Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep59: Episode 59: Horror from the Carpathian Mountains and Northern England

Episode Date: December 9, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/ As those of you who join me often will know, I've lived quite a strange life that has seen me move around a lot from continent to continent. Well, tonight I'm really pleased to be able to tell you a story set in the North of England, where I spent my formative years. We open with an original, anonymous story by the name of ‘Coal Dust’:  http://www.creepypasta.com/coal-dust/ I grew up in a town that was right on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors, a barren and barely populated area of about 550 square miles. Basically, you had my house, our back yard, then miles and miles of forest. Fortunately, I never really considered how creepy this was at the time, or else I'd have never been able to make it through stories like the one you're about to hear tonight! Our second tale of terror this evening is ‘The Fairdale Kids Stay Inside’ by K. Brown:  http://www.creepypasta.com/the-fairdale-kids-stay-inside/ We now move across to the other side of the European continent for our penultimate tale, ‘The Carpathian Carver’ by LJ:  http://www.creepypasta.com/the-carpathian-carver/ Our final story for this evening is ‘A Word of Caution’, a wonderful work by Mercury Coated Veins: http://www.creepypasta.com/word-caution/

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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. Creepen's Dungeon. Of course, the one thing that links the Carpathian Mountains and the north of England is the one and only legendary Dracula. So it seems fitting to do four stories, two from each of those locations for you this evening. Later on, we have the Fairdale Kids Day Inside by Kay Brown. That's followed by the Carpathian Carver by L.J.

Then we round off tonight with a word of caution from mercury-coated veins. But first up, we have an anonymous story, coal dust. Hours ever before we begin a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. So, here I am. laying down on my stomach, helpless,

darkness stifling both my thoughts and my cries for help. I was too deep underground now, all sound drowned out by the earth with my last moments ahead of me. I began to reflect on how the hell I ended up in this position. I'd recently received a tip-off to investigate a small town in northern England.

It was a minute, silent town that hardly manifested on any map I could get my hands on. The history of this place was as obscure as the town itself. The only background information I'd received about the location was regarding the construction of the power plant that was finalized in the early 80s. Before then, the town had heavily relied on coal from its coal mines. in order to keep the residents warm during the hard, grueling winters. However, the most striking news that seemed to plague the town concern the various reports of missing people and the supposed continued operation of the coal mines,

despite their long-ago shutdown. Accounts of thick black smoke slithering from behind the grey ridges that tore along the horizon from across the fields that surrounded the town. Nonetheless, I could not fathom what the connection could be between the missing persons and these reports of the redundant coal mine operations. I needed the money, desperately. So I ventured into this town with the intent of investigating these suspicions of missing people thoroughly. I started with the most appropriate place my mind could conjure up. The fields.

These fields stretched for miles, scarred with snaking paths that cut straight through the tall grass and marshland, all extending out towards the ridges. I'd also been warned beforehand of the marshes that were highly prevalent in the fields. So with this in mind, I set off on my investigation on one of these paths that had been mulched into a slick mud by various people, probably hikers. It seemed like this would be an idyllic, scenic place, with the right weather, of course. At this moment in time, the skies were overcast. and grey, a miserable blanket draped over the sun that seemed to have disappeared. The majority of my journey was uneventful. The same images of tall grass, gangly trees and

rising hills crossed my vision for hours. That was until, through random chance, I somehow wandered onto a path that seemed to be untouched, merely a subtle one-meter wide line, which I considered to be a path. I'd probably wandered onto this trail whilst my mind was also wondering. With a heavy sigh, I scolded myself for not being more attentive, reminding myself of the warning of the marshes the locals had given me. With a newfound caution, I prepared to to turn back, which was when something very odd struck my peripheral vision. It was a splash of colour that prominently stood out from the generic green grass. It was, sky blue, whipping my head around to focus on the out-of-place object. I saw it was a long-sleeved shirt.

The colour hadn't been as vibrant as I first thought. The blue was darkened, and made dull from what I predicted was years of exposure to the elements. Why was this here? It looked like it belonged to an adult, and it also looked like it had been here for a while, with streaks of grime, soiling the wool material it was made out of. I didn't touch it. I just stared with curiosity slowly building inside my mind. I simply lifted the lens of my camera and snapped a quick photo.

The faded trail beckoned me onwards. Perhaps there were more items of interest further down this path. I continued and discovered more carelessly strewn about clothing. But these items did not seem to belong to the same person. All were of different sizes, some seeming to belong to younger children, and others to larger individuals. I took photos of all that I came across. I suddenly became aware of the rapidly setting sun around me. It was getting late, and I needed to.

to turn back. I found nothing else and began to return to my starting point. Speaking of which, where was I? I was perplexed as I glanced only to notice that there was no longer a path behind me. Only tall grass and a line of trees were visible. Now utterly perplexed, I began to walk aimlessly. attempting to find some noticeable feature that would allow me to make my way back, but there was nothing. Around me appeared the same mundane pattern of trees, grass and hill. Panic began to swell as the encroaching darkness crept in. With the sun dipping below the evening clouds, I decided to climb upwards to try and gain an idea of where I was. I reached the top of a grassy knoll

and searched around me scanning for a root out of these fields I did find something but it wasn't a root my eyes fell upon dark columns of smoke rising towards the murky heavens with a disbelief infesting my mind I began to ponder

Was it really true? It couldn't be. I dismissed the thought. I had to focus on getting back. Then again, the columns seemed to intrigue me, and, like I said, I really needed the money. My feet began to stagger towards the columns, sluggish with fatigue. Now I was no more than a fish. caught on a fishing hook, I had taken the bait. I began to draw closer to the smoke.

It loomed larger in the sky as I gradually made my way towards the plumes, just a little closer, not long now. That was when I noticed the noise that had been hiding amongst the background chorus of chirping birds and rustling autumn leaves. It was subtle, yet it grew louder and louder as my weary steps came ever closer to the smoke. It was a low rumble. My mind immediately jumped the idea that this was the mine's still in operation, yet I knew this was impossible, for they had been shut down a long time ago. Tucking this thought in the back of my head, I continue going towards the black smoke.

I'd been traversing the fields for hours, with no change of scenery to bless my eyes. It was the same grass everywhere. That was, until I clicked on to an abrupt change in the land. The green terrain withered away into an asphalt-coloured landscape. I had reached my destination, the former cul-pits. Flat land stretched out in front of me. I jogged to the edge of this flat wasteland, only to observe a large crater with openings in the site.

It was obvious what this was. I'd also just realized that... The smoke had ceased, as had the rumble. Bizarrely, I had the idea of searching one of the mineshafts. Looking back on it now, it was a foolish idea. Yet I still followed through with my idiotic plan. Cautiously I made my way down the side of this crater, towards one of the openings. It was obscured by thorns and vegetation and barely visible.

I decided to crawl through a hardly noticeable gap in this wall of vegetation. With great effort, I pushed my body through and came out the other side into pitch blackness, covered in scratches and dirt. Tapping into my resourceful side, I illuminated the place with my camera flash. At the very least it would give me some concept of where I was. Raising my camera, I clicked the button

and the bright flash covered every inch of the shaft it was now in. It revealed to me ashen grey walls, supported by wooden beams that had, surprisingly for their age, not been rotted. In fact, they appeared, knew, as if somebody was still maintaining them. But how could this be possible? Searching the walls with my hands,

I clawed my way around the tunnel, clumsily finding my way deeper and deeper. As I got deeper still, the smell began to intestate the area, becoming more pungent as I descended. It became so strong that I began to gag heavily. Almost vomiting, I realized that it smelled like something dead. My feet reached a level ground and the descent had abruptly come to an end.

Raising my camera once more, I activated the flash. I could have turned back then and now I dearly wished that I had. I had discovered where the missing people went. I saw piles of corpses, stacked one on top of another. Their clothes were torn and shredded. They had been dragged down here. This was made evident by the scratches and cuts I could see on their skin. An incinerator was next to this horrifying sight.

reaching out with reluctant hands I touched its surface I immediately leapt backwards as I discovered it was hot the source of the smell had also been discovered along with the bodies tears welled up in my eyes and stung

as the smell intensified the smell of rot. The coal dust my fingers had made contact with countless times. It wasn't cold dust. Glaring at my shaking hands, I found that they were not covered in coal, but the ashes from burning bodies.

To this point, I'd always found it odd how I'd discover not a single lump of coal. Sure, it was abandoned long ago, but surely that wouldn't mean the source of coal had run dry. There should be at least some trace of coal here. But there was nothing, only the coal dust. That was when the realisation struck me like a hammer to anvil, sending sparks of horror into my mind. There never was any coal. I now knew how the town was kept warm during the winter,

and the thought sickened me. The locals were all deceived and given their power. Meanwhile, their own kind burned down here. Now I moved on to the next thought that occupied my mind. this place was still in operation. It was too late when I came to this revelation, and, blinded by my shock, I had not heard the creeping footsteps behind me.

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It sliced the skin and ripped the tissue, and it was worse if they really struggled. Ideally, they would die of dehydration. But this mercy was extended only to a fortunate few. Most of the time, they would dangle from the branches for hours as the barbs talked. their flesh and the pressure built in their heads. When upright the heart doesn't have to pump blood that hard to circulate through the brain. Gravity does most of the work to get it back down. Consequently, the blood vessels up there are smaller and thinner than in the rest of the body.

I'd rather be hung personally. I would much prefer the struggling for breath and the kicking for air and the white-hot agony of my vertebrae coming apart, then waiting for the blood to pool in my head, to clot, and eventually burst the veins, and feel the warm, sticky liquid drip out of my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. A noose would be kinder, and suffocation gentler. There's something in there, my brother would tell me from the pork. pointing his cigarette toward the trees. It watches people, then strings up the ones it doesn't like.

As paranoid as he was, I agreed with him. He spent a lot of time on that porch. I don't let him smoke in the house. He sat out there, cigarette in one hand, gun in the other, just watching the woods and waiting for something to come out. One night I heard him yelling, frantically, trying to get my attention. Gunshot after gunshot exploded through the air, and intermingled with his crazed screaming. I ran out onto the porch to find my brother in a panic that was slowly turning to rage.

Guns don't do shit. I saw them. Their eyes were peering out from the trees, fucking watching me. they almost glowed. He emphatically pointed to the woods behind our house, trying to show me the eyes that weren't there. That's no reason to wake up the whole neighborhood. My brother had this habit of keeping his cigarette between his teeth when he talked.

It didn't matter how important what he said was. I could only see the glowing end of the cigarette bobbing up and down as the words fell out. It was fucking infuriating, and it was one of those trivial things that finds its way under your skin and stays there, tapping at the inside of your skull. I'd express my displeasure several times, but he didn't seem to care much. I must have been giving him that look this time, because he yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and let it limply dangle in his fingers. I'll not be strung up in those woods. He spat his final words at me before stomping out his remaining half-cigarette and storming inside. I wasn't worried that the neighbors would call the police.

They knew my brother and they knew the woods. It was amazing the things you could get away with in this town. Everybody here was afraid, but more than that, they were constantly on edge, as if their whole body seethed with anticipation. The paranoia that was so ingrained into these people could only be born out of desperation. It seemed that they'd tried everything. Guns, knives, brute force, shit, one time somebody tried to light the whole forest on fire. The kids played in the street, or preferably, if they had friends from the next subdivision, In the backyards the next neighbourhood over.

When they grabbed their flashlights in the middle of the night, they would tell stories about the woods. They never talked about Bloody Mary or Slender Man, because in Fairdale, the real horror lived ten feet behind their homes. I don't think anyone in that town had seen the creatures in the woods, but we all knew what they looked like. The descriptions were spread in passing whispers and hushed voices, out of fear that they were listening.

All the children spoke softly but emphatically about their grey skin, six-inch fingers, and hollow infinite sockets carved deep into their skull. They seemed almost human, and maybe they once were. Once, that I can remember, a kid went into the forest. A bunch of others had dared him to do so. They waited in the shadows between houses, hearts pounding, even though they weren't the ones going in. In silence, they watched him glance back, hoping they would call the whole thing off, and then, reluctantly submerged himself into the trees.

There was a snapping of twigs and then, abruptly, stillness. The group did not take their eyes off the woods, yet they could see the fear among their friends. Surprisingly, they waited for a minute before cautiously taking a few steps backward, then turning and sprinting away. The boy was gone. The very next day a group of police officers, most of him resigned that same day, were sent into the woods after him. Let me tell you, he struggled. The wire tore through the skin of his abdomen, leaving his internal organs to spill out and hang from his body.

after that day no children went into the woods again they didn't even have to be told not to after the paper ran that story Fairdale lost its mind sure bodies turned up every other week but it was never a child that kind of death was

somehow more than murder it was a disaster a tragedy. I lived on the edge of the woods, and that incident stuck with me. It somehow made the whole thing real. These things were here, right behind my house. My last night in Fairdale was, hopefully the worst of my life. My brother was outside smoking, and I was on the couch,

almost asleep. I'm not a heavy sleeper, so I was glad when the small noises around me seemed to quiet down. But, just as I was about to drift off, my brother fired that goddamn gun about 3,000 times, ran inside and slammed the door behind him.

His fucking cigarette still lit, clammed fiercely between his teeth. I shot up. up, dazed and unsure of what was happening. Hands trembling, my brother ran to all the doors and windows, making sure that they were locked. What the fuck, man? I rubbed my eyes, wishing that I was sleeping. He sat on the coffee table inches away from me, voice raspy and frightened.

I saw them. They came out. His eyes were crazed. As his mouth was running faster than his head, he inadvertently blew smoke from his lips with every rushed word and forced breath. I didn't even know that you could see them. My mouth opened, but before I could speak, I heard something tapping on the sliding glass door. My jaw hung a jar and my brother and I froze instinctively.

It was too soft to be a knock. too hard to be the wind. A moment later, it came again. They're coming again me. My brother whispered. His eyes were wild, darting across the room as if he was afraid to leave them in one place for too long. They don't like me. You sure you saw them? My voice was barely audible. Somehow I knew that they could hear me anyway. I first noticed them in the corner of my eye. Just one at first, but more came. I got they were tall. Until they started moving, I thought they were trees. Their arms hang at their sides and they are as gangly as branches. What gave them away was the skin. Looked just like ash. While the sounds did not

increase in volume, they came to new places. I heard. them still from the door, but now they were also at the windows, the size of the house, and, most disturbingly, the roof. They don't have faces. I mean, they've got eyes, but not really. They've just got these holes. My brother made circles with his pointer finger and thumb, and held them up over his own eyes. The holes have this black shit coming out of them, just dripping down their heads. I think they could have been human. If they wanted to be, my palms were clammy,

and I broke out in a cold sweat. I could picture their long, bony fingers wrapping on the house. Their non-ey eyes inches from the window, waiting for us to draw back the curtain and meet their gaze. Until that moment, I don't think I've ever been truly afraid. It echoed. Or we knew we couldn't leave.

And even if we called someone, what good would it do? I didn't think that anything could save us. Our only option was to wait and hope that we'd not received a death sentence. I could hear it now coming from beneath the house. These things were everywhere. It scared me that they didn't just burst in, that they were waiting for something, and it scared me more that I didn't know what. I couldn't do anything but wait.

This isn't how I wanted to die. My brother and I sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table and hoped it would end. What do you think they are? I asked. We had all heard the stories, but these creatures had no name. They simply existed. They were always here, and we did everything we could to leave them alone, to live without them, and for the most part, they led us. They took some people, I supposed, to make an example. It was a constant reminder of the fear, and maybe it kept this town in line. My brother's head was bowed, and his eyes would not meet mine. He lit his fourth cigarette at the night, taking a long drag and holding it deep in his lungs before releasing it.

With his eyes still fixed at the floor, he said the only words, that have ever struck real fear into my core. Jimmy, I think they're God. I could only hear the tapping and feel them staring into me from all directions. Despite the emptiness of the house, we knew that they were in some way, both inside and outside. I forced my eyes shut,

and in the darkness I was only able to picture their elongated limbs hanging at their sides. Their shoulders hunched to fit under our low ceilings. God, I could feel the inky ooze dripping onto my hair. I refused to open my eyes because, if I did, they might have been there if they remain closed. It was easier to pretend. My brother promised me that we would stay awake all night. He swore. Grabbing a pillow from the couch, he handed it to me and insisted that I slent.

I argued, but I was so tired. Eventually I did fall asleep, albeit against my will. It had to be noon when I awoke. I was alone. I checked the whole house and even mustered up the nerve to step onto the pool. but I was alone. Dead or alive I had to find my brother. I went into the woods. I think that was the biggest fuck-up of my entire life. After a deep breath I stepped into the tree line. The sun was high in the afternoon sky, but it was impossibly dark inside that forest.

and even more unbelievably silent. I was the only thing that disturbed the stillness. I'll be honest here and say that I didn't have a plan. I had no idea where to look for my brother, and I didn't know how I would react if I found him in the branches. When I stopped in a small clearing to look around. The blurs at the corners of my vision began to move. I knew what it was. I froze and I think that even my heart stopped beating. Maybe they wouldn't see me. Maybe they'd leave. Maybe I was losing my mind. They got closer to me, close enough to see. If they didn't move, they could have been trees. But if they did, they were something that shouldn't have been allowed to exist.

I shut my eyes and ran blindly through the forest, running into trees and scraping my arms on low hanging branches. Miraculously, I made it out. I didn't stop running until I threw myself in my car. I sped down the highway and checked into a motel. Though it took me an extra hour to fall asleep that night, I kept the TV turned up, just in case they came tapping.

I never saw my brother or Fairdale again. I'm no genius, but I knew when to get the fuck out of that town. I moved to a new state. This time making sure I lived in the city away from the woods, even though years and miles have passed since that night. Every so often I hear the tapping again. With the knowledge I can never escape my hometown, I'm left with nothing else to do, but wait until it's my turn and hope that I dehydrate.

The Carpathian Mountains cast a long shadow as the sunset. I was in this god-forsaken place for my brother. He had left three months ago, leaving a voicemail before vanishing. He said he was on to something that it might take some time, but that when he returned, he would have no more worries. I've been worried every day since. You never really know how much. much you miss someone until they're gone. I grown familiar with his journal the past week,

as I made my way here, traveling from my home in America to Uz-Rod in Ukraine. I boarded a train from there, destined for a small village off the maps. I opened the journal to the entry I'd bookmarked. June 13th. Looks like I wasn't lost. Turns out there's a town out of the way, east of Uzherod. Geez, I had to read over the train routes like 13 times before I even saw it. It took me all day to get here, unfortunately. It's super small, pretty old, but the worst thing is that it smells. Real bad.

Like they've been cooking asparagus casserole in an oven and forgot to change. check it for two years. I'm staying at a run down in, but at least they've got internet. The people here are really weird, though. They're, I don't know, stiff. Not unfriendly on purpose, but just, it's like I'm in a town of autistic children. The innkeep barely said a word to me, just brushed his beard up on me and took my money and grunted and gave me a key. His eyes were super sunken in and cataracted. So bad I don't know how he could see and his skin looked really weird, floppy. But I left too quick to get a good look because I didn't want to spend any more time next to him.

Because he smelled like asparagus too. tomorrow I begin my trek into the woods I've already packed my bag checked and double checked for food water survival gear cigarettes essential and a knife

and holy water I have no plan to engage the demon in the least but best to be prepared anyhow that's it for today so good night journey get it because it's like a pet nickname for journal and I'm on a journey. Yeah, that's funny.

Yeah, I'm funny. I'm lonely. But this will all be worth it when I come home. Ah, yes. The demon. Reference to as the Carpathian carver on the internet. I collected an assortment of tales of folklore and anecdotal evidence on the creature. The earliest accounts attributed to the Carver date back to the mid-16th century during a period called

the ruin, a period of war for total control of Ukraine. One origin story describes a chance encounter between a tribe of druids and a brigade of Russian soldiers, fearful of their blue-painted bodies and wild faces, and mistaking their sacred ruins for black magic. The druids were slaughtered. The last one they killed died clutching an ugly book to his bleeding chest. A toome of esoteric incantations, impossible to find anywhere else. There are a multitude of other theories on the internet. Deviant mutants, supernatural two-bit laws, and then government sanctioned genetic mutation gone wrong. Oh, and aliens. Someone's always thinking it's aliens. Regardless the cause, something is happening in this forest. I turned the page of the journal. June 14th. Today was a waste. I searched for hours, losing the trail and finding it and losing it again. I gave up a couple of hours before sunset, insanely

disappointed. I was wondering if this mimic guy was just some Ukrainian asshole jokester. There was an interesting development, however. The townsfolk fished a body out of the river just before I got back. A woman. It was messed up real bad. I only caught a glimpse, but the throat was slashed so bad. It was just a gaping hole. Nothing in it. Looked like a bear or something had taken the chick down. She had some claw marks along her face, and her shirt was torn up. My Ukrainian hasn't improved much, but I heard the villagers whisper, voice, or something like that to each other.

But what does that even mean? I don't know. And they all have weird numbers. The innkeep saw me looking. And I guess I must have looked really interested, because he came out to me and started saying, Don't go, I think, and pointing upstream. He seemed pretty calm for having seen a dead person. He kept scratching himself.

I think he'd once had frostbite or something, because a splotch of his neck looked real bad. I mean, like it was dead. I'm somewhat hesitant to continue on. This carver dude drinks blood like water But If he exists That means the transmutation exists I can't stop now

I've got some weapons I've seen a few Jackie Chan movies with all the cool kung fu moves Yeah I'm good One Tomorrow I'll go upstream And the day after I'll be on a plane home turning all sorts of stuff into gold. A gold bed.

A gold toilet. Yeah. A gold toilet will really help me pick up some chicks. Mimic. This was all his fault. Mimic is a user on an internet forum for paranormal discussion. He is, by far, the leading expert on the carver. And he says he's a historian.

He's got loads of evidence on the carver. He describes the carver vaguely, though he seems certain holy water is its weakness. Mimic focuses mostly on the explanation of transmutation. The book he says The Druid died holding. He attributes all sorts of qualities to it, such as the ability to raise the dead, to grant immortality, to convert substances to gold and myriad other fantastical things. He wrote on it in such depth that I'm sure he's convinced a lot of people to search for it. Surely he's making some of it up.

He's crafting a story, a prank to convince stupid foreigners to travel all the way out to Ukraine so he can have a laugh. That's what I would have thought if I hadn't received my brother's journal in the mail. shipped in a box that smelled of necrosis. The box that contained his severed head. His head missing the eyes. The number 6,061 carved on his forehead. I turned to the last journal entry.

I'm dead. So dead. How'd I even end up here? I'm locked in a closet. I've only got a lighter and I'm writing my last words. I walked up the stream. There was this old stone house. It's the carvers.

It's also a mausoleum. Smells putrid. It's full of the dead. I saw it and waited. I wasn't just going to enter it, not right away. night came. I wasn't worried. I'd be able to find my way back.

Just follow the stream. And then I saw him, Carver. His flesh clings to his body. He's so skinny, almost a skeleton, if not for the pale blue skin, wrapped tightly to his bones. He walked slowly. but surely with a strange confidence I waited a while after I lost sight of him

just to make sure I would be in and out in a flash I thought part of the wall had collapsed on one side I jumped it and I got hit by that smell the smell that follows me it sunk into my hair and my skin I smell like a corpse and

Moonlit lit a bit of the room centuries old this building It smelled There were fragments of bones And trinkets A stained rug But no book I went into a door

And the smell got stronger It was in my nostrils now And I vomited I wiped my mouth And pulled out my lighter my hand shaking so bad I almost couldn't get it lit and the dead people

were there they were propped propped up like figures in a wax museum dressed in fashions from eons ago all different kinds all skeletal or ripe green or

or dirt brown and some of them were hanging from the ceiling like marionettes dancing and others were sitting at a table, silverware in hand. And another was staring out the window. Another had a laptop in its hands. And another applying makeup while staring into a mirror. Can you imagine that? A dead person staring at themselves in a mirror, staring with no eyes, just black sockets. and there was another propped up in a chair reading a book.

The explanation of transmutation. I pulled the book out of its hands, knocking the corpse over. A thousand baby spiders exploding from the skull. I ran into the forest, waiting to see the carver. But he wasn't there. I was elated. the world was mine I stopped to catch a breath

and the book began calling my name I took a quick look the pages were blank they were all blank page after page after page I kept turning all blank

except the last one one sentence scrolls Scrawled. Need new eyes. And I heard footsteps behind me. Then I woke up here and I'm waiting to die and I'm so alone. I hope someone reads this. Please stay away. My brother's address is as follows. Send this to him. Tell him. I miss him. Tears came no longer. I'd read it too many times, imagined his death too many times. I put the journal away as the train began to slow. I disembarked, the only passenger to do so. The air had a fetid odor and grew stronger the Closer to town I walked.

It reminded me to prepare myself, so I stopped and unzipped my travel back. I didn't bring just a knife like my brother. No, I came to slaughter. An MP5 and a fragmentation grenade, which I purchased through a friend of a friend of a contact in my brother's journal. six nine millimeter clips and a gallon of holy water, blessed by a reluctant priest,

a machete and a liter of gasoline and matches. I was going to torture the carver to death. With my weapons readied, I continued into town. Oil street lamps lit the cobbled stone streets, and I began to see people, slow, milling a bare, out aimlessly. I continued down into the middle of the street, studying the town. It was aged, storied with a history I would never know. Was it built during the ruin? The throngs of townsfolk began to thicken. They all looked sick and had numbers written on their shirts. What did it mean?

in the six thousands, but not one higher than were the carver's victims. They had me surrounded, dozens of them all staring at me, the faint glow of the street lamps illuminating the sickly pallor of their dead flesh. I saw the innkeeper amongst them in the back. He was a stranger to be sure, but there was something I recognized in his gaze. Contrarily, the village's eyes were glazed, void of consciousness. They stepped toward me. Gun in hand, I dropped the bag and began spraying bullets into the crowd. Black, bloodless holes filled their bodies, and they just kept coming, ignoring the rounds aside from a flinch from impact. Clip after clip was spent.

I could smell the decay on their breath, could see the yellowed whites of their eyes. And then there was the click of the last magazine running dry. Only a few lay still. And I began to worry. I strapped the bag of munitions to my back and sprinted towards the closest building, kicking down the door and barricading it. As soon as I stepped away, the door rattled on its hinges.

The villagers' bloodlust made audible in clarion screams. It wasn't going to hold very long. Shadows flit by the windows. I heard glass shatter somewhere. Got to go. got to get out but where do i go i ran through the house searching desperately but only one thing came to mind burn baby burn i wouldn't be able to escape but i wouldn't be the only one to die tonight i began another lap through the house unzipping the bag and pouring the gasoline in a trail evading villages

that had breached the building. I struck a match and the trail lit, consuming the house in an instant. A few villages in the way of the trail became walking torches, though they did not scream

as the flames roasted their skin. In fact, they made no reaction other than to continue to lumber toward me. It was useless. I tried to run. They were around every corner.

I couldn't get out. I ascended a staircase, trying to dodge the flames, quickly climbing it. And then I stopped, as I heard a loud grow. The stairwell broke, and I fell. I woke with a start, my temple pulsing in agony. The smoke was cold. caustic as I inhaled, and the light of flames flickered through the cracks above, illuminating the tunnel I was in with eerie light. After my eyes adjusted, I crept down the dank passage.

I saw torchlight near the end, set beside an ancient, rotted door. It was heavy and creaked loudly despite my caution. It opened up into a mammoth room. cobbled and mildewed, lit by lanterns in intervals. A foul odour crept into my lungs, and there was not a breath shallow enough to save me from it. Stone tables were staggered throughout, at least a hundred, each with something on them. Embalming tables. They were all embalming tables.

still occupied by bodies of mangled, pale flesh that hadn't seen sunlight in decades. I walked silently toward one, careful not to wake them, lest they be animated like the villagers. The one I looked at had a carving in its chest, the number one thousand and twelve. He kept them, carver, kept them as trophies. This was disgusting. I was disgusted and I needed out. I needed out right now. The confines of the room began to close in.

Clostrophobia squeezed my lungs as I ran through the room, aimlessly searching for an exit, any way out. But it was filled with tables, tables and corpses, and that terrible smell. In my carelessness, I knocked. over a trap of tools, rusted brown, and they clattered to the ground. The echo lasting several moments. And before I even looked up, I could feel eyes on me. And when I did, every corpse in the room was sitting up, staring at me, and then cold, feted hands, closed, fetid hands, closed, I laughed my face from behind me, and the world faded to black.

I awoke to darkness hanging by my arms. I stood up the reek of death all around me. When my eyes adjusted, I realized I was in the room my brother had described. The one with all the corpses propped up, except they were all staring into my eyes with green, withered faces. I remained motionless, for I could not tell if they were alive or not. They were perfectly still, but their eyes, their eyes were alive and glistening. I looked around, but there was no escape. I saw the bag with my supplies in it, five feet away, but impossible to reach, for my wrists were bound by chains. My head dropped. This was it. I had failed.

I would die in the same cursed place as my brother had. My poor brother, I was not strong enough to avenge you. I looked back up. Like an hallucination, two corpses lay on the floor. One freshly killed, one headless, and a ghastly figure kneeling beside them with a book in hand. It had a mask of human flesh on. The in-keeps. He was wearing the in-keep. The creature was frail, emaciated, his bones more prominent than his musculature, varicous veins pulsated, splintered, splintered, splintered, Entering off from his heart like lightning, there was a patchwork of his victim's flesh wrapped around him, interspersed by dried blood and pale blue. He began incanting an ancient language with the voice of a woman, and he looked at me,

my brother's eyes inside his darkened sockets. The demon put his finger inside the newly deceased's head, rubbed the brown blood on a page inside the book and then placed his hand on the headless body. It began twitching. The cover dropped the book, standing to look at me. He ripped the flesh mask off, the moon, lighting a sickening smile on his lipless face. The headless course stood up, wobbling. carved in its chest. A boast. A trophy.

The carver reached toward me, his fingers, mis-shapeen claws. The corpse flinched, frizzled behind it, as if agitated. New heart! He hissed. He poked my chest and began pushing, slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole time. His head tilted, relishing my reaction. His finger squirmed, sliced tissue, prodded my lung.

And suddenly, he fell to the floor. My brother's body had attacked it. But as soon as the carve had lost sight of me, it flailed blindly, searching without eyes for the chains that bound me. It made contact, and with supernatural strength tore it from the ceiling. I would have offered thanks, but it didn't have ears with which to hear me. Carver was back up, and grabbed my brother's body, throwing it outside through the wall. As soon as he turned back to me, I whipped the broken.

and chain at it, denting its skull. It fell back to the ground, stunned, and I went for my bag, rifling through it. I desperately threw the vials of holy water at the demon, but they did not impede his recovery. No, no, I grasped as the carver pulled apart my chest, and through the pain I swung the machete down, tearing his torso wide open. He recoiled, falling to his knees at my feet, clutching his spilled in it. I reached back into the bag, grabbed the grenade, pulled the pin with my teeth, and shoved it inside his wound. This was it. The explosion was deafening. I sailed through the air. Dead flesh rained from the sky. Everything was destroyed. Through the haze of my fading consciousness, I realized that I was missing most of my body.

I lay still. This was the end. I gave it my best and had one, even though it cost my life to succeed. It was worth it. I closed my eyes. Time passed, but I could not tell how much, nor did I care. And then something shook me awake, a cold breeze or a soft howl from far away. I blinked. The air was charged with some sort of energy. I looked over my shoulder and saw a blue glow as the carver's body began piecing itself back together.

Only tiny pieces, but it was forming quickly. Already a finger was reformed. No, I won. I had won. I'd beaten him. I would not allow my victory to be snatched away. I would not allow this. I began crawling with the last limb I had attached, at first to the carver, but then to the book lying next to him.

It was already open, turned to a page which I could not read. But something called to me from it, whispering in my mind, and I knew not what I did, I only acted. I picked a bit of the Carver's grey matter off my face and place. pasted on the page, which said strange ruins are glowing blue light. The book spoke to my mind, told me to trace the last ruin, but I hesitated. I knew what this meant. I would become the new Carver.

I would become a monster, unredeemable, atrocious, forsaken and alone. But was I not already alone? The Carver's head was mushy still, but his face was forming. And if I did this, how many brothers would I steal from the world? How many families would I destroy without regret or conscience? Was it worth vengeance? The Carver's torso was fusing together. Bone popping up. out of a hand that reached toward me. If I chose this, I would be immortal, undead, leading a hollow life of stealing from the living. Could I live with myself knowing what I was? The carver pulled himself on top of me, his saliva dripping on my face. Was this worth absolute victory? What would you think

my brother. I think so. I traced the ruin. My body disintegrated. The transformation was extraordinary. My mind was filled with knowledge. Foreign memories made.

Consciousness transcended. Senses redefined. Beliefs and morals distorted and remade. existence was understood from a whole different perspective life was an essence something tangible transferable if one used the right tools my body was reformed stronger more powerful restructured with a foreign genetic code but it was also malnourished I reached out for one of the myriad limbs laying around me and used it, absorbed it, ate it. The feeling, the taste was intoxicating.

My greatest desire now was to use it, to experiment, to see how much flesh I could transmute. The old carver stared up at me in horror. broken and writhing. Yes, I knew what he was thinking. He had not known fear in centuries, and to stand here above him, to revel as he coward. It was bliss. I'm going to torture you to death, I whispered, and then I consumed him. In things. Thin ribbons of flesh and rivulets of blood, dissecting him, peeling his flesh, taking inventory of his organs, collecting his nails, strangling the screams from his throat for hours on end.

And when I finished, when he was naught but a slimy paste, I sought the long dead and consumed them too. I left the old building to find one more corpse and found him. Ah, but this one I would not eat. I hungered, yes, and I would sate that urge with a million souls, for I was the new carver. I generated flesh on the body before me to erase the number placed on it. except I left the one, the first. You are the first, my brother. Let us share this victory together. Hello there.

My name is, well, honestly, I don't remember. It's been many, many years since anyone's called me by it, and so I've simply forgotten. Not that it matters, I suppose. It is not my intention to make note of myself to everyone. I am not the subject of this excursion. This is just a little bit of advice I have decided to put to paper and release out into the world.

Whoever finds this note may have their name as the author. It matters not to me. Goodness, it is strange to actually write again. I haven't done it in ages, so please excuse the poor handwriting. My fingers aren't really designed for this purpose anymore, just as my body does not sit tremendously comfortably within this wooden chair. I will try to be as legible as I can. I want my message understood.

History has, throughout its recorded life, told many a tale of the strange and unusual, ethereal spirits of those dearly departed, tentacled montyled monies. monsters that swallow entire vessels whole. Mortal men that can shift between human and animal by the phases of the moon. I remember learning of such things in my youth, when novelties like books and education still interested me. Much of these stories are the workings of the imagination, the byproduct of mortal fear,

the explanation for the unknown when one cannot be found through fact. However, a small percentage of such a small percentage of such, notions do actually have some basis in reality and this is what I've been wanting to share with you the finder of this etching I'm going to talk about vampires I've read countless tales of these blood-sucking beings and I wish to be the first one to tell you that the human concept of the vampire is and always has been completely ludicrous They went from being corpses found bloated and bleeding in their graves to pop stars with tiny fangs and desirable bodies.

Some were spectral in nature, others more resembled the lichens or the walking dead, and a few were no more than snarling female heads. A million variations on a single concept. A life-eater. And not a single one of them is valid. You would think that, for a species with such a verily. vivid and vast imagination, humanity would have at least come close to the truth about one of its most feared, and in recent years most beloved monsters. Well, maybe it is right in one respect. Vampires do,

in fact, drink blood, but they also eat meat as well, and all the other fluids are mortal body produces. Water, spinal fluid, gastric acid, even urine and mucus. Generally, they consume every part of their kill right down to the bones. There is no preference or uncontrollable desire for one part of an animal's anatomy. It is merely the sustenance needed to live, no different them what a bear or a bird of prey chooses for its meals. Though, I suppose, you could say humans are a preferred source, seeing as they fulfil the calorie count of a vampire much more than other prey animals. A whole human can satiate a vampire for an entire month. And this is why there are no corpses found with the infamous twin pinpricks on the neck. Oh, and that's another thing.

of vampire's teeth. It's not simply too incisers in a mouth of perfect white bone. Vampires have little need for hygiene in general, let alone oral, so their mouths are cavernous breeding grounds for the

foulest bacteria. While their bones are much stronger than a human's, the teeth all tend to rot to brow, cavity riddled points, which may have inspired the idea of a deadly kiss in the movies and books. However, anyone who is bitten by a vampire and survives will only gain a nasty

bout of rabies or HIV rather than the gift of immortality. Ah, yes, another thing the human theory of the vampire got, well, partially correct. Vampires are by no means immortal. They are as susceptible to death as anything, that they can live remarkably long lives, into the several hundred years, usually, though I believe the oldest was documented at about 1,200. I couldn't tell you exactly why they have such hearty lifespans. Perhaps it's to do with the resilient immune systems, or the fact their primary organs, the brain and the heart, are much larger and suppler than humans. Biology was never my feel of interest. An observation is the only reason I can make such vague hypotheses in the first place. Your guess is as good as mine, dear reader. Despite their mortality,

the most common cause of death to a vampire is natural causes, as in a bodily shutdown or an unavoidable accident. Very rarely are they killed in combat, either with each other or with another mortal being. This is something I tried very, very hard to explain to the young man who broke into my home a few days ago. I haven't had to deal with an intruder in a long time, but it is, as they say, like riding a bicycle. I managed to lock him down in my cellar before he could do any significant damage. It wasn't too difficult, as that was the first place he'd been going to when I happened upon him. I believe he thought I was sleeping down there. What nonsense. It's cold and damp down in the cellar, not to mention filthy with garbage and

leftover meals. I may not be the most health-conscious person in the world, but who in their right mind was sleep in such nasty conditions when they have a perfectly warm and cozy bedroom on the first floor. Another quick note. Despite what this poor soul would believe, vampires are not hurt by sunlight. Maybe they can get a little tan, and too much could give them skin cancer,

but it will not burn them like a turkey dumped in a deep friar. I will say, though, they are nocturnally inclined. The only reason they will turn away from morning light string through a window is because they simply don't want to get up until afternoon. Being light on my feet, the man never saw me coming. A quick little shove and down he tumbled on the ten steps to the lightless bottom of the cellar. I had hoped he would break his neck and die right there.

But he is a resilient one, barely scratched and already barreling back up as I was shutting the thick metal door. The silly man ranted and raved and threw his fists against the door all day, calling me every vulgar name in the book. He even threw in some Latin every now and again, clearly a man of the cloth, or at least trained by one.

While I was debating what to do with my new house guest, I took the opportunity to peruse his belongings, dropped carelessly at the entrance to my house. I couldn't help but smirk as I rifled through his bag. Wooden stakes. Guns with silver bullets. Rings of garlic, holy water, a crucifix wrapped in wild roses. Oh, dear reader, none of these objects have any effects on a true vampire.

They do not wilt at the sight of a cross or burst into flames upon entering a church. As religion is a man-made concept, so is the idea that the so-called holy objects can harm them. In fact, many vampires are atheists, though it's not unheard of one to retain the religious beliefs of his former days. It depends entirely on how much humanity remains within him. As for the stakes, sure, they might do some damage, if aimed correctly. But they're such unwieldy weapons. more likely to just scratch the skin rather than neatly poke through a ribcage and pierce the heart inside. The man would have been better off with his gun if he'd wanted to kill a vampire,

though he needn't use cheap, breakable silver for his bullets. Brass would do just fine, and that's only if he could aim at and hit the proper organs. Though not supersonic, speed and agility are another of the vampire's signature trait. All of this and more I tried so hard to explain to the man in my cellar. He only continued to brave and to berate me, calling upon all manner of divine assistance to strike me and my kind, dead. I tried to explicate that you couldn't threaten an atheist with damnation, but, of course, he would hear none of it.

Perhaps he really did hear none of it. After all, my manner of speaking must have sounded quite different from what he was used to. My vocal cords had long since shrunken away, and the only vocalization I could produce was a kind of clicking noise with my tongue and teeth. To me, certain patterns of clicking represent words and sentences, but to the man. They must have sounded like nothing more than animal noises. No doubt he imagined a bat or a burrowing beetle when he first heard my voice. He wouldn't be too far off in that respect. I use the clicking much in the same way that such animals do.

Along with communication, it helps me see. Echo location, my dear reader. My sight left me along with my voice years ago. And so my only view of the world, is through the vibrations of my clicks, bouncing off objects around me. It's like watching a colourful wave of sound move over contours in the darkness,

revealing for moments at a time a world I can no longer see. It is surprisingly vivid, especially as hearing is my most powerful sense. I could even see through walls if I wanted to, learning the shape and layout of a room I'm not even in. I can hear living beings too, not just from my cliques, but from their own natural sounds, both quiet and order.

The man in my cellar, for instance. Right now, I can hear him sitting at the far end of the room, curled up in a corner, weeping so softly that the average ear would not even know he was down there. His heart is beating slowly, a stark contrast to the manicure. paced had run on the first night, when the adrenaline had rushed hotly through his veins and made his skin burn bright red with sweat and heat. After three days without food, water, or access to a proper lavatory, his body has begun to tire. I can hear the minute pulses of his brain, the electrical sparks and jumps that represent words and emotions.

I can hear them as clearly as if he was speaking them directly to me. He is no longer angry now. He's scared. Terrified. There are two thoughts in his head that pulse into my vision whenever I stop to listen to him. One is, I'm going to die. And the other is not so much words as a description. An image that is plastered across the surface of his mind,

and slowly imbuing him with a far worse emotion than mere fear. Madness. He sees a creature, tall, lanky, its knees bent, his back brushing against the ceiling of the ten-foot room. The skin clings to its body like a grey latex suit, outlining every oversized bone with astonishing precision. It's more like a skeleton than a full creature. One can even see the shape of the spine descending beneath the block of ribcage on the figure's torso.

The organs within writhing visibly against the tight suit of skin. Its gender is made clear by its stark nakedness. The legs spread unapologetically wide. The breasts hanging from its bent chest like shriveled balloons. Its arms hang right to the floor. The backs of the enormous spindly hand. resting on the kitchen tile, the fingers curled up like dead tarantula legs and tipped with rotten brown claws. Beneath each arm is a translucent sleeve of flesh, deeply veined and elastic,

connecting the impossibly long limbs to the sides of the creature, like the wings of a bat all the way down to the ankles of its awkward legs. The face is probably the most vivid part of the whole picture. Pressed perfectly flat, the nose nothing more than two holes in the middle of its pale, bald head. The shape more reminiscent of an alien than a human.

The ears are large and mobile, like pointed satellite dishes, turning independently to every minute sound they hear. In the places where the eyes should be, the skin is smooth, save for two tiny puckered holes that are only micro-inches away from closing completely.

The mouth is ghastly, stretching open from ear to ear with jaws filled with abhorrent teeth, jagged and decayed and positively dripping with disease. When it moves its vile jaws, a faint, sharp, clicking sound can be heard. The same one I make when I'm navigating a room. A man's thoughts, I see a picture of me. In the man's thoughts, I see a vampire.

This is the purpose of my notes, dear reader. This is the reason I have taken on the task of operating this blasted pencil and scrolling these words in mostly legible cursive. I want to spread some light and all of the lies you delude yourselves with. I want to warn you. vampires are not to be looked upon with favour or admiration. They are to be feared. A vampire is not a brooding adolescent who gleams like crystal in the sun. It is not a rat-faced creeper who emerges from coffins and fears the sunrise.

It is not something you want to run into the arms to and have carry you away into the silver moonlight. If you ever ran into a real vampire, If you ever saw one, glanced at it for a brief second, then you are already dead. I write this now, knowing full well that my message will go mostly unheeded. It will fall under the all-encompassing label of fiction, as the stories of false vampires have. It will be interpreted no differently, maybe even disregarded entirely. I am well aware of this

But at least I can say I warned you At least I can say That you knew when you broke into my home Or the home of any of my kind You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into At least all the fault will lie with you And you alone As you were having your limb torn off

Your organs ripped out and your blood slowly, painfully drained out of your withering, broken body. So, my final message is for you to take caution, dear reader.

Don't go looking for trouble. If you spot something enormous and winged, soaring over the trees, pretend you never saw it. If you clicking sounds coming from a dark alley walk the other way if you feel like you'd be better off fanged and bloodthirsty look for help rather than a creature of the night don't buy into the lies of

rice maya stoker and all the others we're not all so eager to let you into the ranks of something you know nothing about We do, however, welcome a free meal when it comes with steaks and garlic. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse me, there is a young man in my cellar who I'm just dying to have for dinner. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you.

Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.