Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep65: Episode 65: Urban Exploration Horror Stories

Episode Date: January 20, 2022

We begin tonight’s podcast with ''The Mannequin Farm'', an original story by Shadows in the Light 23, kindly shared directly with me and read with the author's permission. All three of tonight’s other terrifying tales are by MammothFormal1, again shared directly with me via my sub-reddit so that I could read them for you all!  Tonight’s second fabulous unmissable story is ‘Never Go Looking for Urban Legends.’ This is followed by ‘My dream home won't stop bleeding’, and we round off this evening with ‘I Made a Horrifying Discovery in my Brother’s Basement.’  https://www.reddit.com/user/MammothFormal1/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Well, it is said that exploration is a wonderful way to open our eyes to the world and to truly see that impossible is just a word. But maybe we should also be scared that everything is possible, as we'll see in tonight's four stories. Later on we have three stories from Mammoth Formal One. Never go looking for urban legends. My dream home won't stop bleeding. bleeding, and I made a horrifying discovery in my brother's basement. But we begin with the

Mannequin Farm by Shadows in the Light, 23. Now as always before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. I think I'm finally at the point where I'm able to talk about it. It's been several years since it happened. None of us, not me nor my friend, brother's friend, who also experienced it, have ever told a living soul. You can rarely mention it to each other. But I think it might help to write it down.

Then, maybe I can finally forget about it. When it happened, I was a teenager living in Cumbria, which is a region in the northwest of England. Specifically, I lived in the Lake District, an area of outstanding natural beauty, which is also very rural and very popular with tourists. Imagine lurching dark skies, grey brick walls and rugged scenery, mountains, fields, bodies of water, unfolding all around you, and you've got the Lake District. In my youth, I would be out on a boat in the height of summer, blazing on the dappled wood in the beating hot sun. I'd hike up the toughest mountains in torrential rain to see some of the most

beautiful views that exist on this planet. I know I was lucky and I tried never to be ungrateful. But as a teenage girl growing up, I always felt a keen sense of isolation from the rest of the world. My family lived, well, and still live in a tiny cottage in a tiny village where everybody knows everybody, where there's no privacy at all, and no chance of ever getting away with anything. I went to the local secondary school, but, well, by local, I mean I had to take a half-hour bus ride to get there, and our nearest town was that far away as well. Summers in my youth were always long, and lonely. That's why it was such an incredible stroke of luck when a girl my own age moved into my village the summer I turned 14.

My own family consisted of my parents and my younger brother Tom, who, when I was 14 and he was on the cusp of 13, just seemed too immature for words, and spending time with him would only occur as a last resort. By some lucky miracle, the girl also had a younger brother, and on the day they moved in, my mum sent us both over to her house to introduce ourselves and bring around some Kendall mint cake, kind of a Cumbrian speciality for those of you not in the know. The girl, Katie, and I became fast friends. She'd moved up from London after her dad had passed away from cancer, which obviously was a difficult adjustment for her for several reasons, and I remember being acutely aware that I had to tread carefully

with her. It was just Katie, her brother Michael, and her mom. The moment we met, I knew I'd like her. She was my age exactly, with a cool sense of style, small nose ring glinting from her nostril. A fascination to me. It wasn't even allowed to pierce my own ears. And she wore a t-shirt for a band I'd never heard of. Its symbol, a skull and crossbones.

She didn't seem too put off by my own frumpy charity shop clothes and, well, over-friendly, desperate demeanour either, which was a huge relief. Her brother, Michael, a small, narrow-shouldered kid with a very pale skin and an awkward manner, and my own brother hit it off too after starting a conversation about video games

and went off trotting to Michael's room immediately to play on his Xbox. I sensed the family had money. Their house was bigger than ours and a lot less shabby, and so Michael would probably have a lot of the latest games. After a nervous introduction, Katie and I soon got talking. We sat in her kitchen swapping stories whilst her mum unpacked boxes around us.

She seemed grateful that there was someone her own age in this strange rural land. I, of course, was ecstatic. The summer went by in a happy haze. Katie and I spent most days together, wandering down to the lake for a swim, or hanging out in each other's bedrooms, barking about online or watching movies. Our brothers, likewise, found companionship in each other, and Katie's mum, who was from the area originally,

made a friend in my own mom. When school came, Katie and I rode the bus together, and she assimilated efflacy into our friendship group. Another huge relief, as I've been concerned that she might be a bit out of our league, spent a lot of my time trying to police her, making sure that she knew I was as mature as she was. Living in London, she'd experienced things I could only dream about, and the effort was, sometimes, tiring. But I didn't want her to move on and find someone more interesting. My story really begins in the week leading up to the October

half term, where Katie had an idea. We'd been friends for nearly four months, and I remember that the two of us were in my room one rainy autumn evening, watching a scary, film on my laptop. I don't recall which one. Whilst trying to decide what I should give Katie for her birthday the following week. She'd suggested concert tickets in London. I'd suggested a rather more affordable bath bomb from a gifty place we both liked. My parents were out of the house for whatever reason, so we were in charge. As the film got to a particularly tense, almost silent scene, we suddenly heard peals of laughter coming from my brother's room, which, which, which regrettably shared a war with mine.

I banged on it with my foot, telling the little pest to keep it down. My brother had reached a deeply troublesome, I thought, stage of development, where his teenage hormones had kicked in, and he was no longer the sweet, docile, slightly irritating child I'd once known, and had turned into a moody, indistant, intensely irritating monster. Of course, my kicking the wall had absolutely no effect, and after a couple of minutes of threatening various abuses through the plaster, I decided that I would simply have to go next door and carry out my threats in person.

I burst into his room, thoroughly cranky at this point, to find that it was in pitch darkness. There are a few street lamps in my village, so when I say pitch, I mean pitch. Furrowing my brow, I strained to see through the gloom, and I couldn't hear a single sound other than the were of my brother's Xbox on the floor what were they doing

I voiced this to the dark room but got no response quickly so quickly I wasn't sure I'd seen it I saw a shadow dart across the room even though I knew it was my brother messing around I couldn't help but feel the scenes from the horror film still sticking to it

me. Was I sure they'd been in his room? Hadn't they gone for a walk in the woods at some point? Had it really been them laughing? I considered this as my hand fumbled around the wall for a light switch, when? Suddenly, something grabbed my wrist from nowhere. Another hand. I screamed, piercingly, and tumbled back into the hall, only to be greeted by the familiar peals of laughter we'd been hearing all night. Katie ran into the room and threw on the switch to reveal the little darlings huddled in black cloaks in the middle of the room, like acne-ridden dementors, falling about in hysterics. That wasn't very fucking funny, I screeched at them. But even Katie was suppressing a smirk.

The horror film had got to me, and my brother and his friend had taken full advantage of that. The two boys were still creased over, bundled in their cloaks, as I took my brother's pillow and proceeded to hit him with it, which only encouraged the laughter. We were just trying to be like old Mr. McCreepie, Tom said through the force. Who? Who's Mr. McCreepie? Katie asked. "'You must have heard of Mr. McCreeper. Tom's eyes were wide, and he nodded at his friend to clarify the obvious.

"'Everyone's heard of Mr. McCreepie.' Michael sighed at two people he evidently considered imbeciles. "'He's that guy who owned the mannequin farm near Colby Village.' Katie and I looked at each other and shrugged. "'Colby Village was ten miles away. I'd had no reason to ever go there, and I didn't know. much about it. I didn't know anything about a mannequin farm either. Oh, he killed a whole load of people there, like 50 years ago, Tom interjected. He was this really creepy guy who made mannequins for shops, and probably other things, and he lured all these guys to his house by pretending to be a woman online. Then he bludgeoned them to death with an axe. And then he made mannequins out of their skin, added Michael with a glee.

Now, I'm going to pause here to explain that I'm not a fan of horror. I don't do scary stories, creepy pastures, any of that stuff. I usually hate scary films, and I was only watching one that night because I didn't want to look like a wuss in front of Katie, who had a taste for those sort of things. Plus, there was a more than likely chance that my brother and his friend were lying, and I didn't want to entertain this for longer than was necessary. Katie, on the other hand, was looking at them, intrigued. There was an axe murderer who lived ten miles from here.

Yeah. And his name was Mr. McCreepy. No, you two, Katie's brother sighed. His name was Martin McGreevy. That's just his nickname. Unusually, Katie let this insult slide without comment. What was his kill count? She asked.

Tom and Michael looked at each other. Less cocky now. Don't know. Loads probably. You could Google it. Haven't you Googled it? No, we just heard it around school. I laughed, wishing to bring this conversation to a close.

Oh, sure. You guys just heard it around school. So it must be true. It really did happen. Michael insisted. Everybody knows about it. It's coming up to the anti-examination. anniversary of his first murder on Halloween.

Oh yeah, the fact that it happened on Halloween makes it even more believable. I raised my eyebrows to the ceiling and then left them to it, returning to my own room and trying to shake off a strange, bubbling feeling in my stomach. For all the bravado I'd shown, there was a part of me, a small part, but had a feeling they might possibly be telling the truth. Something had happened in that village. a long time ago. I didn't think it happened how they described it,

but the name rang about. The image of the mannequins was clear in my head. I could picture my parents at the breakfast table, talking in hushed tones, the word colby and murder and dummies, bubbling from their lips when they thought I couldn't hear them. Katie came back into my room, and I had my finger poised on the play button,

on my laptop, ready to scare ourselves silly again. Actually, I'm not really feeling this anymore, she said, and I breathe a huge, internal sigh of relief. Um, I'd quite like to look up that case. The relief quickly left me, to be replaced by further anxiety. What? The thing they were on about, Katie, they're morons, I said. They'll be making it up. Probably, but I'd like to check, just in case they're not. She slid onto the bed next to me and plugged the laptop from my hands before I had a chance to protest. She opened up a new tab and typed Colby Murder, Cumbria mannequins, into the search bar. Sure enough, a whole

swarm of articles popped up. Ooh, now there's a plot to she said impressed. They weren't lying. I felt my palms growing sweaty as she clicked on the first article and a picture of a man appeared. The man was reasonably average looking, about 40, with short, dark, cropped hair

and a sallow face, like he hadn't eaten in a long time, wearing a tardent shirt. But his hollow eyes, looking intensely at the camera, sent a chill of fear down my spine. I felt as though he was looking directly at me. This was Martin McGreevy,

killer of nine people who had once lived just down the road. His time active wasn't 50 years ago, as Tom had said, but a much close in 19, back in 1999. Although anything pre-millenium was all the same to my brother. And I remembered hearing the stories, still fresh to the residence when I was a child. I can't remember exactly which articles we looked at, but the story went like this.

Martin McGreevy was a family man, with a wife and a four-year-old son, who owned a successful home business making custom mannequins for shop windows. However, like a lot of people, he had his secrets. Unfortunately, Martin McGreevy's secret was that he liked to pose as beautiful women online, real ingullible men between the ages of 20 and 35, get them to send nude pictures, and then lure them to his house under the pretense of hooking up. These were the days when the internet was still relatively new, and people were less cautious about it. So he was generally successful in his invitation.

Once there, he tied them up and committed unspeakable acts of torture on them, before eventually killing them with a sharp implement he would make his mannequins with. His wife, apparently, was aware of the entire situation, and may even have been an accomplice. Once he killed the men, he made mannequins in their likeness, though not out of their skin, as the boys are claimed, and he treated them as though they were real. Nine mannequins were found in the cellar when the police raided the house.

Once McGreevy became a suspect in the disappearances, he shot himself with a revolver, along with his wife and son. He was dead before they could even put handcuffs on him. I think that most people, after reading this and reading the gory details as we did, which I will not relay here, would close the laptop and perhaps go to quake to quote. quietly throw up. Katie's curiosity, on the other hand, was piqued. She wanted to know more. She summoned the boys in, who said that, although they'd heard wildly exaggerated versions of this story at school, the human skin anecdote, for instance. It was basically the same story

that they were familiar with, and it really had happened in a farmhouse near the village of Colby. That's just vile, I said. Those men died at the hands of a sicko. I hope he rots in jail. Why did you say you were acting like Martin McGreevy when you put the cloaks on? asked Katie. Because that's what he used to do. His wife would let them in, and he'd be down in the cellar.

He would lie in wait for his victims, wearing the clothes he dressed his dummies in, and then pounce on them before they could do anything. How would anyone know that? I demanded. it. Well, his wife survived the shooting. She gave the police a full confession. She's still alive today, in jail, Michael told me. Katie asked if anyone still lived at the farmhouse. Last I heard it was abandoned, said Tom. They say his ghost still roams the rooms, looking for more people to kill. They both started prancing around the room, swaying their arms and making making howling sounds. Surely at thirteen, they were too old for this. I looked at Katie to share

a look of exasperation, but instead she was smiling. She'd taken in the news of the abandoned house without comment, though I could see her expression changing, her dark eyes flickering with the formation of a plam. I didn't know if this was what happened to you after suffering grief at a young age. But my friend seemed to be abnormally fascinating. by the dark side of life. Death, torture, destruction, abandonment. It was, and is, a part of her that I struggle to like, if I'm being honest, but I try to understand that it's probably because she's been through a childhood trauma.

I don't like to think that anyone could be interested in these things just for the sake of it. After they left, she turned to me, the glimmer of a smile playing around her lips. I know what I want for my birthday, she grinned. I knew at that moment what she was going to say, and fear coursed through me like blood. Still, I needed to act nonchalance. When you're a teenager, image is all that matters. I want to go and explore the mannequin farm, said my friend. I just smiled blankly. It was absurd Our parents were going to a dinner party in the next village

Where they were likely to be out until midnight That was the night we chose As it gave us plenty of time to get there and back Unfortunately In the midst of our planning My younger brother overheard And threatened to reveal everything Unless we allowed him and his weedy friend to come along with us

Oh, you'll ruin it Katie screeched at them the night before we plan to go the eve of Halloween the night before his first murder another thing that surprisingly my brother had got right you'll end up telling the adults we won't Tom insisted we'll only tell him if you don't let us come oh come on we were the ones who told you about it go with your own friends Katie said

surely they're all going up there in droves if this story's so famous "'No one's been up there that we know,' Michael said. "'It's fenced off. It's really hard to get into.' My heart jumped a little. I was hoping this nugget of information might put her off wanting to go. It only made her more determined to get in somewhere that others had not. Eventually, they struck a deal. The boys would come with us if they could help us figure out how to get inside.

hands were shaken spit was proffered subsequently discarded we were ready we set off after our parents left for the dinner party under cloak of darkness katie had a rucksack on over her coat packed with torches her map and most worryingly even a knife in case we run into any trouble she said her birthday had been two days prior and she walked up the dark lane ahead of me, her new pink converse shining in the moonlight, practically bouncing with excitement. My heart was full of lead. The poison also packed supplies. A penknife? Because you never know, my brother said, and some rope in case we need to scale any walls. The place was an abandoned farmhouse, not a maximum security prison, but, well, I said nothing. The village of Colby was very pretty, dotted with thatched cottages and an old 13th century church nestled in parkland. We trod through the streets carefully, not wanting to look too suspicious, and huddled under a street lamp to glance at the map.

We needed to follow Church Lane, out of the village, until we passed a track on our left, which read Pidcoat. If we walked a mile up the track, we would hit the fire. house. At least that's what one of Tom's friends at school had told him. We could only see the first bit of the track from Google Maps. The night was very dark now, and it was bitingly cold. We wandered up the road. We got out of our torches, and fewer and fewer cars marked the roads. Eventually, we were immersed by dark stretches of farmland, and could hear nothing but the hoot of an owl in the distance and some far-off noise from cattle. I pulled my coat tightly around me, fear beginning to set in.

I wasn't even that afraid of the farmhouse itself, or of the legend of Martin McGreevy's ghost. I was more afraid of who might be living there now. We were four vulnerable kids on a dark, lonely road. We could be putting ourselves in serious danger. The white, wooden sign, pit-coat, shimmered like a mirage under our torches. My brother stopped, staring at it. Um, maybe we should turn back, he said nervously.

Katie and Michael turned to look at him like he'd gone mad. I don't know if this is such a good idea. I was amazed. out of the four of us, Tom and Katie had been the most vocal in wanting to go. Katie and Michael shot me a look, as if to say, he's your brother, you deal with him. I saw the fear flickering in Tom's eyes, the irritation flickering in Katie's.

I had to choose. Either you come with us or wait here, I said, with as much courage as I could muster. We're not turning back now. I saw my friend smile with pleasure, and Tom's expression hardened. Okay, I'm coming, he said, sogely. I just meant if anyone else wanted to turn back. We trudged up the leaf-strewn track, mud claiming our shoes.

I had a fleeting, gleeful thought that Katie's beautiful new converse would be getting muddy, then suppressed it out of guilt. Sometimes I felt envious of her well, and then remember that, well, at least I still had a dab. We saw a building begin to loom in the distance. Surprisingly, as we got to it, it was actually very easy to get inside. The fence surrounding it was wooden and not high, and we simply climbed over, finding ourselves on the other side with no trouble at all.

I didn't know what my brother had been on about. The farmhouse was a two-story affair. trees looming over it like hunchbacks. The windows boarded up so it looked vaguely monstrous with metal panels for eyes. We shone our torches around the premises. The driveway was submerged in leaves. There were, obviously, no cars in it,

and I couldn't see any lights on in the house. Not that I was expecting to, of course, but I couldn't help the thought that perhaps there were people squatting inside. And the lack of light made me feel less uneasy. The place was clearly deserted, a ghostly relic of the past. The wind bristled and I closed my eyes, wishing us away from it. Oh, well, we made it, I said. Should we go back now? Katie looked at me as though I was bonkers.

What? Go back. We're going inside. The words didn't come as a surprise to me. but I felt the full force of them even so. We're going inside. The front door gave way easily. It was rotting and falling off its hinges. Inside, the house smelt musty and damp. I remember my grandmother's house smelling like this when we went in after she died because she stopped being able to take care of it properly

and refused to ever put the heating on. The room we were standing in was a hallway. doors aligning each wall around us, a decomposing staircase toward the back wall. What I hadn't expected was that there would still be furniture in the house. The side table was standing by the front door. A picture of a vase of sunflowers was skewed sideways on the wall. Homely artifacts amongst the dirt, reminding any visitors of what the place used to be, whilst the floor hosted more leaves and mud.

The wallpaper was peeling and smeared with graffiti. I wondered if the kind of people who'd written that graffiti might be thinking of joining us here tonight. I felt a bit sick. I shone my torch to see the numbers six, six, six, scribbled in red on the once floral wallpaper. I realised that this would probably be the perfect location for dealing drugs. Cumbria was a boring place to grow up.

Thus, the drug trade was booming. Teenagers just didn't have anything else to do. Let's split up, Katie said. The three most dreaded words in the English language. Boys, you go upstairs. We'll explore down here. We'll all do the cellar together. Her eyes sparkled at this.

I could see Tom looking less than comfortable. But they nodded and headed up the stairs. whilst I trailed after her meekly. She pushed open one of the doors on our left and we trod into the room. My feet felt like they were standing on linoleum. We were in what was once either a kitchen or a bathroom. Together we shone our torches around. And then we froze.

A woman was standing in the kitchen, turned away from us. She was standing over a space where the stove most likely used to be, wearing a traditional 1950s outfit, hair up, flowery apron, floaty skirts. Every fibre in my body told me to run, but I was rooted to the spot, staring at this strange, stiff-looking woman who had not moved upon us entering the room. I reached out for my friend's hand, but she was in the process of moving a step closer, cracking a twig below her foot. The woman still didn't move.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. Why wasn't she turning around? What was wrong with her? Katie, there's something wrong here. Hello? Katie called out, gently. Hello? So? She moved even closer to the woman, before prodding her on the shoulder. I couldn't speak,

waiting for it to turn around. What was she going to look like? It's a mannequin. My friend exclaimed, open mouth. Of course. What? I drew closer to it as well, realizing as I brought my torch closer, that it was indeed a mannequin. The hair was too stiff, the neck too white. I got close enough to see the other side of her, and, most horrifyingly, the thing was faceless. No features at all other than a large smile that had been drawn on with what looked like crayon. The rest of it, just a white, blank canvas. A figure with no eyes.

Jesus Christ! said. I shone the torch around a little more, and noticed that on the floor, in the space where the stove should have been, there was a frying pan lying on the dirt, with two plastic fried eggs and a sausage in it, the kind you might give to a child. She's cooking, I said. Of course, McGreevy had made mannequins for a living. But why was there one in the house now? All these years later? Some sort of sick joke by pranksters? Katie and I looked at each other,

unsure of whether to laugh or to cry. The sound of a scream from across the house meant we did neither. We ran to the sound, coming from upstairs, finding both our brothers huddled together in one of the bedrooms, pointing at the boarded-up window. We got closer to it,

to find a small bed, or what remained of a bed, rotten, smelly as it was, with the dummy of a child lying in it. This mannequin was more detailed than the one in the kitchen. It had a face carved into it, a nose and lips. Someone had even stuck two of those goggly eyes you can buy for arts and crafts to its forehead, giving the odd impression that it was lying in bed with its eyes wide open. On top of his head was a mop of curly hair. What the fuck is that thing? My brother asked. His voice was quivering.

Well, it's a mannequin. What do you think? Said Katie. There's one in the kitchen too. There's more of them? My brother was really losing his shit. I felt a little embarrassed, if I'm honest. Michael remained calm and composed.

eyes fixed on the thing in the bed. His head cocked as though he were looking at a scientific oddity. I've had enough, Tom said. This place is too weird. It's obviously just a prank, Katie said. Someone's probably done it to scare stupid kids like us off the premises. Or it'll be some of those serial killer groupies trying to recreate the family home. That's fucked up, my brother said.

said, his face stark white. Yeah, but Katie's expression didn't look like she thought it was fucked up. Instead, there was the trace of a smirk on her mouth. She looked like she was thoroughly enjoying the whole affair. I think I'd like to leave now, Tom said. He looked at me. This was my chance to be a supportive older sister. Well, maybe we've seen enough, I said.

this place is a bit freaky after all but we haven't done the cellar yet Katie exclaimed that's the best bit I don't want to do the cellar I've had enough Tom persisted we've come out this far

there's a bad vibe in this place I feel like something bad is going to happen well you can go home Katie said but I'm going to go and explore the cellar You don't have to wait for me if you don't want to. This was a difficult situation. I really didn't want to choose between my friend and my brother,

but it looked like I was going to have to. I stood, staring from one to the other of them. Katie's face hard, certain. My brother's pale and anxious. And that was when we heard it. A soft, dragging sound, coming from beneath us, far beneath our feet. Like it was coming from the cellar.

I've never felt four people stopped breathing exactly the same moment, but that's what happened. And then we heard it again. A dragging sound, like someone dragging something heavy across a concrete floor. What was that? Michael was the first one to speak. For the first time he was looking scared to,

We need to get out of here, said Tom. Cautiously, ever so cautiously. We tiptoed across what was Martin McGreevy's son's bedroom, headed out into what had once been his landing, and crept down what had once been his staircase. The dragging sound started to grow louder. more urgent, as if it knew we were getting away. I grabbed my brother's hand.

He in turn took Michael's arm. We made a beeline for the door, when I realized that Katie hadn't moved. She was staring at the cellar door. What are you doing? I asked in a desperate whisper. The boys headed out into the open air, but she remained rigid, staring.

"'Well, aren't you curious?' she asked. "'Even just a tiny bit? "'No, my bloody well am not. "'I am. "'I want to see what's making that noise.' "'I couldn't believe this. "'How could she be this stupid? "'As we were speaking, I noticed that the noise had stopped.

"'What if whatever it was had heard us?' "'Katey.' It could be dangerous down there. You don't know who it is. I'll just be quick." She was trance-like, moving towards the door as the sliver of moonlight from the front door fell across her face. And even as I grabbed her hand, she pulled away from me, stronger than I was.

Katie, please. She opened the door. And before I could stop her, she was a little. gone, heading down the steps. God's sake. Nothing. Not heaven and earth moving, not a maze of chocolate, not pigs flying, could make my feet unstick from their place in the ground and make me go down there and stop her. Instead, I stood there, not even sure if I was breathing, as Michael pote his head back round the door. What are you doing? He asked. Why are you taking so long?

Your sister's gone down to the cellar, I said. We both shared a glance. A terrified, helpless, awful glance. But neither of us could move. The dragging sound increased in volume again. The urgency amplified, filling my ears. And then we heard her scream. A scream was even more ear-splitting than that of my brothers.

It was the kind of scream a person makes when they're experiencing the last moments of their life. Both Michael and I ran toward the basement door and stood at the top of the steps. The torchlight falling in shards across the stairs. I took in the sight below. Katie, running back up the steps, her expression like that of a person being hunted. but nothing and no one was behind her. I moved the torch around to see a group of tall, shadowy figures, lurking in the farthest corner of the room.

Nine of them, stiff as boards. Faceless, I felt my heart stop, but I couldn't understand why she was so frightened. They were only mannequins, like the ones in the rest of the house. And then one of the move. Katie's footsteps pounded up the final steps, and she pushed us with all her might back through the door, back into the hallway. Get out of here, she shrieked. Get out of here now.

We didn't need to be told twice. We began to run, out of the door, down the drive, towards my brother, who was also running. We ran to the fence and climbed it, and lost rucksacks and shoes, and grazed out of the door. limbs in the process, but we didn't care, because all we knew was that we were running, running far away from that place, and that sound and those awful, awful figures.

I don't know what made me do it. Even now, when I look back on it, I'm not sure it was even real. It was probably the hysteria, but I'm sure that when I look back there, and I look back there only once when I was twisting myself around on the first. fence. I'm sure I saw another figure standing in the doorway. Another mannequin, a young girl this time, about 14. Its only feature a drawn-on mouth, a mouth wide with terror, and its long, bony arm was stretched out towards us, pointing. On her feet was a pair of pink converse trainer. I didn't look back twice.

Katie never told me what happened to her in the cellar that day. She never told a single soul. She refused to ever speak of the incident atoll, in fact, and would get very upset when we mentioned it. Once, I asked her if she saw the figures in the cellar, like I did, though I never mentioned the dummy wearing the converse. She refused to engage with me. Her taste for horror waned.

She never suggested going exploring again. Sometimes Tom and I will talk about it. We'll try and make a joke out of the whole thing now. Must have been some twisted pranksters, we'll say. But deep down, it scares us still. And I've never been able to go anywhere. There are mannequins again. Which, as you can imagine, makes life difficult in a department store.

I don't know why someone chose to put those things in there I don't know if they were mannequins made by McGreevy himself or whether they were brought there after his death and I don't know how they knew that one of us would be wearing pink trainers to ask those questions means delving deeper into the horror of that night I've never been back to the farmhouse Katie and I became less close when we went to university

though we still keep in touch every now and then, even after she moved away from the village. Michael and Tom are still close, though. Tom says that Michael even went back there about a year ago, in broad daylight this time. To get some footage, he studies film at university. He said that he didn't find any mannequins there, and all the furniture had been looted too.

The cellar door was locked when he went there. Whatever it was that lurked down there amongst the shes. shadows was concealed away. And whatever it was that Katie saw that night, whether she saw the same thing as I did or maybe worse, was hidden away and can only be left for you and I to speculate. Think about your health for a second. Are your eyes the first thing that come to mind? Probably not. But our eyes go through a lot. From squinting at screens to driving at night. That's why regular eye exams matter. And at spec savers, they come.

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Never go looking for urban legend. If you're looking for a story with a happy or otherwise fulfilling ending, I'd advise you to look elsewhere. Now, with that being said, if you need a stern warning why we shouldn't dabble in the unknown, listen on. The autumn of 1997 was an eventful time for me. For the umpteenth time, my life changed as I found myself ripped away from my friends when my family moved yet again. It was also the year I came face to face with the wither.

At this time our destination was the suburbs of Pennsylvania. This was a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of city life. But the first time in my life, I could see trees from my window, not just trees lining a filthy street either, but an actual forest with animals. I was a happy child growing up. I enjoyed all the perks of being from a wealthy family and make friends easily. The only common disturbance came when being moved from city to city on account of my father's work as a sales agent.

We never stayed in one place for more than a few years. Despite fitting in well, having to make new friends each time we move proved to be an emotionally taxing task. For years, I anxiously awaited my senior year, only for disappointment to find me again. I was just getting settled into my previous school in Virginia when my parents set me down to reveal we'd be moving again. I wasn't enthused by the idea of starting over

during the biggest year of my life to date. Like clockwork, I found myself being called the new kid once more. Well, being the new kid, did have its advantages, though. The one I was always the center of attention, at least for about a week, until gossip and rumours dispelled the shroud of mystery surrounding me. You see, you're not the new kid when everyone learns your name. But to my surprise and delight, I immediately made friends with the most popular guy in the school,

Charlie Renning. Without fail I found myself invited to all the best house parties every single weekend. How Charlie loved party, so much so that it was the only thing he ever talked about. This made it even more surprising when he spent the entire lunch period nerding out and regurgitating an urban legend about a witch from the 1700s. According to Charlie, the witherer was a soothsayer whose inaccurate fortune. telling got her beat to near death by local villages. The hate-driven mob didn't know what care that she was pregnant, though. After her inevitable miscarriage, the solemn woman locked herself away in her cabin to wither and die.

Charlie's agitation was palpable when he hurt me a laugh off his elaborate fairy tale as if it was a lousy joke. We'll see who's laughing after we go through the ritual tomorrow, Charlie said, clearly annoyed by my antics. A ritual? What? You're like twelve? This is the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard, I retorted, still egging him on.

Well, I'd gotten him going by that point. Charlie spent the next ten minutes describing the ritual he'd learned about from his stoner cousin, Jerry, in great detail. I didn't take his tale very seriously. Jerry was 37 and lived in his mom's basement, after all. But in hindsight, I should have.

According to Charlie, the legend says that if you drive for exactly 27 minutes on Lost Hollow Road at 1.13am, your car will storm. At that point, you need to exit your vehicle and walk westward through the woods for three miles. At precisely, 244 a.m., you'll reach the cabin of the wither. Don't stop walking until you reach the dwelling. Once you arrive, you're to knock on the door twice before turning around the way you came, as if you were leaving. You don't actually leave, though. Instead, a voice will beckon you inside. Upon entering the witherer will ask you to solve a riddle. If you answer the riddle correctly, you get to make a wish, and no matter how absurd the wish is, it'll come true.

Marching through the woods in search of ghosts was not my idea of a fun Saturday night. but I didn't want to see Charlie getting more by a bear either. I let out a sigh and against my better judgment, I agreed. Fine, I'll go with you, but only so you don't have to trek around the woods alone at odd hours. The obnoxious ringing of the lunch bell cut our conversation short, and after shaking Charlie's hand to seal the deal, I headed off to my afternoon classes. I spent the rest of chemistry and physics daydreaming about what I'd wish for if the ritual was legitimate. What I wish for an endless fortune, a movie star wife, fame.

On the off chance the wither had turned out to be real, she could grant me any of those. The next day flew by as I concocted my exact wish and read up on different riddles. I also spent over an hour peering at various maps, trying to find Lost Hollow Road, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find it anywhere. I concluded that it must be one of the many unmarked gravel roads going up in the mountains. From the time to pick up Charlie finally rolled around, he emerged from his house with a bulky camera, presumably to take a picture of the fabled cabin in the woods.

Jerry said it was this one, Charlie said, pointing to a road highlighted red on his map. This confirmed my suspicion. It was indeed a mountain road and was also most likely private property. He pulled up to the unmarked gravel road at 1.02.8. It pulled up to the unmarked gravel road at 1.2 a.m. and cut off the motor to wait. Eventually we got talking about what we'd wish for. Charlie said he'd wish to be richer than Bill Gates and monopolised the next 10 minutes describing how he'd spend is billions. His rambling left me no time to tell him about my wish, but I let it go because mine wasn't anywhere near as interesting anyway. So at exactly 1.13 a.m., I began the drive down Lost Hollow Road. After around 10 minutes,

the radio was cutting in and out. I chalked this up to the elevation and the dense forest canopy above. By the 15-minute mark, my headlights were flickering in and out, and I became worried that we'd have to turn around, or I could barely see the road. Despite this strange mechanical malfunction, we pressed on down the ever-nowering road. After a few more minutes of driving, it was clear that turning around wasn't an option anymore. I can't say for sure, but each time the lights went out, I swear I could see erratic, jerky movements ahead of me. Charlie was becoming restless by the 20-minute mark. The condition of the road was getting worse at a rapid pace. It was crystal clear to both of us that nobody used this road anymore, let alone high school kids in Honda Civics.

Maybe we should turn back, he suggested in a crestfallen tone. And just where do you suggest I do that, you moron? Which side of the mountain do you want me to drive off? I snapped at him. After the harsh scolding, Charlie began smouldering quietly in the passenger seats. Despite being mad as hell at the situation we were in, I pressed on, ignoring the reptilian-like sense of self-preservation ingrained in us all. I continued braving the winding, crater-ridden road,

for a few more minutes before my car stored and came to me. a halt in the middle of the road. A quick check of my watch revealed that, to my absolute horror, 27 minutes had passed since we started down the road. Charlie got out of the car and began walking into the tree line. Something wasn't adding up. The ritual was working too well. Are you insane? I yelled at him, petrified at the prospect of following him. He didn't answer, and instead continued to wander deeper into the woods. With great reluctance, I followed suit. As we ventured blindly into the pitch-black forest,

I could tell right away there was something wrong with the place. No animals or insects were making a noise. Instead, there was only an eerie hum that befell the entire forest. After what felt like forever, my heart sank as a derelict-looking cabin appeared in the maze of trees. The orange shield of a candle illuminated one window, as we crept towards him. There it is, Charlie shouted. Charlie lifted his camera and snapped a quick photo of the cabin before, stuffing the Polaroid in his pocket.

Oh, it is real, I thought to myself, as I swallowed hard and tried to muster up every drop of courage in my body. This time it was me who wandered forward. Checking my watch yet again, the candlelight radiating from the window, I saw that it was now 248. am it was now or never without missing a beat I gave the door two firm knocks with my open palm before turning around to see Charlie staring onwards slack jawed you may enter an ancient sounding voice hissed at us from inside Charlie and I lurched through the threshold in abject terror the interior of the one-room cabin was plain and otherwise unremarkable except for

a single chair in the centre. A dim, lone candle stood next to the chair, illuminating all but the corners of the structure. For the life of me, I couldn't tell which corner of the room the voice was coming from. I couldn't help but wretch at the horrible stench. The smell of sulphur and rotting meat tickled my nostrils as the disembodied voice spoke again.

Sit! And answer well. Before I could react, Charlie pushed me aside and sat in the chair. He scanned the room anxiously as a dark, thin figure emerged from the shadows. The figure that emerged and stood before Charlie was once human but wasn't any more. She was rotten, her flesh melted from her bones. What remained of her ancient skin clung to her fragile bones like plastic rat, where her eyes should have been there were dark, eyeless caverns.

The wither is real, I thought, overwhelmed by a sick sense of dread and anticipation. Make your wish, but do not speak it. Answer true and I shall grant it, the witherer rasped. The room froze in silence for a moment, before she spoke yet again. I am lovely in the sun. but wilt when left in the dark. What am I? Charlie looked onwards in shock before letting out a cackle and saying,

Seriously, that's the infamous riddle? I took in the pungent air and breathed a deep sigh of relief. A flower, Charlie decreed proudly. In that instant, Charlie's confident sneer twisted into a look of sheer agony. as he collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain as his teeth fell from his mouth. His nails were next to go as they slid from his fingers. Then his flesh blackened with lesions that oozed pus and thick black blood. Finally, his flesh turned to a liquid and dripped from his bones in chunks.

I froze and watched in horror as my best friend withered away into a heap of human sludge. I knew then that Charlie had guessed wrong, and I only hoped I could guess correctly. Within a few seconds, nothing remained of Charlie except a pile of gruel and bow. My heart raced as I prepared myself to die as best I could. The wither had turned to me next and asked the same riddle that sealed Charlie's gruesome fate. Or to this day I couldn't tell you what force compelled me to say it. But before I could even think of an answer, I blurted out. the wither

on the agonizing death that I was awaiting never came instead the world around me went cold and bled the force of slamming into the wooden floor woke me up and I frantically scanned my surroundings

but instead of the witherer's cabin I was in a normal looking bedroom laying on a hardwood floor to my surprise I wasn't dead yet there was no pungent odor no pile of remains or any whispering crones.

I had no idea where I was, but I was thankful to be alive. Instead, there was the smell of freshly cooked bacon and the soft voice of a woman calling out from downstairs. Charlie, breakfast is ready. I'll skip a beat as I remembered Charlie with his camera as I reached into my pocket and poured out a crinkled up photograph of a dimly lit cabin in the forest. And at that moment, I knew

I knew that I'd answered correctly and gotten my wish. I was now the most popular kid in school. To this day I'm not sure if the hardest part of being Charlie is actually living his life or if it was seeing my own missing persons' posters plastered around town. So, take it from someone who's been living alive for the last 23 years. Never go looking for the wither. My dream home won't stop bleeding. I grew up poor, no two ways about it.

My family did everything they could to get by, but it was rarely enough. When I was a kid, the other children bullied me no end. I didn't have many friends. My parents were never around either, on account of working at least two jobs at a time. I couldn't blame them. They were trying to keep whatever shitty apartment we happened to live in at the time. It never worked, though. the eviction notices were constant.

We could never seem to get ahead in life. The fondest memory of my childhood was when my parents bought their first home. I was 16 at the time I wanted nothing more than to belong somewhere. This was right after my father got a promotion to Foreman at the construction company he worked for. I didn't live there long, not even two years, but for the first time in my life I found as though I belonged somewhere. My parents were happy too, for once in our life we didn't have to worry about money. I left my parents home when I graduated high school to attend college on an academic scholarship. I had always done well in school despite my unpopularity.

I would later graduate at the top of my class and begin my career in finance. After a few years of working my ass off and living like a cloistered monk, I saved enough money to get a home of my own. I long for the feeling that I'd felt when my parents had bought their house. In no time I found out that searching for homes was an abysmal. disappointments. I even got to experience a very familiar feeling. Everything I wanted was well out of my price range. Demoralized, I was ready to consign myself to a dump of a place, so long as it was close to work. It'd be a step above my efficiency apartment, after all. But then I discovered a glimmer

of hope. I had a gorgeous old home in my price range. The only unfortunate thing being it's distance from my job. Well, I could live with that. It was a real steel. The house shown in the ad was constructed in a breathtaking Victorian style. He stood two stories tall and was painted in an eye-catching shade of crimson. There was an iron fence outside in a post where an old-timey sign had once hung. It was filled with long hallways, high ceilings and twisting spiral staircases. It even had a chandelier. It was everything that I'd ever wanted. The events following my discovery of the adder all a blur. I closed on the house and moved in with a month of finding it.

The seller was an elderly woman. She seemed keen on selling it as soon as possible. I bought the home for $40,000 under value. It was the deal of a lifetime. Moving all alone was a pain in the ass, but otherwise uneventful. I didn't even have enough possessions to fill the house. Several rooms were left empty. for the first week I was in a constant state of awe

it felt even better than when my parents had bought their house I basked in the warm feeling of homeliness that I was experiencing but then the strange occurrences started small things being out of place characterised these first incidents never an item that you'd expect to misplace them like car keys or my wallet they were strange things like the plunger ending up in the dining room or pillows turning up in the kitchen. Following these strange happenings, I began double checking my locks every night. I suspected one of the neighbourhood kids had been pranking me while I was

at work. Well, I admit this was a bit of a stretch considering that my nearest neighbour was half a mile away. To my surprise, it continued to occur. Over time, the situation got even weirder. Cabinet doors would open by themselves. The occasional tap would come on without warning. Sometimes lights would turn off. Every now and again, the thermostat would adjust itself. I didn't know what to make of this. I'm not superstitious, so I figured that someone was getting in through the windows, and this, of course, allowed me, but it was easy enough to remedy.

Upon inspection of the windows, I found some of them unlocked. I dealt with this in square fashion by installing locks on every window, even on the second floor. No one would get into my house now. Over the course of the following weeks, things got worse, much worse. Door slammed shut, footsteps roamed the halls, and I swear I could hear whispers at night. I hadn't considered the possibility of my house being haunted until one day when the walls started bleeding.

I was sitting at my kitchen table when it first happened. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a wet crimson substance oozing from the walls in the When I turned to face it, I saw, plain as day, that there was blood seeping from my wall. It wasn't a deluge of blood, though. It was as though the house had broken out in a steady, heavy sweat. In a state of shock, I tried to wipe it away, but as I did, it disappeared as the rag touched it. It wasn't corporeal at all. Instead, it was like it was an illusion. As I tried to wipe it away, the phenomena would begin. somewhere else the blood collected on the floor and pulled on the hardwood floor before

vanishing I was never religious or superstitious but I ran to my cell phone with haste and dialed up a local church a man named Father Forelli picked up the bleeding stopped while I was on the phone with a priest still I explained to him that something was wrong and that I needed help he comforted me over the phone and showed up the following day to bless the house it surprised me considering that I wasn't a member of his congregation nor was i religious he didn't even know me it turned out that it hadn't been the first time he'd been to this house the old woman who'd owned the house before me had many similar complaints at first well this greatly reassured me i now knew that i wasn't crazy still though

i didn't like what he had to say one bit he told me that there's something wrong with the house on a fundamental level that a previous owner must have committed he and a deeds. This was a mortal issue, one that God had no whim to fix. Despite Father Ferelli's reservations, he did as I asked. He went from room to room, blessing the entire house. Upon completion of this task, he told me that moving was the only actual solution. According to the priest, my house was very sick. According to him, something truly horrible had to have happened here. In the weeks following the blessing things only got worse the whispers turned into crystal clear voices they conversed with each other at all hours they ruminated over what sounded like outdated medical

procedures after a few weeks of pondering what father ferrelli had said i decided i was going to move away no harm had come to me but i was unwilling to wait around for it to happen my house was clearly haunted not long after deciding i had been I began seeing people in my house. They wore Victorian-era clothes and like the walls bled from every orifice. They always appeared to be mutilated in different ways. Some were missing limbs, some had no eyes,

tongue or teeth, while others were disembowl. No matter what fate these beings met, they always had a hollow, emotionless expression. It was truly haunting, especially when I catch one in the mirror. The horrific entities would wander the halls around the clock. They never spoke to me or even acknowledged my existence. The only thing they ever did was wander the halls as if lost.

Not sure when it started, but at some point I would walk into rooms and see them doing abhorrent things. It would mutilate each other with a slew of tools, all while wearing blank expressions. Once I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth, only to be greeted by the empty visage of one of these spectral men. He had long hair, a thin moustache, a scarred face and wore a tall black top hats. In his right hand he brandished a rusty, nab-looking haxel. I wanted to run more than anything, but instead of running, I stood there paralysed. It was if something had rooted me to the floor. I was aghast and horrified at what I saw happen next.

He approached a woman in a long white dress who was kneeling over my bathtub. She held out a dainty hand to him, when she took, and to my horror, carved through from fingertip to wrist with his saw. He hacked through her flesh and bone, his face contorting in an unnaturally wide grin. His grin became so wide that his mouth fell open, revealing that his mouth was slit from ear to ear. Despite his enjoyment, he remained silent as death. I was still in shock as the woman got up. Her face bore no emotion at all.

Instead of writhing in agony, she turned and walked down the hall, allowing thick, dark blood to pour from her mangled hand as she descended the spiral staircase. The sadistic man then stood up, sore in hands. He made his way down the hall shortly afterward, walking directly through me. As his spectral form passed through mine, a visceral chill shot through my body.

This caused me to shiver violently. He didn't even realize, seem to care that I watched him commit this vile deed. At that moment, I found myself freed from my temporary stasis. I turned from my bathroom, sprinted down the stairs to leave this forsaken house. I couldn't take the never-ending horrors anymore. When I went to grab my car keys, I found only an ancient-looking photo where they usually sat on my kitchen counter. The sepia turn resembled old Wild West photos that I remembered from history classes. Upon closer inspection of the photo, I noticed that it was the same man I'd seen moments ago.

He was standing in front of my home, I dressed head to toe in all black. He held the same rusty hacksore it used to split the woman's hands. Next to him was a wooden sign that said, Dr. Johannes Fleischman, General Surgeon. Being so engrossed in the photo, I didn't notice that my keys had been sitting next to it. After snapping back to reality, I grabbed them and got into my car. While in my car, I called the real estate company. I needed to figure out how to contact the old woman who sold me the house.

She had to have answers. I confirmed my theory when I got contact information for the previous owner from the realtor. After a several hour-long conversation, I found out that my house had been a doctor's office in the 1850s. It served as something much worse later on. Dr. Johannes Fleischman opened his practice in 1851. He worked out of the house until 1857. That was when the authorities caught him performing amputations without cause. He would give false medical advice and tell people the only way to cure them was to operate. Disgraced, Fleischman quit practicing medicine and instead opened a new business. His new career was much more

macabre than even what he did before her Fleischman's new business was a parlour but people go to to spectate torches it's alleged that there are dozens of bodies buried on the property but no one ever cared to look the good doctor was cunning he only ever took those who didn't have family in the surrounding towns still despite his careful measures one family did discover what was going on the doctor had gone careless in 1873 and kidnapped a young girl named Annie. Annie's father was an unhinged war veteran who long suspected the doctor's crimes. One night he broke into the home and legend has it he caught the doctor in the act. Annie's father's stab fleshman almost 100 times, but that was after cutting his mouth from ear to ear with a glass bottle. None of the crimes

have ever been confirmed though. According to the town, records dr johannus flashman died peacefully in his home no one ever asked question seeing as he was loath by the townsfolk or the woman who sold me the home disclosed none of this for obvious reasons she informed me that the apparitions are harmless but they never stop she also told me that they would get worse the longer i stayed and to prepare myself for that it's obvious that these events were true The doctor's victims have never left this house, and they never will. Instead, damnation and ceaseless torment await them in the house's haunted halls. Well, I'm trying to sell the house.

It's been on the market for almost a year now, and no one's showing any interests. I don't care about losing money on it at this point. I just want it gone. The only problem is that I can't bring myself to not disclose the home's sordid parts. every time a potential buyer arrives I tell them the truth I let them know that the house is sick so for now the home remains my problem the apparitions are only getting worse and day by day I can feel insanity creeping up on me made a horrifying discovery in my brother's basement growing up my twin brother David and I were always very close

our parents divorced when we were teenagers leading to our separation I went to live with our mother while David remained with our father. During this separation, we did our best to stay in contact, but our parents' avoidance of each other meant that we didn't see much of the other. When we graduated from high school, we attended the same college and became close yet again, even being roommates for a few semesters. Couldn't take it after a while, though. He was always such a clean freak and had some OCD tendencies.

My brother and I didn't share his OCD sense. sentiments. I'm not a dirty or crude person by any means, but my brother and I have very different living habits. Eventually this led to me moving in with the girl I was seeing. Not my finest hour, but it was a lesson learned. David reached out to me last Thursday, asking me to watch his new house while he was out of town on a business trip. Not a daunting task in the slightest, but it meant a lot to him. He just moved into a new house and was ecstatic about him. I agreed without hesitation. Additioned to his OCD. My brother has always been a bit paranoid. A bit of a weirdo. Because of his paranoid, he, upon graduation from college, moved into one of those suburbs

where everyone's home looks the same. The development even has a neighborhood watch made of a like-minded, paranoid carers. Trivial things like that reassured my brother to an extent. down. But he still had his entire property wired with cameras, even inside the house. It took me several passes of the neighbourhood to determine which house was his. I really wasn't kidding when I said they all looked the same. Eventually I found his house. I parked up my beat-up old car in the garage. I didn't want to leave it in the driveway unless the neighbours determined to be an eyesore and call the cops on me. Reaching for the doorknop, I noticed a handwritten note on the door it read remove your shoes please what a freaking weirdo i thought upon entering his house i

discovered that it was in pristine condition though even plastic covering still on the furniture the paint on the walls was pearly white it appeared almost as though the house was unoccupied in the kitchen i found yet another note on the counter there was a list of rules written on it Russell, please make yourself at home, but please respect these rules. It would make me feel a lot better if you did. One, please remove your shoes. Two, please ensure the doors remain locked at all times. Three, please watch for any suspicious activity on the cameras.

Four, do not remove any of the plastic coverings from their furniture. Five, please stay out of the basement. It's not finished yet, and the contractor says it's still a mess. We wouldn't want anyone getting hurt. Still the same old David. Locking the door I'd enter through, I made my way to the fridge to get a beer. Well, I planned ahead. I made sure David picked me up a case of my favourite brew in exchange for me watching the house.

A beer in hand, I made my way to the living room to find something on TV. To my surprise, there were two TVs. The first one was small and mounted to the wall. He had several camera feeds displayed on it, including one that showed me sitting on the couch, looking at the monitor. God, I wish he could just be normal. Well, I admit it. It was weird watching myself on the camera feed,

but surveillance wasn't new behavior on David's part. David's second TV is one of the massive, curved, 4K Ultra HD ones. The set-up was pretty sweet, and I had to admit, my goofy-ass twin brother had a nice place. The only annoying part about staying in the brand-new home was the fact that I kept sticking to his couch on account of the plastic cover. Everything was great. The beers were cold, and the TV was crystal clear. That is, until that maddening, dripping sound started. It was so damn agitating. It was as though someone was standing right next to me, slowly, rick. bringing out a sopping wet towel.

Turning to the camera monitor, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I just turned the TV up to drown out the sound of the annoying noise. I worked for a short time until it got louder. I was getting tired and knew I wouldn't be able to sleep with that annoying noise. After nearly an hour of searching the house for leaky pipes, I gave up momentarily. And I remembered that the basement was still undergoing renunciable. innovations. Maybe he had a cracked pipe. If that were the case, it wouldn't be right for me to

just let it go. It could cause some expensive damage if it was left unattended. The basement itself was a large, empty room with unfinished dry wall and concrete floors. I went to flick the light switch on, but it didn't work. Thinking the lights had yet to be wired, I pulled out my cell phone and turned on my flashlight. Using it to scan the room, I noticed a dripping, exposed pipe right above an oddly placed porcelain tub in the room's corner. I've always been handy, and I keep a set of tools in my truck at all times, so I decided I'd fix the leaky pipe for David. Within a few minutes, I'd fixed it, and was ready to go back to binge watching TV.

But as I turn around, I noticed something bizarre. In the far corner, there was a small box TV sitting on the floor. To my surprise, it had turned on its own. Crackling static filled the screen and caused it to illuminate that part of the room. Overwhelmed by curiosity, I made my way over to it. It wasn't like David to keep an old TV around at all, let alone in the corner of his basement on the cold concrete floor. There was no way he was actually using the thing.

As I got closer I noticed a VCR along with a stack of VHS tape sitting next to it. Hmm. I wonder what that weirder was watching down. here, probably some kind of nasty 80s porn. The tapes were all unlabeled, and I was curious, so I slipped one in. It was just surveillance footage from around the house, bizarre as things go. I fast-forwarded through it for a while, saw it was just a camera feed footage from his backyard. It was uneventful, but it still made me feel very uneasy. What would David possibly have to be so worried about. After fast-forwarding some more, I grew bored and flipped on another tape.

God, I wish I hadn't. This tape started off much like the first one, just boring surveillance footage of the back yard. Then a woman walked across the yard. Next thing I knew a figure in all black grabbed her from behind and forced her to the ground. He seemed to stab her in the neck with something and she quickly stopped resisting. The dark figure picked her up off the ground and walked right towards the camera. A heart sank into the pit of my stomach. The camera sits above the back door. The tape cut to black and I turned to walk out of the basement.

I was going to go home now to call the police. But as I turned my back, the TV screen lit up again. The most horrifying shriek I've ever heard. I sawed my ears, spinning around. I saw a ghastly sight on the small screen. The camera pointed towards a naked, struggling woman, chained in a bathtub. She was badly beaten and cuts adorned her entire body. Moments later, the man in black came into the room and poured what appeared to be honey all over her.

He then dumped a bucket of large cockroaches into the tub. The bugs swarm the woman crawling all over her new body As she screamed at the top of her lungs Begging for help I sat there Peering mindlessly into the TV Both engrossed and sickened by what I was watching The video then transitioned to a time-nats video

Of the bugs eating her The timestamp on the film showed that it took two days For her to stop twitching She screamed for a while At least until the bugs crawled down her throat and began eating her from the inside out. It took four days for the insects to devour her flesh completely. That poor woman was eaten alive by roaches.

And this tape was in my brother's house. I was speechless, unwilling to put two and two together. I wanted to call the police right then, but macabre curiosity got the better of me as I slid the next tape into the VCR. Somehow the next tape was even worse, probably because it proved without doubt that my brother was responsible for these horrific killings. The next tape saw him drag a woman from his living room into the basement's direction. The tape cut to black again, much like the first one.

This time I waited for it to resume. There was a woman in the same tub as the first tape, bound in the same way. Suddenly a man appeared in the frame. It was my brother. brother. He wasn't wearing a mask this time. After having his way with a poor woman, he started raving about how she was dirty and needed cleansed. Couldn't watch any more, but for some sick reason I couldn't force myself to look away. Like a zombie, I started onward as my brother dumped bleach all over the woman and scrubbed her with a steel wall. I'll spare the details of where on her body

started but by the end of it her body resembled spaghetti it appeared as though she passed out from blood loss when my brother began violating her again smearing himself in her blood as he did i had to hold back from vomiting as he did this how would i call this lunatic my brother and somehow the woman began screaming again david screamed furiously at her demanding that she shut up when she didn't He picked up a hatchet from the floor and began hacking her apart with an anvil, a murderous glint in his eye. Finally, the crazed hacking ceased, and David began throwing her body parts into heavy plastic banks

before rushing over to the camera to turn it off. Had he always been like this? A deranged murderer. Feverishly, I slid another tape into the VCR, hoping to find the answer. The next tape was the worst yet. showed David yet again kidnapping a woman, violating her and torturing her. But the way he did it still haunts me. He began by pulling out her teeth with a pair of plies.

I could hear the cracking of bone and the twisting of gums as he did it. Next he took a small pairing knife and scout her before walking out of the room with his totem in hand. This woman continued to scream for at least 30 minutes before David entered the frame again. This time he was wearing her scalp and hair. The long black hair, partially obscured his face as he approached her while holding a drill, the TV hard, knocking it over and shattering the scream. I couldn't take it any more. I could still hear the screams coming from the TV, even though the image was no longer there.

I rushed up the stairs, not even thinking to grab the six more tapes still sitting on the floor, which would surely be damning evidence. I made it to my truck and booked it out of the garage and prepared to dial 911, but before I could, my cell phone lit up with a text from Davies. Leaving so soon, it read. I ignored the message and called the police right away. They had to get a search warrant. That process took too long, and as a result they never found the tapes.

This whole piece of evidence retrieved was a broken tube television. I haven't spoken to my brother in seven years. I don't plan on speaking to him ever again. He deserves to rot for the things he's done. I'm writing this because I just received a package in the mail. It was a tape. The footage of it was of me sitting in that godforsaken basement, staring into the TV,

scrawled on the tape in Sharpie Woods. Seven years ago, today. And so once again, we reached 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 wrong, 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.