Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep7: Episode 7: The One with the Butcher in the Forest

Episode Date: December 10, 2020

Tonight’s fabulous collection of stories are all by the wonderfully talented Ryan Brennaman, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: 1) ‘The Three Tongues’ 2) ‘The Butcher's Woods’ 3) ‘The Oesterling's House is Haunted’ 4) ‘Inside Out’ 5) ‘Fetch’ You can find these stories here: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/31

Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out. Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM. Access to the Price is right fortune pick is only available at BetMGM Casino. BetMGM and GameSense remind you to play responsibly. 19 plus to wager, Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you,

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. A collection of stories for you this evening designed to terrify and delight you in equal measures, all from the mind of the very talented Mr. Ryan Brennam. We start this evening's anthology with the Three Tongues, a cautionary tale that remind you to listen very careful to the information given to you. Now before we begin, as ever, a word of

of caution. These stories may contain strong language, as well of descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. The cavern opened up just ahead, and the poor damn soul crawled his way into the freeing space. But he wasn't out of hell just yet. The dark rocky chamber he'd found wasn't empty, and he wasn't alone. The other, who stood in the middle of the cavern before two wooden doors outstretched its long, wiry arms and bid him welcome.

Weary, and with a nearly feral snarl. The damned soul told the other, I have fought my way through demons and nightmares to get here, through blood and torture, and through torment and torment after torment. Don't think I won't fight you too. When the creature, whose face was featureless, spoke to the damn soul and said,

But we are not here to fight you. You are free to proceed as you choose. You are free to proceed as you choose. You are free to a single choice, but be warned, for we stand at guard for not just the doorway of salvation, but of darkness and despair as well. The man, confused at the creature's prattling, asked,

Who is we? The creature, who was covered in a long, tattered black cloak, reached up to its naked face. Where its right eye should have been, its long pale claws peeled away its skin. Underneath, in what should have been an empty cavity, naked, chattering teeth spoke. There is no we. As the damned soul watched, the creature tore free the flesh from its left side as well, exposing not an eye but another set of jaws. This second set of jaws then spoken said,

There are three. I am Kessadu, the other, it said, alluding to the first set of eyes. The other, it said, alluding to the first set of eyes, is called Imodaks. Finally, with its long index finger, the creature carved across its face from cheek to cheek, as if opening a zipper, and the final largest set of jaws smile through the gap. It concluded by saying, in the loudest voice of awe, and I am called Loki Verat. Together our tongues are called Fictussox, the guardian.

The naked, damned soul, inch forward towards the still warm, still welcoming spectre. Cautiously he cast his glance over the creature's thin shoulders. You seek passage, asked Loki Vart. Yes, you seek one of our doors, chattered the voice called Imidaks. Either mine or the door of Kessadu. There were indeed two doors. One was on the creatures left, the eluded door of Kessadu, and one was on its right, the eluded door of Imidaks.

Both were wooden. Both were identical, both. both were unmarked. How am I to know which is which? asked the damned soul. That is why we are here, of course, hissed L'Iverat, to guide you. But be warned, spoke Kisadu.

The choice is not to be made lightly. If I choose wrongly, asked the damned soul. As we said, Lokevara said, raising a cautionary finger. One door leads to salvation, but only one. Choose poorly, and you will receive only endless despair, endless darkness. It can't be worse than what I've seen. The damsel croaked fearfully.

To this, all three mouths responded in short. They chuckled. The damsel, closely watching the guardian as he did so, moved nearer to the two doors. On a closer inspection, he cursed. He didn't know which one to pick. Careful, Loki Verrett warned from behind. Once chosen, you cannot go back.

You may risk the odds, if you'd like. Or, the damn soul inquired, aware that there was a deal to me made. Or, you can hear our riddle, came all three voices at once. "'The only assistance we can offer you,' said Imoducks. The desperate, damned soul decided that it was the only way. He had come much too far and sacrificed too much to let this stop him. He came before the Guardian and before the Guardian's three tongues,

Imidux, Kessidu and Loki Verat. He stood before them and asked of them what riddle they had planned for him. "'Before you are two doors,' Imeduk said. "'The doors you see belong to me and Kessudu, "'and through one of them is your path to salvation.' "'You may ask one question,' Kessadu said. "'To any of our tongues. One and only one, "'and that is all you are permitted.'

"'After,' Lokevrat warned, "'you will be on your own with nothing more "'than the information that we have bestowed, upon you. You must choose your question carefully, but even more so than the question, you must be wary of whom you ask. Kessidu smirked, because, between Imedaq's and I, one of us lies. And the other tells the truth, Imitax sneered. One of us will speak freely, Kessad Kessad promised. And all, Loki Verrett concluded, we'll try to deceive. You must make two choices now, and I say now, most honestly, consider them well. So, the damned soul thought. He thought on the

riddle for a time left unmeasured. After so long in damnation, the time he spent on anything mattered so little to him. It mattered little to the guardian either. stood there watching the dam soul with greedy fingers interlotte, and a gaping grin across all of its faces. It was a riddle of two doors, a riddle of two doors and two guards, one door to freedom, to salvation, and one door to instant death,

darkness and despair, as the guardian had clearly said. One must lie, able to speak free, really, as Kesedu had said, and the other would be honest, although hoping to deceive by being indistinguishable from the liar. The guards were Imidaks and Kesedu. One must have been the liar, and one must have been the honest tongue. The answer was so elusive. He seemed to dance around just out of the damn soul's reach for the longest time. He couldn't ask them which

door was safe, for he knew not which of the two was the honest tongue. He couldn't ask them which one was the honest guard for the same reason. He couldn't ask a question to prove which one was honest, for even though he could. He could ask them a math question, an equation with a factual answer, and he knew to prove who the liar was, but it would leave him without an answer for the door. But there had been an answer to the riddle. He knew this. There was a question, a singular a question that, when asked to the truth-teller or the liar, would reveal the correct answer each time. It existed, and the damn soul was positive he could find it.

When, and only when, the damn soul was positive of the answer, did he come forward? I've thought, he said, Cockley, and I know what I must ask. I know that one of you will now answer falsely, and another will be truthful. He pointed at the door on the Guardian's right. I could ask Imidax if that's the correct door, but I have no idea if Imidax is the liar or not. Same for Kessidu. It leaves me the same chances.

The Guardian tilted its head, almost as if with an acute fascination. But I don't need to do that, the damn soul said. I know one tongue, one of your demon eyes, will speak freely and tell the truth. The Guardian's moors all stretch wide in sinister grins, causing the man to hesitate.

The Guardian seemed pleased. The other will lie, he continued, less confidently, and tried to deceive, which means there is only one question I can ask. There's only one question that, when asked either the honest or the dishonest guard will reveal in both scenarios, the false door. Because one will be honest and one must lie. One will be honest about the liar, and one will lie about who is honest.

The damn soul smirked. I've heard this riddle before. The damsel pointed up, right at Imidax, and he asked his question. Which door will Kessitu tell me to pick? Imidaks, guard of the left door, opened his mouth, ready to speak, and then, hesitantly, it said, He would tell you to take the door on your right, the damned soul, for the first time in a long while, laughed. He laughed and laughed, for he knew he had won.

So, he said, the door on the left is the one. It's your door, I'm madame, because the liar would tell me to take the right door, and the honest of you would tell me what the liar would say. Either way, you both have given me the false answer. Am I right? Did I solve your damn riddle? The guardian did not answer. The damn soul knew why. His question had been spent.

The only response it could offer was silence. All the smiles had faded from its face, granting it an entirely passive and impartial visage. The guardian rotated in place, following as if with unseen eyes as the damsel crossed the room. Past the creature, the dam soul put his hand on the left door. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like on the other side. He asked himself what he would do first. run roll in the grass swim in the ocean lie beneath the stars he wondered how much had changed as he pushed the door open step through and allowed it to shut behind him from the moment it shut the smiles fractured back onto the guardian's face all three mouths chuckled for they knew the truth The damn soul hadn't been terribly foolish, but he had failed to truly listen.

In that failure to truly listen, the damn soul had made two fatal assumptions. His first assumption, the assumption that their game started when he asked his question, a failure to recognise that it had started from the moment the damn soul entered that chamber. The failure to realise that, from the very beginning, All three tongues had been in character, and that assumption allowed the second to take hold, not by accident, but by design. His second assumption, the assumption that only two of the voices had mattered, the assumption that Loki Varat was inconsequential.

For, one mouth will speak the truth, said Loki Verat truthfully. One will speak freely, Kessadu said, as it wished. None will lie, said Imidax falsely. And all, said the guardian in unison, stepping forward, revealing the third and final door that had been hidden beneath its cloak. We'll try to deceive. We now move on to our second story for this evening, the butcher's woods.

We shouldn't go, Jesse Waller had said before the three of them set off that morn. Them's butcher's woods. Now, Jesse Waller lay dead on the ground, nearly a mile into the butcher's woods. Gazing out from the abandoned shack, Tony Boone could clearly see him. He lay not ten feet from the front door,

blood running from his gashed neck. he was only ten feet from safety It stood right above him The butcher It was everything their grandparents had warned them about when they were kids But now it was more than just fanciful, terrible stories Now it was real Something palpable

Now it had just murdered one of Tony's oldest friends The beast was an ill shade of one with taut skin that was thin enough to almost be translucent. It hovered above Jesse's body, almost like a wolf, leaning forward to bring its lengthy snout just inches away from Jesse's lifeless eyes. The butcher had no eyes, and no eyes could be seen at all on its face. The only orifice visible was a small, human-like mouth at the end of its horse-like snout. That mouth opened, and a black tongue,

emerge from between its very human teeth. It licked the blood from Jesse's throat with a wide smile. Feeling like he wanted to scream, Tony turned from the window and slid down the shack's mossy wall. He shook as his mouth gait, struggling to breathe. Silent tears warmed his cheek. Hearing the creature snort, he turned his gaze back outside. He'd been so shocked, seeing Jesse murdered right in front of him,

he'd almost forgotten what the creature still held beneath its front arms. The third member of their party. The man who was still alive. Bill Dixon. One of its mighty clawed hands clamped shut around his face so he couldn't scream. Beneath the butcher's weight, the scrawny man could only do so much. Tony could only watch as the young man's hands flailed in short, spastic attacks that failed to accomplish anything. He couldn't even phase the large beast.

He was completely at the butcher's mercy. And Tony knew, from those old stories his grandpapa used to tell him by the fireplace, what happens next. He could see it on the creature's back. All along the creature's backbone and sides sprouted about a dozen terrible spines. Each one probably as large as an elephant's tusk, looking like it had been carved out of the creature's back. of bone and sharpened to a razor's edge.

A few were broken, snapped at the base. They splintered like logs. Bloodstains stretched across the handful that were intact, but on a few of them. They still carried more than bloodstains. Two of the spikes still held flesh, dangling from them, the remains of the last two unfortunate individuals to cross the butcher's path. There's a reason it's called the butcher, Tony mouthed in fear, because it saves its meat on hooks for later. The nearly skeletal remains hung from the butcher's spines like puppets.

What little sinews and cloth remained were all that held the two together, and Tony could see where tooth and claw had stripped and pulled bare the flesh off what had once been two men. In a moment that made Tony's eyes widened, a realization cruelly barged into his racing must. It came to Tony when the beast had reared itself up like a bear, with Jesse in one hand and a still struggling classed bill in the other. Tony realized what was about to happen. When it did happen, Tony had to gag himself with his own muddy hand to keep his screams in check. It started with Jesse, since he struggled the least. Holding him in its right hand, the creature contorted its joints to bring Jesse to rest on a spine that protruded right behind the beast's near visible ribs

on the side closest to the shack. Tony winced as the spine entered Jesse's course with a sickening crunch. The creature released, allowing Jesse's body to settle onto the slightly upward tilted spike. Jesse's head dangled and swayed, his matted brown hair covering his face. But then, Tony started to shake his head and back away from the window when the creature placed both of its evil hands on Bill's shoulders. No, Bill shouted, his mouth finally free in his voice cracking. No, don't you do it, please, don't you do... Help, help, anyone, please, help. Tony saw as the creature, holding Bill just in front of its wicked chest. Turned Bill around so he was facing the forest.

Tony saw as the creature started bringing its arms in slowly, pulling Bill towards its chest. Tony saw the one jagged-edged-edged spine that protruded right from the creature's sternum. It was cruel how slowly it happened, and Tony knew that the butcher intended it to be so. As Bill screamed, Tony couldn't help but watch as the creature drove the spine

through his best friend's torso. The screams, the whales, were unimaginable. Tony could taste blood in his mouth as his aching teeth sunk into his own non-flesh. He wanted to do something, anything but what? There had been three of them once. Now, now, it was just him. And the butcher knew that too.

Tony had no time to mourn. to weep, for the creature allotted no time for grieving. It had two of the three transgressors, and now it needed the third. Tony ducked for the darkest corner in the shed as the butcher scuttled close. It leaned in, craning its long neck towards the window. It searched for him, using only God knew what unseen senses. Tony curled up in the protective cover of shadow, scarcely breathing, waiting for it to leave. All the while, Bill showed no sign of dying. For his screams, curses and shouts still carried strong on the wind.

Help! Oh, God, please. It hurts. It's killing me, please. As a trembling, Tony waited. He listened as Bill's pleads started to change. Tony! He screamed, pleadingly. Tony, if you can hear me, run. You've got to run, Tony. Don't let it find you. You've got to, you've got to run, run.

Tony didn't want to. The last thing he wanted to do was leave them. Jesse deserved better. He deserved to be buried at home where his family could see him. And to leave Bill like that, to leave him alive in that thing's clutches. Tony would, almost, rather die. But if he could make it, get back home, he would rally more hunters than those woods had ever known.

He could make the butcher rue the day, he thought. He could make it rue everything. He could avenge his friends. Or you could survive, whispered a darker voice inside his head. And stay away. The butcher circled the shack many times. searching for something, anything. Tony could feel its frustration growing

as it growled beyond the doors as it swiped its claws at the shack's wooden frame. It knew he was close, but it didn't know where. Eventually, into Tony's initial disbelief, the butcher retreated. Tony could tell as its heavy footsteps fell away, and Bill's tormented cries faded into the distance.

When everything had grown silent, silent except for the bird calls and the rustling of leaves in the wind, and it had been that way for a good long while, Tony made his move. Cautiously, he pushed open the shack's front door, and he peered into the woods. It must have been past noon, but the mist that morning had brought still hung thick between the trees, but Tony wasn't expecting to rely on his sight. he was expecting to rely almost completely on his ears. As he ran, sprinted, bolted the mile back out of the woods, he listened. It nearly froze him to the spot the first time, but it happened just as he expected it would. Like a siren coming from the distance, he heard Bill's cries echo out as the creature galloped closer. It happened once.

twice again and again and each time bill's cries saved tony's life if he thought he heard them in the distance for even a moment tony would duck for cover and cow beneath some log or within some rotted tree basin until the distant wells had once again faded to the horizon and then he would start again it stretched the mile into near infinity having to stop so often. It turned every several hundred feet into a lifetime. But he persisted. It almost sickened him, using his friend the way he did. What you have to do, he thought to himself, do what you have to do to get out of here, to survive. It originally told himself he would survive for Bill, for Jesse. Yet the close attorney got to the forest's edge, the less and less he wanted to ever return. Each time Bill's screams faded,

it became easier and easier to forget, to find that drive to survive. He laid him up inside, but Tony never intended to come back. I'm sorry, he whispered as the edge of the forest approached. It was my fault we even came here. The trees were about to break. He hadn't heard the beast, hadn't heard Bill in what felt like hours. I'll never make that mistake again. He tripped, right before he made it to the opening. Crawling forward, he tried to keep the momentum moving as he rolled onto his back and kicked at the leaves with his feet.

Logic told him it was a branch, a stump, a root of that mighty oak he'd just passed. He could have tripped on anything. Instinctually, however, he knew what had happened before he hit the ground. He looked to that broad oak and to its shadow. That's where it stood on its hind legs, heaving mighty, warm breaths, crouched ever so slightly forward. It held its hands on Bill's wriggling form. One was cupped over his mouth, the other around his still squirming throat.

It had silenced him. It had waited. Craning its neck down, right beside Bill's cherry red face. It tilted its head almost inquisitively. Its lips audibly split. Its smile was indescribable, with simply any other word, but wicked. Those two stories haven't titillated your senses yet, and wait until you hear our third story. The Austerling's house is haunted.

No, it's not. Angelica sighed, rolling her eyes. It's too, chuckled Felicia. Just ask your boy, Charles. Said he couldn't get three feet past the door before he could hear the moaning. Angelica shook her head as Felicia started circling her, making ghostly noises. Her collar pulled up over the back of her head. With an arched eyebrow, Angelica crossed her arms and stared Felicia down.

Knock it off, she ordered. Felicia listened, relaxing, but with a sly chuckle. Oh, come on, she said warmly. Look at it. Angelica turned her head. The Osterling's house fit perfectly beneath the grey, swirling clouds. The black shutters were infested with vines and rocks. The once white siding had long lost all of its sheen, infected by moss and grimy black mould.

The crack posts around the front porch gave it almost a twisted, grinning appearance, with two cracked windows serving as the empty haunting eyes. It looked almost like it was alive. Oh, if there was ever a house to be haunted, Angela smirked, before moving to. walk away. Wait, Felicia called. Girl, look at this thing. I did, Angelica said, giggling, if only to amuse her friend.

Did you not see me? I mean, really, look. The damn thing's got one of those weird ass spy-looking things. Gee, it's as old as hell. Don't you want to see what's inside? I know what's inside. Angelica said back. Mould, dust,

a lot of unstable floorboards, loads of cobwebs. Man, I told you, this house is 200 years. Oh, it's actually 172. Angelica interrupted. Felicia's jaw dropped. You look that up just so you could be right, didn't you?

No, Angelica quickly lied. just happened to find it. You've always got to be right, girl. It's annoying. Not as annoying as this, Angelica said, motioning to Felicia and the Earstling's house. Come on, Felicia pouted. Don't tell me you're too chicken.

Everyone who's, well, anyone, goes into that house. Do they all come out, though? Angelica asked jokingly. I heard they don't. Besides, I'm not chicken. There's just nothing in there to see. What? You don't want to see a ghost?

Angelica let out an inaudible and exasperated sigh through a still smiling mouth. There's no such thing as ghost, Felicia. It's not haunted. Felicia crossed her arms, pressing her tongue deep into her cheek. Angelica could see the conniving gears turning inside her head, like Felicia's pleased eyes were made of glass.

Hmm, prove me wrong there. Angelica chuckled once, and then she also crossed her arms. The two looked like they'd fallen into a stalemate. But Angelica knew she'd already lost. Felicia had played her like a fiddle. You know me too. too well, she sighed. She uncrossed her arms and grinned.

Angelica pushed open the house's rusty gate. Felicia, satisfied, grinned. Knew you looked that damn house up, she said, cockily. What do you want me to do? Angelica asked. Felicia leaned in, resting one arm on Angelica's right shoulder, while pointing up at the house with the other. That window, she said, pointing to the room underneath the spire.

See it? The one with a shade still drawn. Get to that bedroom. Pull those shades open. Give me a nice smile and a thumbs up. Hey, maybe I'll give a wave or two. I'll snap your picture just to prove that ghosts aren't real, of course, and we'll be good. Angelica shook Felicia often.

"'Why do you get off on this shit?' Angelica asked. Felicia just shrugged. Anoyed, and only slightly amused, Angelica started walking towards the front door. "'You're so full of shit,' she called back. "'Felicia, who was too busy texting everyone she knew that, "'Oh, Angelica is actually going to go into the ostling place,' "'replied to the accusation with a simple...

Yep. Creek, my creek. Angelica stepped onto the ancient porch. She could feel the soggy, forgotten boards bending beneath her weight. Man, I don't want to go to the second story of this thing. She mumbled. It's not going to support my ass. Her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob.

Glancing backwards, she was glad to see the door. that Felicia's face was still buried in her phone where she couldn't see. Taking a deep breath as a palm met cold, rusted metal. She turned the door. Unfortunately, yet unexpectedly unlocked, the door opened to welcome her inside. Creeping through a short, muggy entry hall, she entered into the heart of the house.

The scene before her was as decrepit as she imagined it would be. It might have been totally dark, had it not been for the rotten holes in the ceiling, that bled grey daylight into the shambles that someone had once called home. The entryway was surprisingly open. Angelica had expected more broken furniture, more evidence of the lives that used to be, but it seemed to be nothing more than an empty shell. Only a single broken chandelier had been left behind.

It dangled from the ceiling by a thread, covered in layers of dust and film. A balcony stretched around the entryway. Stairs to the second floor were on Angelica's left. She was actually amazed. There didn't seem to be any cobwebs. Any ghosts? Angelica hollered. into the house. She didn't know what she'd expected. An answer? An echo. She got nothing,

and that should have settled her. Should have. She felt like the damn thing was breathing. Don't know if I mentioned, Felicia called at her. But you've got to go inside to reach the second floor. I don't know if that helps or not. It is pretty complicated, but I'm hoping. I'm hoping at least get you on your way. Angelica slammed the door shut behind her, drowning out Felicia's hyena-like cackling, alone inside the house. She decided there was nothing to fear.

Even so, she moved slowly towards the stairs. She tiptoed up them, cautiously taking each step with a measured precision and delicacy. They creaked to know. moaned beneath her weight, but they held her. She was okay with the moaning. Maybe trees have ghosts, she thought. That's why all wood moans when you step on it. She smiled, reaching the top of the stairs. Running her hands through her frizzy hair, she took a moment to breathe. Not that it was a particularly easy task. The dust in the air was

thick when it felt like it was trying to clog Angelica's lungs. Covering her mouth with the collar of her shirt, Angelica moved along the banister. Gripping it with her hand, she could swear she felt the wood tremble as if it, itself, pulsed with life. She assured herself it was nothing more

than the trembling beats of her own panicky heart. The floor still still. creaked, still groaned under her footfalls. The room she needed was just up ahead, up in the shadows. But, above the creaking floors, Angelica started to realize something else. There were sounds, very obvious sounds. The floorboards groaning, her own labored breathing. But, but she was, But there was something else. A noise she wasn't making. A muffled and labored droney.

And it was coming from in front of her. From the bedroom she was supposed to go into. For a moment there was fear. Fear always came first. Fear needed no thought to exist. no rationality, no understanding. And so first there was fear. There was a ghost, and then came anger.

Could Felicia be tricking her? Could this all have been set up? And they were friends. They pranked each other, but this was all new kinds of love. That anger drove Angelica to the closed bedroom door. And then came doubt, and it slowed her. It made her hand hover just above the doorknob.

The doubt that the fear had been too easily dismissed. The doubt that she was wrong. The doubt that maybe, just maybe, she was still alone in that house, that no one waited for her on the other side, at least no one living. Even though she fought it desperately, her hand lowered down onto the doorknob like it was a magnet and her hand had been forged of lead. The end result was inevitable.

When her palm finally found its perch, she followed through, if only out of pure adrenaline. She turned the doorknob. Inside, the room was black. No rot let the outside light in from above, and none seemed able to creep inwards from where Angelica stood in the open doorway. All she could see was a short little hall that seemed to lead into the larger bedroom chamber. Beyond it, she noticed the faintest of blood red outlines, where the sun ate along the edge of the blinds, begging to be let in. The room seemed empty. could have been easy. A short, ten-step walk, had that been all? Oh, if only.

When she'd opened the door, the moaning had only grown louder. Someone or something was inside the room, taking only one step forward. Angelica took her phone from her pocket before she proceeded. Lighting the flashlight app, she scanned the lighted. She scanned the light. across the ground as she continued forward. She saw what she was very quick to hear. Each step she took sounded moist, almost like she was walking across a marsh. Below her, the floor glimmered with liquid that was black and putrid.

She could only imagine what it was. Something mouldered from the ancient lumber, perhaps. Despite this, The air was incredibly stagnant and dry, and yet suddenly pungent with odors that Angelica could not describe. She hesitated entering the actual room. Wandering the floor was too unstable, wondering if it was safe. But she couldn't stop. Not now she was so close.

Not when she had no idea what was making that awful, growing sound. Oh, the moaning, the tormentor. Growning, coming from just up ahead. Her feet nearly sticking to the floor in the awful liquid, she trudged forward, entering the main body of the large bedroom. She shone her light around, forgetting about the window, forgetting about her goal for just long enough, just long enough perhaps to see the impossible. There was nothing there.

The floor, although wet and decay, was barren. There was no furniture, no closets for anyone to hide inside. Nothing present to make any kind of moaning. In fact, the moaning had seemed to stop once she'd entered the chamber. Angelica began to wonder if it had ever even been real. Giving her entire body a good, cleansing shake. Angelica reached over and pulled the blinds. open on the window.

Sunlight flooded the room. She stuck her tongue out and flipped the bird as a wildly ecstatic Felicia jumped around and took her picture. You did it. I can't believe it. You crazy bitch. I can't believe you actually did it. Angelica, sticking her tongue out in disgust at how much dust had settled there,

pried the window open to shout back. There's no ghosts up here, bitch. You're doing it next. No way, Felicia said. I'm not that dumb, unlike some people I know. Screw you, Angelica murmured, slamming the window shut. Moving for the door, she looked down at her phone to quickly check her messages. Make people think I'm chicken.

Angelica asked herself. Make them think I'm wrong? I don't think so. I mean, could you even imagine... She stopped mid-sentence. There was a zipping sound behind her, and the sunlight disappeared from the room. Aiming her flashlight at the window,

Angelica was shocked to see that the blinds had fallen on their own, once more blocking the window, before she could even mutter to herself, What the... She heard the moaning once more. Just in time she turned to... see the door slam shut in front of her, trapping her inside the room. Frozen, she could only move her eyes, and they wandered.

They wandered from the door, the soaking wet floor, and from the floor they moved up. Following the light, they wandered up the side of the wall and across the ceiling. Angelica couldn't breathe. She couldn't scream. There, stuck to the walls, were dozens of decaying, digesting bodies. They were trapped, sucked inside grotesque, pulsating masses of red flesh. Most had been reduced to nothing but grey, petrified bones, with pulsating tendrils linking them to the mounds of encompassing tissue.

It was feeding off of them. them, stripping them there. Most had been fairly well digested, but some were fresher, some still bled. Particularly one body stuck right on the wall next to the short entryway. He still had plenty of skin. He still had a fresh face. Clothes, or perhaps teeth, protruded from the wall around his body, rippling along his entire height, digging into him in slow, coursing intervals. Covering the man's mouth, there was a mask of almost clear, mucus-like tissue, enough to prevent the still living, still breathing teenager, from doing anything. Well, anything other than moan.

And that was what it wanted. That's why the teeth stabbed him over and over again To get him to mow Angelica gasped as all the teeth plunged into the teen's flesh And he let out a final choked scream of pain The boy had been bait And with the door shut the trap had been sprung Angelica tried to get back to the window

but it was no use. Her feet had been glued fast to the floor. She tried to call Felicia, but shapes quickly swarmed her from the sides of the wall, surrounding her in a warm pulsating mass. Angelica had been right. The usdling place wasn't haunted, but it was worse, much, much worse.

The Earstilings' house wasn't haunted The Earstling's house Was alive Very alive And very alive and very hungry We ever so slowly Draw towards the end of this evening's podcast But not before two more stories

Our penultimate tale this evening Is Inside Out There was no exit that she could find only more endless corridors of repeating reflections. She felt like she was chasing her own terrified face. But no, she wasn't doing the chasing. He was. She was pursued through the fun house.

Chased by laughter and transient images in her periphery, she had to force herself forward, onwards, towards freedom, away from him, away from the black and white cloud. Her right hand smeared sweat and oil across the mirrors as she dragged it along It was a trick her mother had taught her back when she was a child You can get out of any maze in the world She told her

If you just put your right hand on the wall and follow it out His image The clown's face Kept appearing on the glass Darting around her from places unseen She knew he was close For she heard his laughter and she heard his footsteps, but she couldn't be sure where.

Sometimes it seemed like he was right in front of her, so real, so close. Black diamond eyes and a ragged, colourless suit, tattered collar and wiry black hair, razor blades embedded in his fingertips, and ashen smile scorched across his face. But he was never actually there. He was close, but such was, the same. madness that was the funhouse. She couldn't be certain what was real and what was mirage.

Each mirror was pristine, like crystal. Every image held weight and malice. Each one felt real. She mumbled through exhausted lips. Her head turning and twisting as she fell through corridors and corners, hollering in spite at his mockingly curled lips. Where are you? The exit must have been close.

Surely? She felt like she'd been wandering for hours, and she'd started to pass areas she knew she'd already been. She could trace her smear to handprints across the mirrored walls. Finally, there was a long corridor before her, the longest straight shot yet. The only place she hadn't yet tried. Finding her last, desperate reserves of energy, she bolted down the path. But as she reached its end, she realized that there was nowhere left to go. Her hand fell into a corner and she traced a solid black wall to the other corner and she finally rested.

Not because she wanted to, but because she'd run out of places to go. Her only option was to turn back. Back towards the approaching laughter. Towards the clown with a razor fingers. She pounded against the glass with her palms at first. She begged to God To anyone For a way out

For help Then her begging Curdled by fear Became rage Primal rage as the footsteps Seems set around the corner It was her And the clown

She looked back the way she'd come It was just one long hallway No way in but one No way out but dead ahead It was a stray shot, just her and him, just life and death. Twisting her torso, she yelled as her fist met one of the glass panels on her left. The glass screamed and bloody shards fell onto the floor. Smearing her fresh blood across the pieces, she found the largest and most intimidating blade the shattering had made,

and she gripped it so tightly and the edges easily split her skin. one way out her versus him fight or flight and she'd made her decision she wouldn't go down without a fight the clown was coming he was rounding the corner sprinting through the fun house like the madman he was his laughter echoed down on her falling around her from seemingly every direction and she thought she was ready. Immediately he came, his reflection shot across the dozens of mirrors that spanned the hall, his smile glistening across dozens of faces. But he only appeared on the mirrors.

No one had rounded the corner. In the reflections the clown stood with shoulders squared and predatory arms held at his sides, like it was staring her down. But no one stood at the end of the hall. She wondered if he could have been standing around the corner, waiting for her to come to him instead of the other way round. But his reflection overtook hers on every mirror, as if he stood between her and every panel in the entire hall. Something was off. Come on, she screamed. Her weapon poised and ready.

I'm right here. Show yourself. The laughing that seemed like it was coming from every. everywhere. Stopped. The smiling reflections gazed at her, and then, seemingly, they gazed past her as a tapping sound came from the glass behind her. Turning her head, and only her head, she noticed that the clown was reflected behind her as well, on the entire dead-end wall. It was like you stood right there, but that couldn't be. She'd touched those mirrors herself. The smear of her hand still sat across the clown's grinning lips. But that's when she realized that the tapping had come from the mirror itself.

The clown reflection before her was waving at her. It was the only reflection that did so. Around her, all the images started to tap and knock against the glass, each one moving independently of the others. They chuckled. They mocked her from insoled. the mirrors. Then the clown smiles all faded in unison.

Their faces, their cheeks, started to tremble as a carnivorous hunger burned behind their eyes. He started with the one that had been waving. He raised his hand and placed the razor blade embedded inside his index finger on the panel of the glass. And then he started to carve downwards. The screeching of dissected glass filled the fun house As all the reflections followed the lead at their own pace Cutting their mirrors in two from the inside out She felt angry, boiling tears fill her eyes

Causing her to only grip that large shard tighter in her hands The mirrors around her started to crack As the clowns started to push on them from the inside out They were pushing their way out out from inside, birthing themselves into the world like snakes from their eggs. As their arms and faces stretched out from the mirrors, she bent over and picked up a second shard of glass. With a deep breath in and a long hissing breath out, she calmed herself.

Blood dripping from her hands, she braced herself. Her situation was more complicated than before, but the basics were still. still the same. There was one hall, one way out. And she wouldn't go down without a fight. We round off proceedings with an intriguing tale entitled, FET. Tommy threw the damn blue squeaky ball through the air again,

wiping the dirt and spit on his khaki shorts. Once more, with an incredible enthusiasm for so early in the morning, his Labrador retriever ran off after it, chasing it to the edge of the untrimmed grassy field. As the dog, the one his mom had named Butter, fumbled around, snapping at the elusive ball. Tommy pulled out his phone and started scrolling through his text messages. Amusedly, he laughed at the latest one from his mother.

8.11 a.m. The Bradd given you any problems yet? Butter panted as she rounded Tommy's legs. With a sigh, Tommy reached down and tugged at the ball. Butter held firm, but, with some effort, Tommy was able to pull the ball free. He tossed it again right to the edge of the field. With his left hand, because his right one was coated in puppy slime, Tommy responded. 8.23 a.m.

Yeah, but it's fine. We're in background. Butter grabbed the ball, almost toppling over her own feet and into the ball. field and came sprinting back. As Tommy pried the ball away, he got another message from his mother. 8.24 a.m. Don't stay out too long. Ran into Mr. Anthony this morning. Said he thinks he heard coyotes in the field last night. Mr. Anthony? He was there next-door neighbor. Tommy didn't know him that well. Just knew that he was friendly enough and that his wife passed away about two years ago. Rarely saw him, hobbled around with a black wood cane whenever he went out to his garden, long white Santa Claus beard. He didn't know his mum ever talked to Mr. Anthony. Tommy threw the ball.

Butter chased the ball. 8.24 a.m. Oh, I'll keep an eye out. Thanks. Looking out to the field, Tommy wondered when the last time they'd seen a coyote was. Months, surely. Before that, maybe years. they weren't common. Plus, it wasn't like they were wolves or anything really threatening. Coyotes were small, smaller than Butter, surely, and she was still a puppy. Tommy wasn't worried at all. Butter gave Tommy the bore rather easily this time, dropping it on the ground. She nudged it playfully closer with her snout.

She lit her tongue dangled as she panted. She sat like a good dog, a good, patient dog. waiting for Tommy to play fetch. One more throw? Tommy asked. Butter jumped up, lunging for the ball, leaving muddy footprints

all over Tommy's pants. Get down, he ordered bitterly. Go get it. Launching the ball, he realized he'd overdone it. The ball flew further than before, and it landed about ten feet inside the field.

Oh, shit, he murdered his butter took off, diving head first into the long grass. He disappeared after the ball. Confident that Butter would not only find the ball but also return, and hoping to keep his involvement at a minimum, Tommy focused back on his phone. As he scrolled through videos, hoping to find something good to watch,

he saw Butter jump out of the field, her head raised confidently. She was carrying something. Good. The last thing Tommy wanted was to get something. some ticks, searching for the dog's damn squeaky blue ball. Without looking at the dog, Tommy lowered his hand and told Butter to, give it. She seemed to do so willingly, but before Tommy could say, Good girl. He realized he didn't feel right. Tommy looked down at the object she brought him.

It wasn't the damn squeaky blue ball. It was a stick. No, not a stick. A cane. A black wood cane. Mr. Anthony, Tommy murmured, kneeling down beside a panting butter to examine the find. He noticed the teeth marks before he could finish his sentence, but they weren't butters. The entire cane was covered in deep, savage bite marks. Coyotes!

His thoughts trailed off as butter started to growl. She faced the field. Tommy looked up, clutched. the stick close. Something moved, rustling the long blades of grass. He was heading right for them. Racing, sprinting, bounding and growling. Water started to mark as the thing broke free of the long grass.

It was much bigger than a coyote, almost like a bear more than anything else. Long black fur fell around its muscular frame. Long, tallant-like claws raked the ground. down. Tommy stumbled over Butter, knocking them both to the ground. Whereas Buddy was able to quickly recover and bolt towards the house, Tommy was not. Tommy was left, staring down the creature's broad nose as it slowed to a halt. Almost atop him, the creature took deep, pounding breaths as it seemed to size him up, slowly backing off, noticed that the creature held something between its massive jaws.

It was Mr. Anthony, lifeless and pale. The creature proceeded to drop the corpse at Tommy's feet, freeing its massive fangs. Tommy was sure they were meant for him. Positive. This was it. This was the end. He cowered and waited for pain and death. Yet it didn't.

It didn't come. The monstrous beast simply panted, with its blood-smeared tongue dangling from its mouth. It sat right behind Mr. Anthony's corpse. Tommy was unsure of what to do of what it wanted, until it leaned forward and, ever so gently, nudged on the corpse with its oversized snout. It sat there and waited,

Like a good dog Like a good Patient dog Waiting for Tommy to play fetch I hope you enjoyed Tonight's collection of five stories All from the pen of the wonderful Ryan Brennaman

We had three tongues The Butcher's Woods The Osterling's house is haunted Inside Out And Fetch So that brings us to the end Of this evening's podcast but I'll be back again next week and I do so hope you'll join me again

until the next time sweet dreams and bye bye