then it moved out of the doorway, and I could see more of it. its body. It was completely black and hairless. It looked almost like a human, but it wasn't. Its face was absolutely disturbing. It had a white outline that made its face appear like a mask, and it had what looked like two short horn-like crests on its head that were white and rounded with a pointy tip. Immediately as it stepped out of the doorway,

Something inside me told me to look away and stay still. I immediately looked away. The second part of the instructions were quite pointless as I was frozen stiff. The thing approached me. It moved in an unnatural spider-like motion. I could see in my peripheral vision he was looking at me. It had disproportionately long, thin limbs.

I could see its hands had long, thin. fingers and long claws. It reminded me a lot of the great creature. He stayed there looking at me. It moved to the side where I was facing so it could look me in the face, but I looked away again. As I looked away, I noticed what looked like a smile on its face. Oh, it was a super creepy smile. I could even see its sharp teeth. My guess is, well, it wasn't smiling. It was just showing his teeth. Something I'd learned in various nature documentaries, a sign of aggression in animals.

I could still see it from my peripheral vision as it closed its mouth and walked around me in that awful, hideous all-for's movement. I was even more scared now because I couldn't see what it was doing at all. I could hear that voice in my head again. No matter what happens, don't move the muscle. That's when I heard the most god-awful scream ever.

I remained still, though trembling uncontrollably, as it got in front of me, but this time it was on two legs, and its mouth was open. It was about my height and looking me in the face. I looked away again, but I was shaking badly as I used every inch of my being to try not to move. It kept constantly moving to look at it. at my face, but I looked away every time.

A sudden sound of metal dropping on the floor made it look behind me, and then it moved in lightning fast motion. I didn't know if I should look around, but all of a sudden I felt a hand on my shoulder. Why are you waiting here in the dark? asked my dad. I was so relieved as I turned around and hugged him. By then I turned into a blubbering mass of jelly, and I was shaking uncontrollably. I was tearing up.

My nose was running. I think I may even have peed myself. Dad was confused. He asked what was wrong. I didn't say a word, but I didn't sleep at all that night. I eventually fell asleep in the morning and woke up later in the day.

I remembered that face and that smile, if you can call it a smile. I knew now why the thesis, had run away. I stayed there thinking about what had happened and it made sense now why the thieves had not returned. This thing was a nightmare. That day I asked my dad if he could get me some sleeping pills when he headed into town. He asked why. I just said I couldn't sleep. He said that I don't need them but I pleaded with him and finally he agreed. That night I took two of them and after a few minutes I was out.

I woke up the next day with a horrible groginess and a weird taste in my mouth. I got up slowly to get a glass of water. And then I remembered that creature again, and I felt a cold sweat on me as my hand shook. What was it? Was it a rake? The only thing I could think to call it was a black rake. Oh, this horrible thing had an identity in my mind. The blake.

I figured the more I know about it, the less power it would have over me. I looked around and noticed no one was inside. I called out to everyone, but no one was home. After a little bit I went outside. I could see a way off. There was a crowd of people. They seemed very upset. I went close to see what had happened.

I could see what looked like the police chief on the ground, bloody, and his clothes ripped as he was being abused. by the crowd there. I asked one of the older neighbours, Mark, what had happened? He said that the thieves had come back again last night and asked if I'd heard it. I told him I was asleep. I don't know how you could sleep with all that commotion last night, he replied.

What exactly happened, I asked. He said that the thieves had returned again last night, but then they started hearing some horrendous screams and gunshots. when the shot stopped people got out of their homes to see what had happened and they saw this hideous creature attacking one of the thieves

the men managed to scare the creature away but when they took the man's mask off it had been a police officer even worse his friends left him to die while they all ran away said Mark the people in the village contacted the investigative journalist again

and he came right away this story was not one he was going to miss. As to the creature that had attacked the thieves, it was passed off as a bear, but people in our village knew exactly what it was. One of the farmers, Peter, had even remembered days before the thieves arrived that many of his animals were going missing without explanation,

and he thought that maybe it was a fox or a jackal. My dad even remembered the night when he'd found me in the shed, and now realize why. Ever since then, my perspective on this creature has changed. I don't think this creature is evil, but then again neither is a tiger, but that doesn't stop them from killing people. It only acted defensively, and I think it was only gauging if I was a real threat at the shed. Now it seems to me that our prayers were answered and getting rid of the thieves.

did arrive, only from the most unlikely of sources. Our third tale of terror this evening is, have you ever heard of the childhood psychopathy diagnostic observation scale by Queasy Panda? Have you ever heard of the childhood psychopathy diagnostic observation scale? No, of course you haven't. I don't mean to belittle you, it's due to the nature of the CPDOS that you haven't heard of it. no one has

except for the select few government agencies who saw the true beauty, the true value the measure has to society. It really only involves a couple of buttons, a couple of marshmallows and an excellent guide to measure the Machiavellian nature of the world's pre-term

psychopaths. Enough of the abstractions. Let's get to it, eh? There are about three million psychopaths in the United States. Psychopaths are your lawyers, your parents, your bankers. They're everywhere, and the intelligent ones blend into society with little friction. Most of these people are either pacifistic or not intelligent enough to cause any real

damage to our society. It's the lottery winners of intelligence and the genetic and environmental contributors to violent psychopathy that we need to worry about. toxic personality cocktail produces the Charlie Mansons and Jeff Darmers of this world. That's where I come in. I began developing the CPDOS during my PhD dissertation. I studied predictors for psychopathy in early childhood. The logic is simple.

If we can identify predictors to violent psychopathy, you can nip them in the bud and have a safer society. Well, I'll spare your literature of you and still. statistical analyses and skip right to the discussion. The study was immensely successful. We found that 90% of our seven-year-olds fitting our criteria for that risk grew up to be violent and intelligent teenagers and adults.

These are the ones who got away. After my success, I vowed to never let it happen again. The procedure is painfully simple. I was almost surprised I achieved the level of significance I did. all we used was a bag of buttons and a carefully constructed observational structure masquerading as a game for children. There were 15 children in each classroom and 15 buttons provided. We said each button was worth a marshmallow, calling it money help them understand. We left them alone in the cafeteria for ten minutes and gave them one simple sentence.

A button is worth one marshmallow. We videotaped and audio bugged the room. A kid deemed high risk, gathered at least 12 buttons, scored high on our IQ test, and used violent and eloquently worded, for a seven-year-old, threats to gather the buttons. In most classrooms, each child finished the ten minutes with a button each. Simple, right?

Fifteen buttons? Fifteen children. The math is simple, even by seven. year old standards. It was the deprave little bastards we euphemistically referred to as high risk, who grew up to skin lost animals and, well, worse. Science is weird like that. Violent threats plus intelligence plus 12 or more marshmallows. We have a little psychopathic sprout.

My to-be publication never made it past the peer review stage. I got a rejection letter for it having, well, potentially dangerous implications. A month after my first sample of at-risk children turned 20, I was contacted by a member of the CIA. At this point, I'd given up on the CPDOS, I'd been teaching in psychology at a local community college. I was given an address and told to bring my notes on the measure. Well, I jumped at the opportunity to converse about my research.

Have you ever met a doctor of psychology? Well, I found myself sitting at a round kitchen table of a middle-class colonial with two badgeed men. They weren't gigantic, clean-cut men with black suits. Instead, I found myself opposite to average-sized men wearing flannels and jeans. Outside of the briefcase and ID badge I requested to see, they looked overwhelmingly average, perhaps by design. After we exchanged pleasantries, the shore. of the two agents passed me a manila folder with a 20-year-old's face on the cover. Now, for confidentiality's sake, we'll call this young adult, Ryan.

Believe me, when I say, you'll be thankful I'm keeping this brief. By the age of 20, Ryan was wanted for the rapes and murders of three women in his area, and those are only the reported ones. He's been on the run for six months, and there are no leads to his whereabouts. 13 buttons Justin 20 has been characterized

as an attractive clever and charismatic person murdered his parents and girlfriend 12 buttons Wade 21 is antisocial yet has been constantly

hailed as a musical prodigy and piano was his trade well he traded his piano for the execution-style killings of his high school bullies 15 buttons call me apathetic call me cold

but most importantly call me correct I wasn't bewildered by the results of that they made perfect sense I'd narrowed down the characteristic predictors of psychopathy and operationalised them

into a behavioural measure well the list went on eight more people nominally tied to heinous crimes. It wasn't perfect, though, as science rarely is. On the list, there was one name that didn't fit the bell. Kevin, 20, was in the midst of his public health degree, 3.98 GPA and at an Ivy League. He has plans to enroll in the Peace Corps and improve the lives of those less fortunate than him. This fucker hasn't had as much as a parking violation, let alone any relation to a

violent crime. God damn buttons. Now, in most other circumstances, I'd go down in history as one of the most influential psychologists of all time. These were not average circumstances. Due to Kevin's existence and the CIA's hell-bent rhetoric, I ended up trading my fame and mark in history for anonymity and a pretty annual penny. The agents offered me a seven-figure salary for my work and my silence. and my assistants and I would spend the next ten years practice in my trade across the country. Stench of rectangular pizzas and chocolate milk burnt into my nasal passages

as I travelled elementary school to elementary school administering the CPDOS. If anything, it was perfect preparation for parenthood. I have a low-maintenance job, plenty of money and all the knowledge in the world on how to raise a wonderful son. I named him, Kevin. I'd do this for a living.

They knew I'd catch onto them. I've kept close tabs on every high-risk chard throughout the past ten years. Sure enough, like clockwork, each one serendipitously disappearing weeks after the measure. It was genius, really. I was the only one taking statistics

on how many buttons each chard will walk away with, and the categorisation of an at-risk chard was less than half a percent. 99% of the time, each child would walk away with a button, a marshmallow, and their lives. My silent inquisition of these prematurely psychopathic children was a blistering success. Over the past ten years, there have been 54 mysterious disappearances of clever, intelligent children. A minuscule price our country has to pay in exchange for the murders of young women and parents. abduction rates hardly increased and violent crime rates impactfully decreased

so why the hell am i telling you all of this i need advice trust me when i say the irony of a psychologist seeking advice isn't lost on me call it karma call it my payment to the 54 souls 10% of which were likely bound to be innocent that I robbed of their lives, but I find myself in predicaments. Should I run? Double down on my philosophy and let the system work its magic? It was, doing household chores after a long day in an elementary school, 30 minutes from my house. It was Friday, and time for the house's weekly deep clean and upkeep.

I finally got to Kevin's laundry. In the back pocket of his warm blue jeans, there they said 13 button A penultimate story this evening is The doll by Una Kumashina I recently had an

hard experience When I told my friends Most of them thought I was straight up crazy This happened late this summer I'd woken up at about 5.50 a.m. on a Saturday I knew I couldn't get back to sleep There was just too much crap on my mum mind. It had been a really long week at work with a lot of stress and I'd had some well,

shall we say, friction with my girl. So I went out for a drive to clear my head. Can't speak to those of you outside the Rockies, but if you live near the mountains, let me tell you there's nothing quite like blasting some tunes and driving the mountains in good weather. So, after minimal consideration, I threw on some metal and set off for a drive. It's actually really what I needed. Great start for the day. I got most of the way to Estes Park before I turned around and headed back home. Oh, the mountains were beautiful. The air was clean and crisp, especially for a July day. With the beautiful scenery, the music and RPM's really got the stress worked out. Sometimes just getting out and letting the miles peel by is exactly the kind of catharsis

that you need. The drive got me pretty centred, and when I was back in the suburbs, I'd switch to some less intense music. It was night wish, I'm pretty sure. I was just kind of cruising along, not really headed back to the house in any specific way yet,

just rather winding down after the drive. When I got back to the general area I lived in and gotten off the main thoroughfax, I noticed there was a set of signs leading to a yard sale, decided to go check it out on a whim. I honestly don't remember quite which neighbourhood I wound up in when I stopped for the yard sale. I swear to God I wish I did. If I did, I could go back and ask some questions, but it's funny how memory works, though.

Well, you know, funny in that Soviet Union, not everyone gets dark humour, just like food kind of way. Anyway, stopped on the opposite side of the street from the yard sale. too close to a fire hydrant, that much I remember for whatever it's worth. I got out of the car and strode casually across the street. The yard sale itself was vaguely disappointing, mostly porcelain chokes, clothes that went out of fashion in the 80s and bad replicas of boring paintings. However, I was looking for something to buy.

I wanted to scratch a whim, if you know what I mean. After a couple of laps around the sale, I noticed something that had passed my attention previously. It was a ragdog, long black strands of yarn for hair, one red button, one black button for eyes, and a kind of Wednesday Adam's dress. We also had one of those name-tagged stickers with Yvette,

scrawled across it in broken crayon print. It was super creepy, and I couldn't imagine that it was supposed to be anything else. That being said, it certainly had personality, and was on the cheap. So, lacking interest in any other options of things to buy, kind of taken by the,

nobody loves me, charm of the doll, I threw down the three dollars they were asking for and carted my lou back to the car. On the drive back, I remember thinking, well, now that I bought it, what should I do with it, with no real answer in mind? Sadly, throw it in a dumpster fire,

didn't come to mind. regardless I got home, cut it inside and kind of tossed it aside on the little circular table in the dining room niche off the side of the kitchen. It slid to a rest near the edge of the table and probably would have remained there for some unspecified number of weeks before I decided to do something with it. Well, when I say probably, I mean certainly, but that's besides the point. However, it wasn't left up to my bad housekeeping habits to dictate, which is why I am. here. Anyway, after discarding the doll on the table, I moved on to a more

important matter, specifically lunch. I have no idea what I had for lunch specifically. Probably a sandwich and quite lightly chips, very likely chips. I have a particular weakness for barbecue flavor lays.

After I'd wrapped up lunch, I was washing the plane in the kitchen sink along with the few other things that had been sitting there, washing dish, is kind of a mechanical task for me and I was staring blankly out of the window in the kitchen. Not really looking at anything in particular, just zoning. My phone was in the living room, playing tunes from my playlist, loud enough to hear but not quite loud enough to drown out the monotone hum of the AC.

I probably wouldn't remember that any more than I remember lunch, but it was an oddity that occurred that made it stand out in my memory. really the entirety of the rest of the afternoon was strange enough it's pretty cemented in my memory but this was where it really started to stand out for me i saw a swat van pass by what followed by what appeared to be a ben's s class followed by a second swat van remember i stopped hands submerged up to my wrist in a glass my dead-eye gaze replaced with one of notable curiosity. I'd crane my neck to see if I could figure out where they were going through the dense trees. I don't know if there's anywhere where that would be a normal sight, but it was absolutely bizarre in my area.

I live in a relatively secluded neighbourhood that has plenty of land and plenty of trees. A good place to live. I couldn't imagine what would have needed not only one but two swat vans. I mean, there's houses worth plenty more than mine further down the road, and money can equal trouble, but I don't think anyone has quite that much money in this neighbourhood. Alternatively, they could have just been passing through, but it's enough of a detour to get anywhere useful. I couldn't imagine why they'd do it. Anyway, after pondering that for a couple of minutes, I put my hand out of the cup and went back to actually try to clean it. The next big event of the day happened only a few minutes.

minutes later. I'd finished washing the dishes and had moved on to rinsing them and stacking them in the rack to dry. I was about half done with that process when I heard a loud thudding at the front door, immediately accompanied by a commanding voice shouting, Police, open up. I'll be honest, my first reaction was, what the hell? I mean, I'd seen SWAT drive by, so I should have consciously been aware of what was happening, but it seemed so outlandish to me to have the police at my door that it just didn't click. Honestly, it took me a moment to get my brain into working order enough to even realize I should probably respond.

I was three quarters of the way to the door when they started pounding and yelling again. I was half afraid to open the door, but I figured that they sounded kind of sort of a little bit agitated, and leaving them to sit on the front stoop was unlikely to improve their attitudes. So I decided the best thing to do was to open the door. The rest of my day was, well, shall we say, a right, proper cluster. However, if those SWAT officers were wearing body cameras, I really want the footage of when I open the door.

Not saying this was a pleasant experience by any means, and I wouldn't want to go through it again, but I bet my expression was worth a million bucks. The police were in full blacked-out armour, shotguns and M-16s and standing in the middle of them was a fellow who was apparently a priest in long flowing robes, a tall funny hat and I swear what appeared to be white body armour with red and gold trim. He was flanked on both sides by fellows who I assume were lesser members of the clergy

as their robes were less flowy, their bulletproof vests less ornate and they were holding these incense sensors. No joke. so honestly speaking I couldn't have given you a half a reason why SWAT would have been at my door much less SWAT plus the bizarre combat cleric and his minions

I'm sure my face was the very picture of confusion anyway I very rapidly found myself face down on the ground with a bunch of heavily armored men in my front hall and a boisterous cleric liberally spritzing everything

with what I can only assume was holy water and loudly demanding I tell him where the hell form was. The entire time, the two Minian priests were swinging the incense things and chanting in Latin, or at least I assume it was Latin. I didn't

understand it, but really had other things on my mind and wasn't paying so much attention to them as to identify the language they were speaking. What I'd like to say, I remain calm and tried to rationally tell them I had no idea what they were talking about. That

would be a lie. I was mostly incomprehensible. I was stuttering so badly and tripping over my words so much. I suppose that will happen to you when you've got that many guys with that many big barrel guns that were that upset that were not complying with their demands. The long and the short of it was, they were wanting information. I didn't understand. And they didn't understand me in return because I wasn't particularly coherent.

Good times to be had all around. If the problem hadn't more or less resolved itself, I'm not sure how everything would have turned out in the end. That aside, after, it was probably a couple of minutes of their interrogation. One of them, a fellow carrying a shotgun, for whatever that's worth, shouted out, Target, located, target located. Considering he was just standing a few feet away from us in the kitchen, I'm not sure why he felt the need to yell, but he wasn't asking for my opinion anyhow. The bulk of them then rushed into the dining-room portion of the kitchen,

leveled their weapons at the table, and started screaming things like, Don't resist, or on the ground. Couldn't see clearly what was going on from my vantage point on the ground, but it seemed as though the table had offended them greatly. Or at least that's how it appeared to my adrenaline and fear-addled brain. I'm pretty sure that I yelled at them, telling them to leave my table alone, probably yelling at them to leave my table alone with some particularly colourful and spicy metaphors mixed in. Regardless, they ignored me. The battle bishop

and his incense-spewing bodyguards advanced as well. When he started in with what I can only assume was a Latin mistration of some sort, and started aggressively splashing my dining-room table with holy water what might be the strangest thing of the entire day occurred the room not cold i mean like i could see my breath also it got dark not night time dark but more like overcast it might rain kind of day dark also a distinct smell like rot started up one of my friends had me smell rotting eggs which apparently he let go bad for this express purpose. When I identified them as the same smell, he let me know it was brimstone or sulphur. Yeah, I'm sure all of this is terribly cliche, but what can I say?

That's how it played out. Anyway, that all happened and, well, I'd thought the SWAT dudes were agitated before. They kicked it up several levels. There was a lot of screaming and swearing. Honestly, though, that didn't seem to help much. The temperature kept decreasing. It kept getting darker, and the smell got stronger, and started mixing with the smell of burnt ozone.

Then the priest kicked it up a notch too. He started belting out his mantra at a volume and intensity that would have made a South American soccer announcer proud. These two minions were responding back to his mandates, with very nearly the same intensity. Then he pulled out what appeared to be a glass vial of holy water, smashed it on the table and dropped to his knees, thundering out such rapid fire strings of Latin,

I'd say he'd have had to have been fluent. His litany built into a frankly impressive crescendo, and then, finished. Everything went quiet for about 30 seconds. Then the police again started screaming for the table to drop to the floor. then well in a movie

I might think this would have been obvious but honestly I wasn't meta-analyzing anything at that exact

moment in life so yeah the doll fell off the table basically as soon as it started falling it got warmer

and brighter in the room and the room went back to smelling heavily of incense instead of rot and oza

then one of the SWAT guys grabs the doll stuffs it in a burlapsack that has crosses and Bible verses spray-painted on it, and a lot of them double-time it out of my house and speed off into the afternoon. I laid on the floor for a while, not finding that I had the energy to try and get back up.

After a while, he gathered enough gumption to migrate to the living room. I sat down on the couch, contemplating the merits of getting blackout drunk in the hopes that I'd forget the events of the day when there was again a knocking at my door. I shuffled over the door like some shell-shock zombie and opened it to find a man with a really nice suit, a really nice watch, perfect haircuts, and a G-series license plate on his car was standing at my door. It was at that point where I did either the most sensible thing I did that day, or least sensible thing, and I slammed the door in his face. He stood there and not for a while longer, and I ostensibly ignored him while pouring myself a drink or three.

So, anyway, that's my story. If anyone out there has any ideas about what happened or what a hell form is, or whether there is anything I can do about the fact I'm now noticing I'm being tailed by blacked-out vehicles with G-series plates, well, I'm all he is. We round off to nice proceedings with I found a box of letters in my dad-parents' house By Logan 966 I've spent all my life in Burningham

Here, even the people are haunted Sometimes I'm wondering what I'm doing with my life Whether I should leave and get a new change of scenery Or stay and try to get my life back together My parents died recently They were on a plane to Italy on vacation the plane crashed and everyone on board died. It wasn't pilot error like everyone in the media would like you to believe.

Blackbox audio is usually public, but the audio for Burningham Airlines Flight 1357 was never released and kept from the public. Of course, the theories came flooding in like water through a broken dam. Despite the best efforts of the government to sweep this under the rug, I and the families of everyone else who died on board demand, demanded answers. We got none, until the audio was leaked. That only brought up more unanswered questions. I listened to the audio myself. The pilots were just having an ordinary conversation. Then they both noticed something. The audio went dead silent, and the two pilots started

confessing all their wrongdoings. Everything they'd ever done spewed out of their mouths. The rest of the recording was just everyone screaming. I decided to move on and not dwell on any theories that other people on the internet came up with. It didn't really matter either way. My parents were dead. I had a mock funeral. I was the only one who went. Seeing that we had no other family, it was up to me to get their house cleaned up and ready to sell.

I wasn't looking forward to the probate process. One day I drove over there. The house was a poor facsimile of what it used to be. What was once a lush, well-kept lawn, was now overgrown with yellow grass. Thankfully, the house and second garage crossed from it was made of brick. I feared to imagine what shape they'd be in if they hadn't been built with brick. As I walked up the pathway to the front door, memories flashed through my mind like lightning. Me and Dad tossing the ball when I was ten.

Me walking the dog around the house with Mom when I was 12. The memories faded and reality sunk. in. I'd never be able to make memories with them again. I was over everything up until this point. My knees buckled and I dropped to the ground. Tears streamed down my face and I couldn't control it anymore. They were gone forever and nothing could change that. I took a few deep breaths and counted to ten. After my breathing exercises, I felt right as rain. I picked myself up off the floor and entered the house. It was eerie being in the house. It was eerie being in the house. house for the first time in years. The inside of the house didn't look abandoned. A part of me felt

like mum and dad were still in their bedroom or living room. It was like being inside one of those houses in Chernobyl. Everything in the house looking the same as it did the day it was abandoned. Can food and box food was still in the cabinets. Mousetroppings laid on the floor. The smell of mold and mildew were so strong I could almost taste it. It held my breath and trudged forward to the bedrooms. to look for my parents' financial information. After a few minutes of rummaging through their bedroom, I found the paperwork. Also, well, I found something else.

A box of letters that I'd never seen before, written by people I've never met. Letter 1. Dear Uncle Tony. November 14th, 1989. Happy birthday, Uncle Tony. Love is not something you can see. Love is something you can see. feel deep in your heart and I love you love Luray really strange the letter is addressing my father

that he and my mother didn't have any siblings why lie did he ever falling out and as a result he didn't want anything else to do with his family letter two dear uncle tony November 21st 1989 i really like staying over and spending time with you and Aunt Pam. I love staying up past my bedtime to watch cartoons and eat chocolate chip cookies. At night, it really scares me when I hear tapping on my window. I cover myself with my blanket and turn over, but the tapping just continues. Lorraine, Letter Three, Dear Uncle Tony, November 28, 1989. I had lots of fun building snowfalls with you and Aunt Pam last weekend. I had more fun when I caught the both of you by surprise and nailed you with snowballs.

It was fun until bedtime. The tapping started again and this time I couldn't help but turn over and I saw a monster at my window. I started feeling really guilty and sad as I stared at him. There was something mesmerizing about that thing at the window. Unable to look away. I started remembering all sorts of bad stuff I did. Like breaking mom's vase and my eyes. about it. I smash my head against the whole pillow to make the thought stop. Lorraine, letter four.

To Tony, December 4th, 1989. I'm happy to let Lorraine spend the weekend over your house. You're a family after all, and I want her to know of her aunt and uncle. You and Pam have really been there for Lorraine, and ever since Rick abandoned us a few years ago, well, but Lorraine came home on Sunday with a bruise on her forehead. Please make sure you keep an eye on her when she's playing. Susan. Letter 5. Dear Uncle Tony.

December 8th, 1989. I'm really looking forward to spending X-Mess with you. Thank you for buying me and Barbie. I love her so much. I played with her until that monster showed up. I saw him again and started feeling guilty like last time. and I remembered when I told a kid at school

Yellow Snow was the same as a yellow snow cone and he ate it I smashed my head again and this time it really hurt Lorraine Letter 6 Dear Pam December 18th

1989 For whatever reason Tony hasn't bothered to listen to me I'm looking forward to having X-Mess with you but Lorraine got a bigger bruise on her forehead How is she getting hurt so much Susan Letter 7. Dear Pam.

January 1st, 1990. I really appreciate you and Tony having us over for the holidays, but there's something really odd that happened when I was there. I was awakened by a knock on my door. Lorraine was crying and telling me that someone was tapping on her window. I walked into the room she was staying in. At first, I thought there was something at the window, but chalked it up to my imagination. since I was still half asleep. Clearly, I have not been listened to.

I don't think I can allow her over your house if you continue not to listen. I'll allow you both one more chance. I don't want to have to do this, but if you force my hand, I'll do what I feel is best. Susan. Letter 8. Dear Uncle Tony, January 4th, 1990.

I really enjoy seeing you and Aunt Pam. I don't know if I want to come. come over anymore. I couldn't sleep last time. I'm really scared to go over. Lorraine. Letter 9. Dear Tony and Pam, January 7th, 1990. I cannot allow Lorraine at your house. When she got home from the last visit, she said she never wanted to go back and wouldn't stop crying. I don't know what happened, but she's not going to your home anymore. I'm furious that my rules were not abate. How dare you undermine me? I think you know how Lorraine got hurt too, but I'm starting to think it wasn't just an accident due to your negligence. Susan, Letter 10. Dear Tony and Pam,

February 1st, 1990. How dare you try and play the victim? You want me to reconsider? No way. If you guys didn't hurt Lorraine, then how come you can't at the very least admit that both of you are negligent caretakers. How dare you throw in my face all the things you did for Lorraine financially, emotionally or otherwise. Don't try to spin me a sob story. Lorraine is the daughter I'll never have. Cry me a river. Also, never throw my condition in my face again. I've been just fine mentally and I've been taking my medicine. My illness has nothing to do with the decision I'm making. I laughed when I read the part of your letter when you mentioned you were afraid for the child's well-being because I'm unwell. Don't ever threaten me. You'll never see Lorraine or me again as long as you live.

It looked to be the end of the letters. I needed answers, so I searched the house for any more letters, but found nothing. And I gave up. Feeling defeated, I gathered myself and grabbed the paperwork I needed and then headed home. During the ride home, I felt like something was following me. I ascribe the feeling to just being on edge due to the letters. I bowled into the driveway of my home, feeling empty. My house was a mess. Not as bad as my parents' house, but still a mess. The lawn was unkempt.

White peeling paint on the front porch and on either side of the house indicated that a nude paint job was needed. It's not like it really mattered anyway. No one was going to come visit me. I was alone. The mailbox was. overflowing with a thick stack of mail. I removed the mail then headed inside. A few days' worth of dishes were piled in the sink. Also, the trash can was crammed full with fast food banks.

Ever since the death of my parents, I've been barely taking care of myself. I threw my letters down on the table, nothing but bills and junk mail. There was nothing to look forward to anymore. I dragged myself to bed and laid down. As my eyelids became heavier, I was about to drift off to sleep. I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I heard an ominous tapping on my window, but didn't dare turn over to see what was causing the noise. And there we have it.

The end of another visit to Dr. Creepen's Dungeon. Now if you enjoyed tonight's stories, do me one small favor. Leave a nice review and a five-star rating wherever you get your podcasts. That's it for this week, but I'll be back. Back again next week, same time, same place. Until then, sweet dreams and bye-bye.