Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep73: Episode 73: Terrifying Ghost Stories

Episode Date: March 17, 2022

Our first offering is ‘Can I Stay in Your Room?’ by TheWizardOfTheWoods, again shared via the Creepypasta Wiki and once more read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license. https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Can_I_Stay_in_Your_Room%3F https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:TheWizardOfTheWoods Our second ghostly tale this evening is ‘Call My Name’ by ShadowsintheLight23, shared via the Creepypasta Wiki and also read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license. https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Call_My_Name https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:ShadowsintheLight23 Today’s penultimate story is 'I Used to Think that Ghosts don’t Exist', an original work by Mammoth Formal 1, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/MammothFormal1/ We round off proceedings with ‘The Shepherd of Ghosts’, a phenomenal story by W.D. Stevenson, also shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and read here with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/WD_Stevenson/

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Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Well, it is said that ghosts don't haunt us. Ah, that's not how it works. They're present among us, because we won't let them go. Four terrifying ghostly tales for you this evening. Now, later on we have Call My Name by Shadows in the Light, 23. Then we have, I used to think that Ghost don't exist by Mammoth Formal One. We round off with The Shepherd of Ghosts by W.D. Stevenson.

but we begin with Can I Stay in Your Room by the Wizard of the Woods 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 Can I stay in your room Mommy Can I stay in your room tonight The walls won't stop standing at me I sigh and roll out of bread. There's nothing in your room. Go back to sleep. But they won't stop staring.

Come on. I take Will by the hand and guide him back to his room. Walls can't see, well, they don't have eyes. Mine do. They do. They keep looking at me. We crossed the threshold of his doorway, and I set him up on the bed. Pictures of family passed and present are hung, clustered around the room. See? Look. Will points to one of the pictures across from his bed. A large portrait of his great-great-grandmother, long deceased. Due to the way the picture was taken, she seems to stare at whatever the picture faces, in this case Will's bed. That's just an old picture. I can't change it. It looks like she's staring. You take it down, please. Please. my sigh sure i reached to pull down the old portraits and her eyes slowly lock with my or my name the house had an uneasy feeling about it

mark had seen it first and he'd fallen in love with it she knew that any house she showed him after that would never match up to the chocolate-box cottage on the outskirts of the small old-fashioned village the quirky wooden beams in the rustic lounge the quaint thatched roof the overgrown bewitching garden with its secret hideaways and colorful flowers he'd fallen for the house the moment he saw it and from that day on sophie knew her fate was sealed it was inevitable her husband always won they moved in on november 11 all their modern things look strange amongst the old brick walls and the looming ceilings. So she put her juice mixer on the stone kitchen counter and stared at it, thinking how displaced it looked, and then how displaced she was herself.

She'd always wanted to live in the city in a modern apartment, but they couldn't afford to live in the city unless they sacrificed comfortable living for squalor, and all the apartments she'd shown Mark had failed to impress. Deep down she too knew that they were horrible. so here they were in the desolate countryside with an hour's commute to mark's job every single day sophie was still searching for employment and she thought glumly of how she'd be on her own day after day until she too found a soulless office job still a soulless office job surrounded by other people had to be better than life in the country by herself without even a pet to keep her company due to mark's allergies

They began to settle in over the next few days, unpacking boxes, putting up pictures. They met some of the neighbours, mostly retired couples, who were bemused that two twenty-somethings have moved out to the back of beyond, and come voluntarily at that. Sophie took an immediate liking to the woman who lived next door, an old lady in her 80s, who was virtually housebound and had a dry sense of humour that reminded Sophie of her own deceased grandmother. Sophie decided that she'd be neighbourly and offered to bring the woman groceries, even take her out once in a while. But it appeared quickly that the woman had several friends in the village

who had already cheerfully taken on these burdens. Regardless, Sophie went to visit her often anyway, as she enjoyed listening to her stories. The old lady had lived all over the world, and her husband had died a few years back. It emerged that after he died, they were almost destitute financially, and so she lived in her little cottage with no heating and no electricity, and survived almost completely on the kindness of friends and neighbours.

Sophie liked listening to her talk about her experiences. It made her feel like she was worldly herself, even though Mark never expressed an interest in going abroad. The old woman painted a colourful picture of the most exotic places Sophie could imagine, of cows roaming the streets in India, of African trees. tribes dancing to the beat of a drum, of people more rural than they who lived off the land and were at one with nature. I've seen real-life voodoo dolls. I've danced naked around trees.

I've participated in animal sacrifice. The strange practices of others have always fascinated me. The woman said to her, perhaps sometimes to my detriment. One day, however, they get on to discussing the village. "'Are you enjoying it here?' the old lady asked. "'Suffy wasn't sure how to answer. "'She'd been living in the village for about three weeks by this point. "'Most days Mark was out, even on some weekends,

"'and whenever he was home he was absolutely exhausted and locked into his own world. "'She felt very alone, but then she'd felt like that in her marriage for a very long time now. "'I'm getting used to it,' she said truthfully. "'How's the house?' "'It's—' "'Well, it was spotless. "'She cleaned it every single day, "'for lack of anything else to do.

"'But it was also cold and dark, "'and as the night started to draw in earlier and earlier, "'she found herself hurriedly shutting all the curtains "'and turning on the lights, "'for fear of what she might see out of the window. "'She had no idea why. "'The old woman waited for her answer, "'but she trailed off,

leaving the sentence dangling in the dank air. Sophie thought of something to say. Did you get on with the people who lived there before? Did they come round much? A dark look passed over the old woman's face. She twisted her leathery fingers and coughed. I didn't like them much, she admitted, looking away from Sophie. We were friends once, but I didn't always agree with the things they did.

so we weren't friends anymore. They passed away there, didn't they? Well, the estate agent had been required to inform them of this. The couple who lived there before had passed away in quick succession, one after the other, within the week, both from heart conditions. The deceased wife was found cradling her even more deceased husband on the sofa in the living room. Sadly, he died seven days earlier, as she hadn't thought to inform the police. His decomposing body had been found in her own lifeless arms by her neighbour concerned about the smell.

While Sophie was repulsed by this, Mark was thrilled. Death made houses cheap. Copses were found there, yes, the woman said. Sophie thought her phrasing was interesting, but she couldn't put her finger on why. Well, it's terribly sad. The old woman then brought. pursed her lips and the conversation moved on mark didn't get home until late that night sophie had made spaghetti but he called to tell her he was delayed and had already eaten at work

she spooned the congealed misshapen lumps into the bin trying not to cry or to rekindle the old familiar feeling of suspicion it was the fourth time that week he got home as she was going to bed this was her life now as she cleared up the mess the kitchen. She heard an odd sound, like a floorboard creaking. She paused, stock still, like an animal sensing prey is near. She breathed out, trying to pull herself together. It was common for floorboards to creak or radiators to gurgle as the house was old, and it often made strange noises. And then, she heard it. Sophie. She froze. Someone was calling her name.

The e-sound was elongated, like they were taunting her in a game of hide-and-seek. She stayed as still as possible, waiting for it to come again. It did not. Cautiously, she crept out of the kitchen into the hallway. She wondered whether she should arm herself with something, and grabbed a pot plant. What she did with a pot-plant she didn't know, but she felt better for holding it. "'Who's there?' she called out. The house lay silent before her, giving nothing away.

"'Who is it?' She searched every room, but no one was there. She breathed out as she got to the bottom of the stairs and put the pot-plant back in its place. Nobody was hiding. Loneliness did strange things to one's imagination. Over the next three weeks, she heard the sound twice more. The first time Mark was in the house as well, having a bath upstairs.

She was in the kitchen again, making brownies to see if it would appease his bad mood. It was Sunday afternoon, a day of rest. Mark's work phone and his laptop lay across the kitchen table, and it had buzzed three times already in the time she'd been out of the room. So he wouldn't have been surprised if he needed to go back to the office today. She stood there over the stove. She heard it again. Sophie.

The sound was far away, yet she knew it was her name. At first she thought it was Mark, and went to find him. He was lying in the tub, reading the news on his iPad. Did you call me? she asked. Her heart was pounding a little. What? I asked if you called me. No, don't think so.

She nodded and left him to it. She felt a prickly feeling crawling up her arms. It had to have been the house. The sound was coming from far away and was most likely just the pipes gurgling. The second time was a couple of days later. This time she and Mark were lying in bed. She was lying unsatisfied in the scratchy sheets, trying to sleep after their all too quick love-making.

Mark was already snoring. Sophie. She definitely heard it this time. The sound had been close, like someone was standing outside the door. And she shook Mark awake. What? He grunted in his sleep, irritated by her hands, scrabbling at his back. I heard my name, she said.

Someone's outside the door. You're just dreaming, self. I'm not asleep yet. How can I be dreaming? Go and check what you, please. he grunted mark oh for fuck's sake he held himself out of the bed and flew in the bedroom door open his creaky hinges groaned at the sudden movement there's no one out here she heard his voice as he padded around the landing there's nobody here sophie he stood in the doorway his large frame blocking most of the light behind him for a second

Sophie thought she could see a figure advancing up the stairs something dark and slow but they moved and there was nothing you're just imagining things he told her turning off the lights and clambering back into the itchy sheets I'm not Mark I heard someone

I've heard it three times now Sophie you know what you like you make things up none of it's real is it she knew what he was referring to the last time she'd made things up as he put it mark this place frightens me but he wasn't listening anymore in other couple of minutes he was back to sleep sophie stayed awake the whole night staring at the door a few days later sophie went on another visit to see her elderly neighbour today she did didn't find her in good spirits. The old woman sat hunched over the fire, her wispy hair poking out at the bun she'd tied at the back of her head,

her face pale and sickly. What's wrong? Sophie asked her. I'm not feeling very well, she replied. Why? What's happened? I'm old. I'll get older and I'll get sicker. Then I won't get old anymore.

Her voice was resigned in a way that conflicted with her usually positive spirits. How are you getting on? She asked Sophie, changing the subject. You feel more at home yet? Sophie sighed, wanting desperately to confide in someone. She sat down on the armchair opposite, ready to relinquish her woes. No, if I'm being honest, she said.

If anything, I feel worse. I've been hearing things. What kind of things? The woman's attention was pricked. She tilted her withered head away from the fire in Sophie's direction. Sophie suddenly noticed how blue her eyes were. She would have been pretty once. I've been hearing someone calling my name, but nobody's there.

Is that so? The woman didn't look surprised, just sad. Like what Sophie had said was as inevitable as her own ill. help. I know it's an old house, Sophie continued, but I know what I'm hearing. Last night it was completely clear, like it was just outside the door. Her neighbor nodded her head, drinking in the information. And I'm sure I saw a figure moving behind Mark on the landing. I know it sounds crazy, but there's something in that house. The old woman sighed. You shouldn't be afraid, Sophie. It's just an old house. We can twist sounds to what we want to hear, or rather what we don't.

You're very isolated. Just put it past you. But I think I'm sending myself crazy. I know I've imagined things before, things which nearly destroyed our marriage, because I was so paranoid, but this feels real to me, like someone's trying to get my attention. Sophie, in all the years I've lived next door to that house. I've never heard anything strange, going on there. Honestly, we do this to ourselves when we don't have much else in our lives. I'm not trying to offend you or upset you, but that's what happens when our minds are not occupied. Take it from someone who knows what idleness is. Sophie nodded, feeling a little better. Perhaps her neighbor was right. It was just her imagination.

She left the house, her burden feeling a little lighter now, she confided in another soul. The old woman watched her go, a feeling of dread creeping upon her. Was it better that the girl didn't know? Was it better that she'd lied that she kept from her who those awful people really were, the ones who'd lived there before? Yes, their bodies had been found. They could not torment the old lady anymore. They couldn't blackmail her for the things she'd see and go on in that house.

darkness never truly dies she knew that the kind of sins that went on in that house rituals as they call them they would never really die to think that she'd once been a willing part of it she shuddered hearing the door click as the girl left the old woman knew that she would be subject to the same fate when it was her turn bodies can die other parts Other parts of you never will. They've been living in the cottage for three months when Sophie found them. The underwear with a lipstick mark on them. What a cliche.

She was almost embarrassed. She wasn't angry because she'd known for a long time. Yet she'd hoped, perhaps naively, that moving to a new place meant it would have stopped. She'd obviously been wrong. She confronted him that night. He denied everything at first. before breaking down. Yes, he'd been seeing her on and off for a year now, yes. He loved the other woman, so no. Sophie wasn't paranoid, after all. Yes, he'd carried on lying even when his wife confronted him with her suspicions. Sophie left the house and was enveloped by the night. She let the darkness carry her through the village lanes, round the church, through the graveyard. She allowed herself to be invisible. After all, in Mark's eyes,

She already was. Mark splashed his face with cold water in the upstairs bathroom. Had he really been so stupid? He always checked his underwear. He showered after every encounter. He kept his condoms hidden in the boot of his car. He'd obviously been tired after he got in and flung them in the laundry hamper without thinking. He'd got away with it last time. He'd talked her out of it. I made her think she was just paranoid. and he destroyed his marriage. He cursed himself. It was then, as he was standing in the cool of the bathroom. But he heard it.

The voice was soft and playful, almost a sing-song. Sophie? He stepped out of the bathroom onto the landing. It came again. Ma! The voice was louder, more insistent this time in a rasping, desperate way. A chill ran through him when he remembered that Sophie had gone out, that he hadn't heard her return.

Yet it sounded like her voice. Was she calling him for forgiveness? He skulked down the stairs, following the direction of the sound. Marr, it was coming from the lounge. He was quite sure of that. He walked into the gloomy room, lit by an orangey lamp in the corner, and saw his wife sitting bolt upright on the sofa. The sofa faced away from him so he could only see the back of her head.

Her long brown hair gushed over her neat shoulders, though we were sure she'd worn it up today. There was something wrong with what he was seeing. Her hair didn't look real. It almost looked like doll hair, made of straw. The head was too large to be his wife. Her position, bolt upright, felt like he was looking. looking at a corpse and was she cradling something as he drew closer there appeared to be another figure on the sofa when it was covered by a blanket it was then that he saw the gnarled hand resting on the

arm of the sofa where his wife's long fingers and chip nails should be were white withered digits with blackened fingernails as he got closer the hand and clenched up. Sophie, he prayed she was playing a trick, but as he stood behind it, a feeling of pure dread came upon him. His breathing quickened he could hear the beat of his own pulse. The figure, hearing him approach, began to slowly turn its head. Sophie was walking back to the house and deciding whether or not to go back in or just

keep walking in the other direction she'd been crying and her face was bloated from it though she couldn't feel anger anymore she was just tired it was as she was passing the front garden of the cottage that she heard the scream it was a shrill piercing scream tortured and it seemed to go on for minutes so if he stopped knowing that it was coming from inside her house knowing that it was her husband Yet, what was she thinking? He told her that she'd been imagining things, hadn't he? That she was just paranoid. She hovered at the gate, debating whether or not to go in and investigate.

All the lights seemed to be off. The house was still. Sophie kept walking down the lane, whistling as she left the little cottage in the distance behind her, and the echoes of the scream died in her ear. Think about your health for a second. Are your eyes the first thing that come to mind? Probably not.

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Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. The shepherd of ghosts. He sat on a mound, bearing semblance of a character wreathed by some strange type of vagabond regality. He was proud, that was plain to see. Stringy grey hair lifted and fell upon the light breeze.

The branches of pinnoke and dogwood chattered around him in a language long forgotten. His eyes were closed and his state was trance-like. Eerie, but in a way, comical. The thin-lipped, an aged-drawn mouth was contorted into a lopsided grin. A staff of gnarled driftwood rested across his lap. His old grey jacket was faded, threadbare and full of motholes, with pieces of dead and broken leaves and twigs stuck to it,

as if he'd saw fit to roll around on the forest floor like a dog before taking residence upon his earth and throne, the throne from which he presided over a kingdom that he and he alone could see. Around his gaunt waist was a chain in place of a belt, and I was sure that if he stood it would only be the tops of protruding hip bones that would keep it from sliding down his legs to gather in a rusty pile at his feet. He was either oblivious to our presence or simply couldn't be bothered to acknowledge us. Either one was fine with us as we kept moving down the obscure trail. My companion and fishing buddy Eric looked at me with a smirk as we rounded a bend and were certain to be out of sight and earshot of the airshot of the air-exam. old man. Dude, did we just see a wizard? It was late summer in the Ozarks. We had enough time in

the year for one last hurrah before autumn fell across the land and our obligations with work and family would keep us off of the water for the next seven or so months. We made it a point, at least once a summer, to break free of civilisation's grasp and delve as deeply as we could into nature. To find fish, we told everyone, but deep down, we both knew we just wanted to. We just wanted to wanted to get away from the concrete, cars, streetlights and sirens that never seemed to stop, away from people. We chose fly-fishing as our outlets, not because of any moral objection to any other form of aquatic pursuit, but simply because the gear was light, packable, and we could keep a week's worth of tackle in little more than a vest pocket.

We skirted the Forch-Lafave River, scaling boulders and rock slides, slipping through through mud and gravel. We felt like children again as we explored with gusto. Our windings took us all the deeper into what could loosely pass as wilderness in this day and age. We checked the still pools below ripples, scouting for one that could possibly be home to a school of fat rainbows that the area was known for. All of the comforts of Colorado trout fishing without a twenty-hour drive and half-freezing in the Rockies to do it, we joked. Camp was simple and elegant. We strung at hammocks with mosquito netting and rain-taps.

Backpacking quilts kept us warm in our nylon nests. We read it a fire ring and set about the task of gathering firewood. You have the firewood up at the beginning, your trip will be more enjoyable, was the mantra preached by my father when he took me on my first camping trip 20 years previous. It was late enough that we weren't going to get any fishing done on the first day, but that was all right. Eric had taken off downstream in his quest for firewood and I had gone inland, away from the water's edge.

I picked it dead full, broke off dry branches and used a folding pocket saw to hue the largest of the branches down into manageable pieces to drag back to camp. Arms full with my burnable payload. I turned to make the first trip back to camp. Likely it would take several to secure enough firewood for the duration of the trip. I stepped around a boulder, peering through the fingers of wood that need their best to obscure my view when I let her to shout and jump backwards, dropping everything I carried. The hell!

My words came as a reflex more than a thought-out construct. "'Your boy, it's ought to be careful out here when the water's up. It's a lonesome place,' the man from the mound said in a scratchy voice that dripped with deep hill-jerk. jack accents. His eyes were two different colors, one light brown, the other a milky blue. He didn't seem to have a malicious look, but I still felt my heart pounding my chest from the sudden surprise. What are you doing sneaking up on me like that? I said to no one, because he was gone.

One instant there, the next vanished. As if the trees had reached out and snatched him away in the time it took me did blink. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I kept one eye roving as I gathered up and dropped firewood and bounded quickly back to camp. Eric was there with a comparable pile he gathered as well. He was looking at the river as he fidgeted with the knife he normally used to whittle wood shavings to start the fire. I dropped the wood next to him. Damn wizard snuck up on me, he said before I could say a word. said to watch out for the water because it's lonesome or something.

Seriously, he must be quick for an old man because he said the same thing to me, I replied. We stared at each other for a moment before we both shrugged and attempted to laugh it off. The tension broke and we tended to our respective camp's chores, building the fire in preparing and the freeze-dried meal that was customary on our first night, hoping that as the week rolled on, we'd be able to. of heavily supplement our meals with fresh fish. We decided that the old man was probably a local, one of the hill folk that wasn't used to people this far in

and decided to have a little fun at our expense. Everywhere in the Ozarks, there were stories and legends of the hill folk. A clinician, xenophobic people who didn't approve of outsiders in their ancestral land. That had to have been it. Well, we weren't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing us frightened by something so minuscule. We passed a small butter of whiskey back and forth between us as we sat,

enjoying the fire, and watched the sun sink behind the mountains. How early you want to start in the morning? Eric asked me. Oh, guess whoever wakes up first wakes the other one up, like usual. I wouldn't mind getting after it while there's still a fog on the water. Fair enough.

I think I'll turn in there. Eric rocked up to his feet with an excessively dramatic yawn meandered towards his hammock, pulling back the mosquito netting to crawl inside. I poked at the fire with a stick and listened to the chorus of groans, curses, coughs and sighs that emanated from the hammock as he settled into place.

I chuckled quietly, knowing I'd be doing the same before long. It was always a fight in the beginning with the hammock to find the sweet spot and get comfortable. Worth it, though. The blue flames licked at the dry oak log. and i tapped it with a stick watching the orange sparks fly up into the night like a hundred little fairies it was caught from the high grass across the river and a distant whippoorwill serenaded his own

personal corner of the forest i smiled with content behind the rim of the whiskey bottle enjoying the falling of night as the fire burned down to dim coals and i finally crawled into my hammer The scraping caused me to stir. So soft at first I couldn't tell if it was what had awakened me. My eyes opened and I blinked against the dark as my vision adjusted to the starlight. The scraping grew louder. I immediately recognized it as the cookpot we left by the fire. Raccoons and possums were shameless about raiding leftovers from carefully ignored dirty dishes,

regardless if you were sleeping a few feet away or not. I tried to ignore it, but the sound grew, metallic and aggressive, like a fork being hauled across the bottom of the pot. So, with a hint of annoyance I called out. Eric, you've been a fat kid or what? You're not going to miracle more food out of the pot by scraping it like that. Huh? Came a simple, sleepy response from his hammock. I felt the drowsiness leave my body as I tilted my head.

up, eyes straining against the night as I looked for the source of the sound. I clicked on my headlamp and illuminated the area. There was nothing. The cookpot was where we left it. Well, I'd expected to catch a glimpse of a possum scurrying into the forest, but there simply wasn't anything. I swung my light slowly over the area when I felt a stiff bump against the outside of my hammer and I started swinging. or the impact caused me to flail involuntarily, which only made the swinging worse. Something just hit me, I said aloud,

with a little more panic in my voice than I'd intended. The realization you're a dick for waking me up? No, asshole, seriously, something was just in the camp. That's probably a coon, maybe a hog. They got them out here, Eric said with groggy irritation. I started to pretend. Test is indifference, but ultimately decided to leave it alone. I focused my attention on a single cricket that was soaring a tune somewhere in the underbrush.

My eyelids grew heavy a few times, but noises in the woods, either real or imagined, continually jolted me back away. My body grew tired, but my mind wouldn't allow me to sleep. I listened to Eric Russell in his hammer. He wasn't sleeping either. I speculated on the reasons, but neither ever spoke again until the sun threatened to crest the eastern hilltops. The night sounds were fading, but there was a lull before the sounds of early morning fell into their place. It occurred. Suddenly, it wasn't close, but neither was it quite far enough away when it happened.

A shrill, ear-splitting screech echoed through the trees and caused a jagged ripple to form on the surface. of the water. Eric and I both came up out of our hammocks, which swung erratically, fighting via physics to hold us in as we struggle to get out, both essentially being puked out into heaps on the ground. So, I take it you heard it too, Eric said as he looked at me with a feeble attempt at humour. "'The hell you think that was?' I asked, as I scanned the trees that ringed our camp. No idea. Hawk fighting a black bear, maybe. Sound with babies. Could be. I never heard a sound make that kind of noise. You ever heard a sow make any type of noise? Eric accusatorily asked me. Ah, no, I admitted. Truthfully, I had no idea what the vocal range of a feral

hog consisted of. I wasn't a hardened, seasoned pioneer born of the same vein as Daniel Booth. and well I liked hiking, fishing and camping on weekends, and that was about it. Although Eric tried to play himself off as a rough and tumble frontiersman, I knew he was the same way. What do you want to do? I asked. We're up. Might as well fish. That's what we're here for. He wasn't wrong. The light had started by then to penetrate into the forest, and a thin beam of yellow ray was spilling across the riverbank. I had the urge to go stand in it, bask in the warmth, and let it purge the figurative and literal chill from my body,

to disinfect and flush out the gnawing feeling of unease that had crept into my bones. I slipped on my boots, stood and strode directly out into the light. I felt better almost immediately. Jay was pecking at the fire ring with a stick, rousing the colds as he spoke. Hey, child alike, you aren't breast. breakfast or are we going to get right to it? Let's do it. We waded into the river. The water was breathtakingly cold at first, but as the sun climbed, so did the heat and humidity. After an adjustment period, it felt nice to dunk into the clear water, to wash away the sweat and deer

flies that circled our faces like tiny vultures. We waited for miles, casting our lines, cracking jokes, reminiscing about past adventures and telling good nature's lies. A flycast, when done correctly, is a thing of beauty. It's a sport that borders on art. Rather than athletically depositing your flyaway, you wish it to be by force, you paint the actions in long, smooth strokes, trusting in the final product. Throughout the day I thought I saw glimpses of things, things that came to the corner of my eye, lingering on the fringes of my vision until I tried to look directly at them.

Every flick of my gaze or turn of my head was met with emptiness for the effort. A flash of colour, a clandestine movement, the fritting of a shape. It was unnerving, but I was all so tired. The brain does funny things when running on a very real lack of sleep. I catch Eric from time to time focusing on the tree,

line above the river. When I questioned him about it, he'd shake his head. As the day wore on, the feeling of an ease came back. I didn't just think we were being watched. I knew we were. Eric felt it too. Our jokes and laughter tapered off more and more with each passing hour. Our flight casting had grown stiff and mechanical. Somewhere there were eyes boring into us and the movements in the shadows maintain their seraptitious presence just out of sight. We had fish in the creole basket, and rather than continue downstream, we subconsciously worked back up river towards the camp. That was uncharacteristic of us, but neither of us said a word until we could see the hammocks swaying gently as we'd left them.

Oh, sweet home, Eric said as he slogged ashore, me right behind him, toting the creole basket housing the day's catch. The minimalist diet of trail mix and cereal bars that had sustained us while wading, at us working at a deficit that was audible in the form of rumbling stomachs. The thought of fresh fire cookfish and potatoes completely bulldozed for a time the eerie vibes that pass through the valley all around us. I gutted the trout, peeling the bloodlines off of the backbone with my thumb and rinsing them in the middle. the flowing river water. Eric was the designated firemaster,

and he coax the flames into life and added wood. Butter, garlic, rosemary and aluminum foil, a dash of seasoned salt and white pepper. The simple things that put a Michelin-rated restaurant to shame when you're on the riverbank. He wrapped up the fish and potatoes in foil packets and covered them in coals that were glowing as the sun once more started to dip from sight.

The whiskey bottle made it. the usual rounds as we waited for the meal to cook. Isn't it funny how a 50-cent bologna sandwich in the woods tastes better than a hundred-dollar steak in the city? Nah, in town you're just focused on the food itself. Out here it's the environment. It makes the whole experience more enjoyable. I replied as I listened to the butter sizzling

and smelled the sweet scent of the herbs entwined with wood smoke. Plus hunger is the best sauce you can pour on anything. I think it was Edward Abbey that said that, wasn't it? Eric Shrug. Don't know, but they are wise words. The glow of the sunlight was all but gone. The razor-it cast had been retracted, pull back through the treetops

and reeled in the way we reeled in our fishing lines. I felt half-blind as the evening night was dim enough to obscure shapes, but not yet dark enough to let my eyes adjust. I yawned while Eric flipped the packets, giving them just a little more time before we were to pull them from the coals and eagerly set our hunger. I was reaching out to hand him the whiskey bottle when something caught my eye. I refocused my gaze past him to the blurry outline of a figure in the trees. I quickly grabbed my headlamp and switched it on, shining towards the figure.

There was nothing. A shiver ran down my back as Eric turned towards me. But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me as I had with him. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. But no words came out. I rolled forward and swung my light around in the direction he was looking. Again.

Nothing. I swear there was someone standing behind you just now. Eric said that he grabbed his own headlamp and switched it on, putting it on his head. Man, there was something behind you too. This is getting really weird out here, dude. Yeah, you want to bail? He was quiet.

We both were. I knew we were both thinking about the same thing in that instance, but neither wanted to be the one to say it. Even in the face of peril, there was still a certain measure of pride that could very possibly mean the downfall of both. both of us. We stared at each other, like two dogs sizing each other up, seeing who would crack. The jingle of steel in the night broke off our jewelling gazes, and unisoned both of our

headlight beams swung outward towards the sound. It was just beyond sight, a jingle, then a tapping. We both stood. Eric dug into his pack that hung from a branch of the tree that held one end of his hammock up. He unfurled a little. waterproof bag and slipped a small revolver from it quickly flicking the cylinder open to check rounds and snapping it back shut i took into my hand my camp machete and as if connected by a single thought we ease forward into the woods towards the source of the sound jingle top jingle first it was ahead of us then to the side it moved in a circle and we chased it determined to find the cause.

Eric had the pistol half raised and my fingers flexed around the handle of the machete when our lights hit the old man. He didn't seem disturbed as we yelled at him, demanding to know what was going on and why he was harassing us. At least that's what we thought we were saying. The words flowed out in an incoherent jumbled mess. The old man gave a kind smile that was strange. relaxing. I fortified myself and spoke again clearly, cutting off Eric who was still flinging insults

like fistfuls of gravel. What are you doing out here? Why are you bothering us? Oh, don't mind me, boys, just gathering up my flock before the sorceress comes through and tries to put hooks in up. What are you talking about? Eric finally settled enough to add. What do you mean by any of that? The old man leaned against his staff, and the chain around his middle jingled as he shifted his feet. It takes a lonesome place to grow a good crop of ghosts. This valley here been right for 150 years now, give a take. The sorceress's plot has stunned went barren. She can't grow nothing no more, so she has riz up from the river to take what ain't Riley hers.

Best you boys been moving along before she takes her shine to you. His eyes glinted, then, as he added, Well, you can stay. We stood in stunned silence, attempting to process what we'd just heard and determine the language in which it was spoken. The old man unceremoniously shuffled off into the night, tapping trees with his staff, whistling lowly with his chain jingling at every step.

We walked back to the camp, angry and exhausted. The fish we'd so excited. excitedly been looking forward to was little more than charcoal. Disgusted, Eric flung the half-melted foil packets towards the river. I'll pick it up in the morning, he mumbled. We were generally religious about packing our trash out, but I let him have his tantrum. Truthfully, I wanted to do it as well. I'm not liking this spot anymore. I broke the silence after a time. Yeah, I'm getting Acousted by a crazy mountain hermit kind of takes the fun out of the whole deal, Eric replied. Well, I thought about how to choose my words and still maintain my dignity.

Well, if he's not going to let us sleep, then the rest of the trip is going to be miserable. Why don't we pack out first thing in the morning? There's enough time left. We can still drive up and hit the White River for a few days before we have to go back. I don't like the idea of getting chased off public land. I don't either, but this is supposed to be a vacation. Vacations aren't supposed to suck. Fine, Eric said after a period of deliberation. He wasn't happy, but begrudgingly agreed. I suspected that he was secretly delighted, but he'd never admit it.

He always had to be the tough one. Well, I knew there'd be jokes about revocation of my man-car coming in the future, but at that point I didn't care. Right, might as well try and get some sleep. I felt ill with exhaustion as I stretched out in my hammock. We hadn't slept in almost three days. The exertion of the hike in, wading the river, the miss meals,

and of course the mental strain all heaped together, making my body feel ready to give out. It wasn't just a normal tired, it was a deep tired, a depletion that made you feel like you were wearing a suit made of lead. every little movement seemed to take a concentrated effort and twice the energy that it should have I desperately needed sleep I tried to sleep when I closed my eyes I saw vaguely humanoid figures gyrating in my mind's eye when I opened my eyes they were gone I shifted beneath the wrapping of my quilt and faced to the side squeezing my eyes closed the characters were still there more defined

eye sockets were hollow and void. Moors opened where mouths should have been, stretching inhumanly far. I rolled over again, fighting to keep my eyes shut, thinking that if I could just power through the hallucinations and I could find sleep. More gathered, circling around me. My brain yelled at them to go away, but they merely stared. Moors agape, twisted over and over in soundless scrimed. I couldn't take it anymore and open my eyes. I looked upwards towards the moonless sky, rubbing my face. I felt defeated and angry. The fatigue that bored through my body was uncompromising. The night was completely silent.

There were no sounds of crickets or frogs. The Whippoorwill has gone. An eerie stillness blanketed the forest. until the footsteps they weren't defined i can't even really say that one could hear them so much as feel them light and ginger against the rocky soil one pair then two pairs i squinted into the blackness and could see nothing for the first time i began to feel fear i could hear feet dragging and stomping the numbers growing and milling just beyond sight like they were waiting the earth began pulsating like a heartbeat a single resounding clap came from the edge of my consciousness still concealed behind an opaque veil i could feel a drumbeat

a great savage drum then came the marching in rhythm with the drum they marched whatever they were it grew a loud and louder. I could feel it reverberating in my chest. My hammock moved as I felt something hit it. I tried to sit up, but couldn't. The hammock was jostled back and forth as the legions marched around it, bouncing and swinging harshly.

It felt like hands were pushing and pulling me and I was thrashed against the ropes that held me to the trees. I saw her light. Eric had turned his headlamp on and I could see his hammock pitching and yoring just as mine was. The beam of his light illuminated nothing but flickered with the appearance of people walking in front of it, blocking the light in bursts. The drumbeat was deafening. Eric and I yelled, but our words were lost in the chaos. Rocks and branches tipped over, the undergrowth parted, and at the edge of the beyond we could hear brutal cries.

The coals in the fire pit were dim, but the pieces of charred wood still held ember. Something caused the remaining wood to shift, and sparks flew up, framing a menacing figure with eyes that absorbed the sparks. It held them, moulded them. It leered at us, and the very real shriek that burst forth was terrifying. We fought against the pummeled hammocks that undulated within the ocean of the unseen. I drew a pocket-knife and began cutting my way out. The ripping of nylon was a beacon of freedom as I fell to the ground and scrambled to my feet, running barefoot into the woods.

I glanced back only long enough to see Eric being drug up from the ground where he'd fallen. He was held aloft, the consuming blackness seeming to prop him up as he thrashed against it. His headlamp fell to the ground and aimed upward to shine on his writhing body. I could see the depthless and form of it. tendrils of black wrapping around him. I was able to see him look at me, horror and disbelief in his eyes. His face wasn't pleading in that split second. It was strangely accepting, even relieved. I saw him nod and mouth the word. The rocks and branches of the forest floor tore at my feet. I staggered, bouncing like a pinball off of trees that I couldn't see.

I felt hands on me, pushing me this way and that. Some felt soft, others were stiff, as if I were being shoved out of annoyance. At that moment I didn't care what was happening, I just knew I needed to get out of there. I needed to figure out how to regroup and go back for Eric. The drums were still pounding. I realized they'd never stopped. When I closed my eyes, I saw columns of ghostly figures in line, marching. columns of them, stepping in time with the drumbeat.

I thought I could even hear the haunting melody of a flute somewhere in the depths of the commotion. Everything seemed like a drunken memory. I couldn't focus directly on anything. I only saw flashes when I closed my eyes, felt it all instead of seeing. I was losing my mind. I pressed forward until I tripped over a rotten log.

I felt my head bounce off of a stone and I laid there while blood began pooling around the side of my face. My chest heaved and I gasped for breath, trying to pull it into my lungs so that I could get up and keep going. I tried to rise and my arms quit me. I rolled over onto my back and laid there, defeated. My body was done. I was ducking in and out of consciousness.

I tried. The jingle of a chain was, very real. The clearest sensation I'd experienced since the whole thing had begun. I turned my throbbing head towards it, and to be honest, I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or shut. The old man was there. He changed. He didn't appear to be the frail old hillbilly from earlier. His long wispy hair was brushed and tucked and tucked behind his ears. A wide-brimmed hat banded with a golden rope and crossed sword insignia pinned it all in place. He wore a spotless grey coat secured by two rows of brass buttons that clinked against

a bugle hanging from a strap. I felt my breath catching my throat as the giant undead skeleton of the horse he was mounted on began to pour at the ground. He didn't look at me. He looked forwards over what I realised was the battlefield before him. His steely gaze was fixed and temperament was absolute. He lifted his staff into the ground. the air and he left birds from his mouth a deafening rebel yell. Thousands of resounding cries could

be heard on the edge of reality and I felt the ground tremble as his army surged forward. Trees swayed and branches whipped and parted. I could hear the clattering of sabres on the cool night air. I faded as the battle grew distance, laying there alone. At one point I thought I felt several sets of hands picking me up and I had the sensation of floating before merciful sleep finally claimed me. It was a sterile and dreamless sleep that didn't last long. I felt myself being jostled against a hard surface as I opened my eyes. I was in the back of an old buckboard wagon. The ancient planks were stained and worn smooth. I sat up with a groan, lightly touching my head where I'd been bumped when it fell. I winced in pain as I looked around. I wince in pain

as I looked around. Dawn was coming. The old man sat on the seat looking again like the disheveled wizard he previously appeared to be. He clutched a set of old leather reins in his hands, clucking at the undead team of horses that pulled the wagon down an abandoned logging road. I pressed myself back against the side wall. What's going on? What happened? Where are you taking me? I stammered, words falling out of my mouth. I don't worry, boy. We're getting you taken care of. There ain't no place to be out here.

I felt only slightly better before I asked. Where's Eric? Did you find him? The old man laughed. Yes, sir. He's found. He'd be just fine. You all drawed up the sorceress right nice for us.

We got to beat back up the river thanks to you. Eric will be just fine. Yes, sir. he'll harvest up right now once I'd overcome the shock of realization that we'd been used for baits and I felt dread to shoot through me I flopped against the railing and began

clawing my way over the side I had to go back to find Eric before anything else could happen the hands that fell upon me were cold but strong dozens of sets holding me tightly dragging me back into the wagon clamping invisible shackles on my hands

and ankles binding me in place. I realized that I wasn't alone in that wagon. The ghosts of fallen soldiers sat all around me. I could feel them there, though I couldn't see them except for the glimpses I caught from the corner of my eye when the shadows lay just right. There was another figure as well, wrapped in mouldy burlap and hemp rope.

It rocked gently with the creek of the wagon wheels, lifeless. I instantly knew that it was Eric. I knew he'd be joining the ghosts. I knew there was nothing I could do about it. It was the last thing I saw before a cotton sack was jammed over my head and secured with thin strings. I was too shocked and fatigued at that point to put up much of a fight. The old man pulled up the team of horses within minutes of my restraint. Even through the cotton fabric I could see the sun trying to shine. I felt the wagon's sway as weight shifted and heard the backboard the wagon fall open, bouncing on old iron hinges. I felt a harsh tugging at the invisible shackles. I was dragged

from the back of the wagon like a prisoner of war. I staggered to my feet after hitting the ground. A sharp shovel in the middle of my back pushed me forward. I could almost hear the chill chime of iron chains that clacked with every step I took. I didn't know if I was being led by the old man or by his troops. It didn't matter much, I thought. I stumbled over an obstacle, jabbing the still bare toes of my foot and was jerked back upright. The ground beneath my feet had changed, from soil and dirt to what felt to be smooth stone. The air had changed.

It was musty. I heard hinges squeak and fell beneath the force of another shove. A door slammed behind me and a lock jiggled. I lifted both my hands to my face as I rolled onto my side, peeling the cotton sack off of my head and throwing in across what became evident to be a cell. I looked around, blinking. I was alone. I felt alone as well.

The presence of ghosts had faded away. I assumed it was due to the light that was seeping through the warp planks that made up my cell. I was thirsty. beyond hungry, and didn't feel as though I had the strength to do anything, but absently watched the dusty haze that lifted into the beams of light, swirling lazily whenever I waved a restrained hand through it. I watched through the gaps that time had widened between the rough, hand-hewn planks that made up the walls of the ramshackle cabin. I saw the old man striding about with purpose. His shoulders and back were hunched, but he moved with the speed of someone young and fit.

His chain jingled and he whistled merrily. I felt sick to my stomach as I saw him drag Eric's corpse from the back of the wagon. He hit the ground with an emphatic thud, when he reached it one step at a time towards a pile of freshly excavated dirt. He giggled and danced a jig after sliding Eric head first into a narrow hole. It looked like the ground had swallowed, my friend, head down and feed up, so that he came to rest vertical and upside down. The sound of a shovel cutting into the dirt caused me to shudder.

I've heard a pang of sorrow with every shovel full of dirt the old man scooped into the grave. He sang a tune to himself as he worked, carrying on like he was planting a garden. When the hole was full, he took the remainder of the dirt and shaped it into a mound. The shovel was discarded, and he took into his hand his staff again. He scratched at the mound with the tip of it in small circles before admiring his hand. he worked with a satisfied norm. He turned then, shifted himself, and sat upon the mound, bearing semblance of a character wreathed by some strange type of vagabond regality. My eyes widened, and my heart leapt into my throat as he closed his eyes and entered a trance-like state,

a thin-lipped, an aged-drawn mouth contorted into a lopsided grin. I sat back against the wall, my hands dropping into my lap with the rustle of iron from a another plane. My head just lulled to the side and I just sat there. There was nothing else to do. The day wore on. At one point there was a brief rain shower. I crawled around my cell, lapping like an animal at each drop of water that streamed in and fell from the leaky roof, relishing the fact that the sweltering heat had lessened. There was no airflow in my cell and until the rain came I'd been fairly certain that I'd die of a heat stroke. Maybe. Maybe it was Maybe that was the plan, to simply let me expire so I may be planted upside down just as Eric was.

The dryness had left my mouth by the time the rain shower moved away. The old man hadn't moved the entire time, but still looked to be bone dry. I began tracing the edges of the boards with my finger, looking for any weakness I could exploit. I thought escape could be a possibility as long as I managed to do it before the sunset. I pressed my forehead against the wall and squirt. squint it through a gap toward the sky. I didn't have long. I worked a small flat stone loose from the floor,

with a mortar had cracked decades before. With it, I began digging at a rotten section of planking. I didn't need to bore completely through the wall, I thought I just needed to loosen it enough to expose the nailheads. If I could break them off, I could remove the whole plank and squeeze out. That would be the plan. with one eye on the task at hand the other on the old man on the mound i began to work it's much harder than i thought it was going to be much more time-consuming the sun was threatening to drop from view i was becoming desperate i pulled at the plank bashed on the nailheads with the rock and dug at the mortar at the stulton footing the supernatural chain still somehow bound my wrists and ankles i wasn't sure how some magic i did didn't understand, I supposed. The shadows were stretching, and it was becoming dark in my cell

rapidly. I wouldn't have much time, and I was beginning to feel the restless stirring of the old man's flock. He must have felt it too, because he jumped up from the mound he'd sat on all day and meandered off, tapping his staff against the tree trunks and rocks, whistling lowly and humming. I saw that as my opportunity to go. With both feet I kicked at the plank. It didn't budge and pain shot through my heels. I ignored it and kicked again and again, clenching my jaw. I was about to give up when the plank fell away seemingly on its own. I stared at the gap momentarily before I hurled myself at it. I exiled every bit of breath I could and squeezed through the narrow slot, tattering my shirt and ripping skin from my shoulders and chest. I'd made it

outside and I ran. I didn't know where I was nor the direction I was going but I didn't care. The adrenaline kept me from noticing my shredded feet and the jagged strips of flesh on my chest. My lungs burn, I ran so far and I finally felt a glimmer of hope. I was going to make it out of the woods. I collapsed in a heap as I felt the impact in the pit of my stomach. I curled up and dry heaved. The force of the blow was sudden and powerful. My shackles were snatched upwards and I rolled over onto my back as I was pulled across the forest floor. When I closed my eyes, I could see the blurry figures that flanked me to either side, see the two that were dragging me, marching me in matching steps. I felt delirious as I was hoisted up and thrown into the saddle that sat atop a

massive undead horse that tossed its head anxiously. The head looked like, and I was hoisted. The head looked little more than dry and sunken strips of hide hugging a bleached skull. I felt the rope placed round my neck and tightened until the knot was snuck. The whispers on the breeze came to my ears. Voices faintly shouting, deserta, deserta! In my mind I could see angry soldiers wielding torches, could see them throwing the rope over a tree branch, pulling it taut and tying it off at the base of the tree. My body stretched upward as they pulled. behind closed eyes I could see one of them smack the horse on the rump and sent it loping forward I felt myself being jerked from the saddle swinging like a gurgling kicking puppet on a string

I couldn't breathe and though I tried to claw at the rope my fingers could find nothing to grasp I tried to scream but no sound came out my eyes rolled back in my head as I struggled for breath I hit the ground I could still feel the news dead dangling from my neck, but the pressure was gone. My shackles were being pulled again. I half scrambled and was half hauled through the woods until I collapsed. Couldn't go any further. All of a sudden it felt like I was floating, drifting between the trees and over the boulders.

I realized I could see then. I must be near enough to death to lift the veil for a fleeting moment. I was being carried across the shoulders of a man covered in dirt. The soldiers gathered in a pack that followed but stayed back, commanded by some unseen force. I heard a jingle and a tapping. I saw the old man herding them like livestock. His eyes glowed in the dark and his voice was saturating. Ah, the man feel betrayed.

They don't know no better. It ain't their fault. All they understand is what they used to be. Yeah, this is a lonesome place. Best you get on now. before I take a shindy. I felt myself being gently lowered as the shackles dropped from my hands and legs.

The rope around my neck disappeared. I rubbed my wrists as the veil descended again. I still couldn't speak. My throat felt torn. The face of the old man was filled with rancor. It was blatantly clear that I wasn't going to get another offer. There was a subtle pulling at my shirt and I limped off into the woods,

away from the old man and away from his flock of spirits. Little by little I gain ground as the night trudged on. I picked my way, feeling as if I was being guided. The feeling was tenuous, but it was there. The sun was just beginning to peek over the mountain, letting heavenly rays of light brighten the dark woods, causing the secrets of the valley to slide back into their holes. The birds began their hearty morning songs.

I could see the trailhead that had marked the beginning of the trip. I could hear the highway in the distance. I was almost there. I ventured a single glance over my shoulder. I saw a blurry figure. It loomed on the edge of my vision, hugging tight to the last dark of disdarkness. It waved at me as it faded away like lifting fog from the surface of the water,

burned away by the warmth of the daylight. I was already starting to feel seeping. to me. I whispered. Thanks, Eric. And what the rest of the way on my own. Hey Ontario, come on down to Bed MGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out. Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM. Access to the Price is right Fortune Pick is only available at BedMGM Casino. BetMGM and GameSense remind you to play responsibly. 19 plus to wager, Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone

close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2,600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BenMGEM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Ghosts don't exist. It all started a month ago when we went into that goddamn house. We all grew up being told that the house was evil, forsaken, touched by the devil's hand, or whatever other synonyms for bad juju you can think of. I guess we were just dumb kids because one month ago today we decided that we'd finally go to the old Combs mansion. Oh, what in God's name would compel a group of three 19-year-old guys to do this? I don't know. We'll call it skepticism, or maybe a macabre curiosity.

You see, we never really believed the stories we heard about the house. We'd all heard them growing up, yeah, you know, the stories of abuse and rituals that allegedly went on in that place. But we had to see it for ourselves, just to prove that it wasn't true. Oh, I wish now, more than anything, that we hadn't. A month ago, on a clammy, overcast night, I sat around a bonfire in the backyard of my parents' house with my two childhood best friends, Alex and Phil.

We're enjoying a few beers and telling college stories since we all went to different campuses, but we were all home for spring break. That seemed like the thing to do. Alex was telling a story about a fling that he'd had before coming home for spring break and he'd broke it off because he was into some kind of witch shit Phil and I laughed at this absurd story that he was telling a witch, yeah right man Phil said

Alex responded by saying that she was crazy allegedly she'd sacrificed a dog to Satan before we all know that witchcraft garbages the hogs just scary stories that our parents told us to make us behave when we were five. Alex quit back by saying, That's a bullshit man. You remember that old Combs house? One were always told to stay away from us, kids.

Oh, that place still gives me the creeps. So replied. What? The witch house? This is why you got bullied in high school, while laughing, obnoxiously. I could sense the adjudice. agitation between my two friends at this point. So I said, well, if it'll shut you two up,

why don't we go check out the house? Phil replied immediately with, uh, dude, hell yeah, and pulled out the keys to his Subaru. At this point, Alex looked concerned, all colour draining from his face. He weakly said, you know, well, guys, well, it's getting late. I think I'm going to go home. "'Ah, you're such a girl,' Phil exclaimed loudly. "'Dude, come on. Why are you being such a bitch?' "'I rolled my eyes. "'Phil is always such a clown.'

"'Fuck you, man,' Alex exclaimed in an annoyed voice. "'I'll go to the stupid house.' After a few minutes, we all piled into Phil's car, throwing a twelve-pack in the back seat for good measure. we drove for what seemed like an eternity even though it was only about a 20 minute drive naturally we drank the entire time the old combs house was only 13 miles from town

and it was allegedly haunted by the ghost of a long dead family member who was rumoured to be a witch back in the day as we drove if it got darker the further we got from the streetlights he also got quieter the closer we got to the house eventually all we heard was the rattle of the old car going down the back road finally we got to the house and began driving up the long crumbling cobblestone driveway the driveway seemed to go on for a mile but

maybe that was just because we got to go two miles an hour not to blow out of time on the driveway was shrouded in trees half dead from the winter that had just ended yo phil why's your car such a piece of shit Alex yelled from the backseat. It's better than yours, bicycle boy, Phil retorted. And then we saw it. The house.

The depressing-looking stone and log structure stood two stories tall. Most of the windows had been broken and half of the roof was caved in on account of the large tree sitting on it. Dude, let's turn around. Alex said in a nervous tone, his voice cracking slightly. I was silently thinking the same thing when Phil let out a cry off. Oh, that driver was about 80 miles long, and I almost lost a tire about four times. I'm not leaving until I see a witch.

Well, I told Phil, Ellen Conn's has been dead for almost a hundred years, dumbass. Don't you remember any of the stories that our parents told us? Phil responded with a snarky attitude. She's a ghost, dumb ads. We finally parted the car and began the trek up to the house. It was pitch black inside, the only illumination coming from our cell phones. We could hear the gravel crunch under our feet when suddenly felt let out a shrill sounding yell. Oh, twisted my ankle.

I turned to look at him and saw that he was fine. He had been a baby. Come on, let's get this over with, I said in a short tone. As we approached the front door, which was caved in almost completely, the chill shot down my spine. But like any self-respecting college-age guy, I ignored this feeling, not wanting to be called a bitch by Phil yet again. We had to climb through the caved in door, and when we got in, we were immediately faced with a shroud of blackness. I can't see shit. Alex said. Hold on. I have a flashlight on my phone, I said as I pulled out my phone and turned it on. The others all did the same. Holy shit. How long has this place been abandoned? Phil asked as he moved his

light across the room, illuminating a dusty, moldy living room that was littered with broken furniture. I don't know. Maybe 75 years, I said, despite being completely clueless. He kept looking around the room in the surrounding hallways. It was just a dusty old house. No pentagrams, dead ghosts, or sacrifices to be seen. Phil began to rummish through the cabinet, and Alex looked at some of the old-timey portraits on the wall. "'Yo guys, check this out!'

Phil said while holding up a small doll that he'd found in a cabinet. I knew something was wrong with this doll, as soon as I laid eyes on it. It was staying brown. almost like blood had dried on it um is that real hair i asked sheepishly i don't know phil replied sounding almost as nervous as i was at this point it was a single long needle going through the doll's head something was wrong with this place very wrong it was quiet and the air around us felt heavy "'What the fuck is that?' Alex said nervously as he pointed to an old family portrait of a family who must have been in the Combs. "'Those are witches, obviously,' Phil declared obnoxiously. "'No, I mean, why is the little girl scratched out of the picture?' Alex said, a nervous tone permeating his voice.

"'I'm not sure. I didn't think the Combs had a daughter.' I said as I was overcome by an uneasy feeling. Hey guys, I think we should go now. We saw the house. It's just an old house. No witches, I said. Yeah, maybe you're right, Phil said. Phil then reached into his pocket to get his key so we could leave.

Um, we have a problem. Where the hell are my keys? He asked, well, sounding extremely. tense. You probably dropped them while you're rummaging around in that stupid cabinet, I said. Phil wet down and began looking around on the floor, his flashlight illuminating the damp, mouldy floorboards. What is that? Alex asked as Phil's light floated over a handle on the floor underneath the cabinet. Hmm, looks like a trap door, Phil said. Then, out of nowhere, A sickening feeling of dread, mixed with an insatiual curiosity, hit me, as if there was some

kind of terrible secret I just had to know, hidden underneath that door. I'm going down there. Help me move this cabinet, guys, I said. No chance in hell, Alex exclaimed in sheer panic at this point. I was getting angry at this point. God, well, we should have just left. but I remember saying, Alex, you'd better fucking help me or else. Phil just stood there quietly, looking very nervous, until finally he chimed in.

All right, man, just calm down. We'll help you. I heard Alex exclaim under his breath. What the hell is the matter with you, man? I didn't know. Something had just come over me. A horrible feeling. rage, disgust. I finally mustered up the courage and replied. I don't know, man. There's something wrong with this place, and I think we'll find out if we move this draw. We moved the dresser and what we found, dear God I wish we hadn't. Upon opening the trap-door that was hidden

underneath the cabinets, we found human remains. partially skeletal and partially preserve. Oh my God! Alex yelled. What? That's a fucking corpse. Phil screamed. I panicked.

Overcome by a sense that something truly horrible had happened here. I illuminated the body with my flashlight. It appeared to be a girl, a small girl, maybe five foot tall, wearing a gray, tattered gown, with the same brownish bloodstains that were on the doll. It looked just like the doll, Phil had found earlier. What is that? Alex said in a terrified voice while motioning to a small leather-bound book next to the body.

I don't know, I said. Phil proclaimed again, Oh, that's her spellbook. We need to leave and call the police dude. And it was at that moment I knew. that we had to read that book. Hold on, we need to read it. They had a look of sheer panic drawn on their faces,

but for some ungodly reason, we didn't run then. We didn't run when we could have. I opened the book and began to read aloud. It's my dearest daughter. I'm so sorry, but you had to be kept away from the world. I felt my heart sink. This was a diary, the diary of Elena Combs. The stories had been true, at least partially.

Elena wasn't the witch. She was, I said, gesturing towards the skeletal remains we'd just unearth. Dude, I told you so. These people were supernatural lunatics, Phil exclaimed. Hold on, I said. as I continued to read. The diary outlined how, after Susan, the name of the girl whose courts were just unearthed, the entire family died, one by one, with Angus Combs, dying of a gunshot wound to the head

while hunting, and Samuel Coons, the son, dying during World War I. The needle, threw the dull's head. Phil's voice cracked. No way, man. and continued to read. Eleanor had gone mad in her grief. She locked her daughter in her room for years until finally she made a tree fall on the house when she caused a terrible storm.

Following this, Eleanor Dunby-go. She let her daughter starve to death in her own home and buried the body under the floorboards. But according to the diary, it took a long time for Susan to die because she'd eaten her fingers and parts of her flesh. A tree, Alex muttered, looking up towards the ceiling which had a massive hole in it

with the limbs of a large, dead willow dangling through it. I then looked down at the hands of the corks. She had just one finger. I took a deep breath before I finished reading. I felt as though I had an obligation to tell the poor girl's story at this point, but also I had a little. was full of a sense of dread.

He concluded, thus finds this diary, You have found her, and may God save your soul. We left shortly afterward and called the police once we got back into town. We were all in shock from what we'd seen. After giving statements and being told that we'd be facing trespassing charges, we bowed to never speak of this again, to anyone. I'd hoped, we'd all hoped, we'd be able to forget about what we'd seen. Alas, no.

The night after we'd returned home, I struggled to find any sleep. But when sleep finally came, it was interrupted. I heard a nauseating sound. The kind of sounds you'd hear when stripping a deer, crunching of bone and squishing of flesh, coming from the corner of my bedroom. I could see the outline of a figure, curled up in a fetal position. I picked up my phone and used the flashlight to see better. There was nothing there.

It must have been a figment of my imagination, most likely assimilated from what we'd discovered in that house. God, what had we found? I thought to myself before falling back into a feverish sleep. This sleep was plagued with terrible dreams. Dreams of animal sacrifices and silhouettes of demons dancing on a wall, illuminated by candlelight. The next day when I told to Alex and Philip, they were exhausted. They'd experienced the same disturbing apparition and the dreams. It must have been a dream, Alex said in a shaky, nervous tone.

Yeah, right. You heard what the diary said. We're cursed, Phil said in a panic voice. Haven't you guys taken psychology yet? The brain can do crazy things when stressed, I tried to explain. Well, I hoped it was just our minds playing tricks on us. But secretly, I knew it wasn't. I knew that whatever we'd uncovered was now haunting us. For a few weeks, we continued to have the same visions and disturbing dreams at night.

We continued to talk about it every day, despite saying we would try to forget about it. We couldn't. She had latched on to us. One night, about two weeks after the first apparition, it started getting worse. As I slept the same uneasy sleep that had become the norm, I saw the same silhouette again, except this time it was standing. It was closer to the end of my bed this time. I heard the same disgusting sound, almost as if

No, oh God, no, I thought. I picked up my phone off the nightstand and used it to illuminate this figure in front of me, and I wish I hadn't. There she was, in her tattered clothes, the grey, rotten flesh peeling off her bones. She looked down at the floor, her long black hair partially obstructing her face. I threw up all over my sheets at what I saw next. She was gnawing through her fingers and swallowing pieces of them, thick, black blood dripping onto my floor and fling up her rotten mouth.

I screamed, petrified of the horror that was sitting in front of me. What the hell's going on? My mother screamed as she barred through the door and turned the lights on. The apparition had vanished. What happened? Are you sick? my mom said in a panic tone upon seeing me vomit on the floor nothing mom must have had some kind of fever dream and then threw up upon hearing this my

mom calmed down and finally left I cleaned up my vomit but wasn't able to fall back asleep I just couldn't see her thing again the next day I told my friends what had happened the same thing had happened to them "'What does she want? Why is she here, man?' "'Alex said in a shaky voice. "'I don't know. I wish I did,' I said. "'There's nothing we can do. She won't leave us alone. She's a ghost. "'We should never have gone to that damn house,' Phil said, following up with an apology.

"'I'm so sorry. This was all my fault. I just wanted to see the witch house.' It's okay. We all thought it was fake, I replied, feeling smitten. I got all unsure and very afraid. What does she want? How would we make her stop? A few nights passed with nothing happening. Well, whatever we disturbed turned its gaze away from her. I wish, but sadly, no. Things only got worse from there. I don't remember how many days had passed, but I was once again awakened by the sound of gnashing flesh and crunching bowl. The stench of something long dared assailed my nostrils. I sat up immediately and looked around my room, but I didn't have to look far.

She was standing right next to my bed, less than a foot from me. I tried to scream, but no air escaped my lungs. there I was looking directly at her. Her matted black hair no longer covered her face. I could see the coagulated blood on her face. Her eyes, or lack thereof, stared into my soul. I looked directly into her cavern-like eye-sockets and was overcome by fear. There was a literal, dead witch right in front of me.

This encounter felt like an eternity, but, was in reality only a few seconds. It ended when she lifted her mangled, rotting hand and pointed at me with one finger, the one finger she had left. Blood dripping all over me at this point. I was frozen. She opened her mouth and let out a groan

as if she was trying to scream, but her vocal cords had decayed away. I knew that I was going to die at that moment, but then she vanished the following day we all met again we had to do something about this we had to find out what was afflicting us Alex's parents kitchen made a strange venue to discuss the entity that was haunting us but well there's no way I'm going back to that house Alex exclaimed I explained to him that we had to and that we'd be no worse off than we are now Phil was silent, a miracle considering we could rarely get him to shut up, but we could tell something was wrong.

What did you see? I asked, confused at his silence and lack of emotion. I don't know what happened, but that thing crawled on top of me last night, Phil said. His emotionless face contorted into one of repulsion and fear. We looked at him, concerned of him. and what he was telling us. But before we could speak, he followed up with a shaky voice. She's evil. She wants us to suffer the same way that she did.

Our conversation fell mute after that. Just abject silence. But I could tell that we all agreed. We had to go back to the house. It was settled. We returned to the house, hoping to find more clues as to why this was happening to us. We agreed to meet back here at night

Because we might have to sneak back to the house It was too risky going in broad daylight With it now being a crime scene I returned home and tried to go about my day I researched witch hunting And how to exercise a ghost But it was all clearly bullshit The entire day I could hear it

That sound of flesh and bone being gnawed on And the groan of decayed vocal cords but I didn't see her anywhere. I decided to head back out as it got darker, and I could smell the stench of rotting flesh coming from behind me, but there was nothing, and yet she was stalking me. When I arrived at Alex's house, he was already ready to leave. Dude, let's just get this over with, he said, in a rushed, nervous tone.

But where's Phil? I asked. He should show up soon. he said. We waited. Five minutes passed, and then 30, and then an hour. We tried calling our friend probably a dozen times, but it always went straight to voice mail. We need to go to Phil's house, I said, and Alex agreed. We were hoping that he'd just fallen asleep, but, well, we knew that something was wrong as we drove on the back roads that led to his house. It was dark and clammy out and it had started to rain. As we drove we had to keep the lights off because we could see her standing along the road pointing at us with her one remaining bloody finger. We didn't speak for the entire car ride. There was nothing to say. What was happening was impossible. Ghosts aren't real. Neither are witches. Yet here we were seeing the ghost of a witch. Finally after what felt like an eternity of driving, we saw it.

My heart sunk. Sitting in a ditch crushed against a tree was Phil's beat-up car. The light's still on. Oh shit, we have to help him, I exclaimed loudly as I slammed on my brakes and stopped the car. We ran over to the car, Phil was in it, but he was gone. The steering wheel had punched his chest cavity, and his head was smashed into the windshield. "'What the fuck, man?' Alex said, screaming at this point. "'Our friend's dead.

"'What because we wanted to go to some fucking house?' "'We don't know that. "'Maybe you just lost control,' I replied, knowing that I was just lying to myself. "'I knew that he had seen her.' But then it hit me. Phil's hands were wrapped around the steering wheel. His fingerless hands, well, all except for one, which was outstretched and pointing to a small clearing.

There she was, staring at us. She was illuminated by the headlights from Phil's car, and I was terrified. This thing had killed our best friend. she smiled a sickening, twisted grin, black blood flowing out from her mouth of rotten teeth. We ran and got into my car and sped off, almost going off the road at several points. Finally, when we got far enough away, we called 911. We found a spot to pull off the road and wait for the ambulance.

Finally, we saw the lights of the ambulance coming our way. Once they passed us, we followed them to the crash site. When we arrived, we were horrified to find that Phil's body was gone. Do you think that she took him? Could he still be alive? Alex whispered, not wanting to be overheard by the paramedics. I didn't know. I had no idea what could have happened.

Did Phil somehow survive the crash? No, that was impossible. He was dead. Anyone with injuries like that would be dead. I don't know, I said, trying to sound as collected as possible. After being questioned by the medics, the police arrived and asked us even more questions. Well, we answered them to the best of our ability, but we had no real answers for them. We need to go to the house.

This has gone far enough, I told Alex. Yeah, right, let's go, he replied. The drive there was tense, nerve-wracking. So much had happened in the past month. What are we going to do, man? We're fucked. I mean, she's going to kill us, just like she killed Phil. Alex let out, yelling from my passenger seat.

We don't know if Phil's dead. Maybe he was able to walk away, I replied, knowing that I was wrong. I was just trying to cling on to any semblance of reality. No one can walk away from that. His fucking chest was caved in. Alex screamed, now sounding angry and frantic. I didn't say anything, but I knew he was right. This ghost, or witch, or whatever the hell it was, had killed our friend.

We finally arrived at the house. The drive took what felt like an eternity. When we arrived, the house was dimly lit, as if by candlelight. She's waiting for us, Alex said, staring at me with transfixed eyes. What the fuck are you talking about? "'How do you know that?' I asked. "'Why else would there be lights on in that place?' Alex yelled back at me.

"'He was right. "'But we had to go inside. "'We needed answers. "'I mean, what other hope did we have? "'We sprinted up the dilapidated cobblestone driveway, "'not caring if we fell or broke our legs. "'We dove through the broken front door "'and were greeted immediately by the stench of decay.

I looked around the house It was lit dimly by candles But it was what was in the centre of the floor That made me lose it Laying in some kind of sigil on the floor That was drawn in blood Was Phil's body My heart sank

Standing directly above Phil's corpse Was the ghost groaning in a haunting Rhythmic manner As if saying some kind of incantation Alex yelled as he lunged at her, but he ended up stumbling over Phil's body and passing directly through the apparition. But she vanished at the very least. We need to get out of here.

We need to get his body out of here, too. I'm not leaving him behind, Alex said, still frantic after what had just happened. You're right. Let's go, I said, as we grabbed Phil's remains and carried him out of the door. Alex tried desperately to call the police after this, but it was no use there was no signal oh fuck

Alex let out a cry bursting into tears and fall into the ground I wanted to curl into a ball and let that thing take me at that moment none of this could be real this just couldn't be happening you need to get help

we have to get out of here I told Alex he finally got up and we did the only thing that we could think of we put Phil's remains in the trunk and tried to leave. But the car wouldn't turn over. Had I left the lights on?

No, we were only in there for a few minutes. And then, in my rear-view mirror, I saw her, sitting in the back seat, reaching up to grab Alex, who was sitting next to me. I cranked the car one more time and stomped on the gas. The motor roared to life and sent us barreling into the car. the house. When I came to, everything was on fire. Alex was on the floor of the burning building, around ten feet from me. Next to him was my car, completely engulfed in flames. I couldn't feel my

legs. I had to drag myself over to him, but as I did, that thing crawled on top of him. He was thrashing and screaming, but it was as though she weighed a ton. He just couldn't move. She took her one rotten, twisted finger and put it over his face. Thick, black blood was dripping all over it. Next, she shoved the finger down his throat as he tried to scream. He flailed and twisted violently, letting out muffled screams as he was choked and suffocating on her tainted, vile blood. Next, she let out that same hellacious groan I come to know, and extracted her hand from Alex's mouth.

He went limp instantly, as she pulled a black, hazy mist from his body. There was one last gasp as she pulled the soul from his body. She proceeded to open her decayed mouth wide, her jaw seeming to unhinge, and devoured the black mist that came from Alex. He was dead. I let her cry.

Oh, God, help me! I screamed as the building burned and the world went black. As I slipped into unconsciousness, she started to crawl towards me. The last thing I remember was her gangly, rotten limbs crawling across the floor. A decaying mouth open wide with her hand outstretched towards me. I woke up four days later, in the hospital. I was badly burned and I'm now paralyzed from the waist end. I guess part of the ceiling fell on me as the building was burning.

The firefighters aren't sure how I survived, and they say I'm very lucky to be alive. But I'm not. I'm not lucky to be alive. She comes and goes, just standing in the corner, sometimes even in broad daylight. She just stares at me and smiles that twisted, bloody grin, as she points at me with her mutilated hand. She just wants people to know that she is real. So, if you're listening to this,

now you know. I'm sorry, but it's the only way. 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 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.