Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep97: Episode 97: Rock Song Horror Stories

Episode Date: September 16, 2022

Visit my exclusive link www.ExpressVPN.com/creep and you can get an extra 3 months FREE on a one-year package. Today’s first terrifying tale of terror is the ‘Dumb’, by the wonderful Tewahway, made available to me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA 3.0 license. https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Dumb  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Tewahway We follow that up with ‘The Stairway’, a wonderfully original story by Cdaley, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and narrated here for you all under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Stairway  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Cdaley Tonight’s final nightmarish tale of the macabre is ‘In Your Nightmares, I Will Live’, a wonderfully original story by Dgrady237, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and narrated here for you all under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/In_Your_Nightmares_I_Will_Live  https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Dgrady237

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of musicians being accused of being in the Illuminati. Now, we may have secularized the slander, but rock and roll has always been tarred with a brush of Beelzebub, as we will see in tonight's stories, all based on famous rock songs. Now as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing.

Then let's begin. Dom by Tohawahway. Inspector. He had this journal in his backpack. He's got his name, I'd so assume it's all his writings. There's several pages torn out, though. None have been found so far. said the constable as he put the small journal on the inspector's desk.

The radio on his desk created a quiet, muffled ambience of classic rock amid the usual, toned-out ruckers going on outside his office. Has anyone else read it so far? The inspector asked, as he feigned nonchalance. No, sir. You said you want to be the first, right? Right, you are, constable. Nothing fishy, I just want to know what's been going on in my nephew's head since his disappearance.

The constable nodded and took leave of the office. Inspector Smith sat down and firmly thumbed the spine of the thin book as he held it on his lap. Ty, what have you gotten yourself into? He muttered as he shut the radio off and opened the journal. June 20th, 2016. I haven't done journaling since I was a kid. I feel like I need to make note of this. It was weird as I was how.

hell. It was 11.30 in the morning when it first happened, as far as I know. I was just hanging out in my basement, playing my 360 and listening to music. I was a huge Nirvana fan, so I was listening to my mom's greatest hit CD. My dad was in the other room, finishing up some laundry when something struck me as strange. As I was muttering along with the lyrics to the song dumb, that's some kind of trick of the brain. The line. I think I'm dumb, maybe just happy, played. But what I heard was, I think I'm dumb, yes, I'll dress snappy.

Now obviously, that was a really strange alteration of the lyrics to hear. It's definitely not how the song, or any parody of it that I know, goes. I didn't think much of it, because I did tend to have a pretty overactive imagination. and so I just brushed it off until later that day. My parents were going out for some kind of dinner. I think they were meeting some friends at a bar or something. My mom was in the entrance hallway of the house, waiting for my dad, which in itself was peculiar

because the situation was always the other way around. After yelling up to him to hurry up and asking, what's taking so long? He finally came downstairs in a tux. What the hell are you doing wearing a tux? my mum asked, obviously confused. Wasn't any fancy dinner they were going out for? I don't know.

Just felt like I had to dress nice. He trailed off then. Well, you'll need to change. You look snappy. That's a bit too much. That's when I remember the strange lyrical change in the song earlier that day. Did my dad hear it? He was just in the other room.

He very well could have. Why the hell would that have made him overdue? in the press anyways. Unfortunately, it ended up spiraling into a bit of a fight between them, in which my dad refused to take off the tucks, and they didn't end up going. My dad sat in the living room on his computer, tucks still on for the rest of the night.

June 21st, 2016. I thought about that song all night. I decided to listen to the song again. Nothing strange, no change lyrics, no hidden obscure words of prophecy. Still, I knew something was amiss. That situation yesterday was just too far-fetched for me to shrug off. I invited my friend Alan over.

It was a bit of a weird dude, but we shared a lot of interests. We were pretty close. As we played some video games, secretively smoked a bit of weed and listened to music in my basement. It happened again. I think I'm dumb, but I feel crappy. The same. part of the same song, dumb.

The chill ran down my spine. I turned to Alan and asked if he'd heard that weird change. What do you mean? I don't really know all the words of the song well enough to know if it was wrong, he shrugged. I started the song over and made him sit intently with me, focusing on the words. I pointed out that I think I'm dumb, maybe just happy. well he nodded silently we finished listening to the song and there was no change didn't hear it man he muttered obviously dubious maybe you just don't

no dude i definitely heard it it was wrong something about it was kind of creepy too i protested he just shrugged raised his eyebrows and frown before going back to playing fable too About a half hour later, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I decided I'd tell him about the weird tux thing with my dad from last night. It's not the first time this weird lyric changes happened, man. Last night... I was cut off mid-sentence. Alan immediately turned green and ran to the bathroom.

He started puking like crazy in the toilet. I mean, really puking. He was almost screaming through the upchunk. I ran to the bathroom, standing behind him, asking the typically unhelpful, you okay, man, to which, normally, anyone would reply dismissively with, I'm fine, or ear. But what struck me as odd was his wording. I just feel crappy.

Dude, it's the song, that's what the lyrics said, I admonished. "'Shut up, man. It's not funny anymore,' he said as he attempted to sit upright. Alan was fine about 15 minutes later. He kept saying he still felt crappy but wasn't puking at all. He got pretty frustrated with me when I pressed the whole dumb thing and left pretty abruptly. As if he just refused to hear any more about it. June 29, 2016. "'I think I'm dumb.

I'll just burn something. That's what the song said the last time I willingly listened to it. It didn't even rhyme anymore. I was sitting in the car with my girlfriend Dana when it happened. I immediately stopped the car and started trying to get her to admit that she'd heard it. Stop yelling, I heard it, I heard it. Jeez, she conceded. I told her all about it, but she just shrugged it off like everyone else until now.

The lyrics were wrong. They didn't even sound like maybe just happy. What do you mean? She stared at me, genuinely confused. It was your voice. You recorded your own version of the song. My heart froze.

Things just seemed so abstract. I gazed back at her, or rather, through her. The lyrics were the original ones, though, from what I heard. Look, is this one of your parody songs something she continued no something's really wrong here i muttered whatever i'll be right back i got to do something she said as she grabbed my lighter from the compartment she was already out of the car shutting the door behind her when it hit me what the lyrics had said i burst out of the car looking for dana i didn't see where she'd gone she moved unnaturally fast i looked around but was unfamiliar with the area

It was a quiet residential neighbourhood, kind of suburban. And that's when I heard the scream. I turned around to see an old woman, maybe in her late 80s or early 90s, struggling to try to get off her porch. She was blocked by a railing in front of her and a sizable fire toward the door and steps down to the driveway. I immediately knew how the fire had started, but I had no idea how it got so big so fast.

as I ran to help the elderly woman get over the railing, I saw Dana pouring the remnants of a jerry can on the steps of the porch and the side of the house. I'll never forget the absolutely blank look on her face. As I regained focus and finished helping the old lady down from the railing, I could hear the sirens in the distance. Dana was taken away by the cops later. She told them she didn't know why she'd stay.

started the fire, but she felt like she had to. My uncle reached out to me about the whole thing, but I didn't tell him much. We pulled over, she got out. Next thing I knew there was a fire. How could I tell him about the song? No one would listen, no one would care, let alone believe it. I destroyed the CD when I got home. I wasn't mine to break, but I couldn't risk anyone else being affected by it.

July 15, 2016. I'd almost moved past the stupid shit with the song. I thought I was free. It'd been over half a month since I'd last heard it, or one of its weird renditions. Well, that is, until I heard it on the radio at work. I started playing in the kitchen. After hearing the intro,

I'd heard so many hundreds of times without issue, I raced over to change the radio station. Dude, what the hell? I thought you liked Nirvana. the dishwasher yelled from the other side of the kitchen. I successfully changed the station away, averting the song, well, sort of. He started playing on the next station and the one after that. Even the classical station was playing.

I kept trying to shut off the radio, but it wouldn't stop. I ran to the outlet it was plugged into before the chef stepped in front of me. What the hell are you doing? I don't go in front of you. and fuck with your radio. Don't touch it again. He leered at me, seriously. I tried to push past him, and he pushed me to the floor. As I stood up, I heard it.

Just as Dana said, it was a voice singing the song. Dude, is that you? Man, that's sick. Why were you so embarrassed? You're on the radio man. The dishwasher yelled from the pins. No, you don't understand. It's not...

I was left speechless as I heard the changed verse. I think I'm dumb. I put my hand in hot oil. Before I could react, the chef had already stuffed his right hand deep into the bubbling oil. It hissed loudly and gurgled ferociously as the moisture from his hand and then eventually his flesh evaporated and rushed to the surface.

He made no reaction And the dishwasher started to push past me Placidly eager to crisp up his own hand As I held him back I smelled the most awful smell The chef removed his hand Horribly blistered and bubbling flesh Dripping still with oil

The finer areas of his fingers And webbing between them were reminiscent of pork rites And the stench of his seared flesh mixed with the fry oil was so pungent, I thought I'd bur. But I stood there, still holding back the dishwasher in a daze. A few moments later the song ended. The dishwasher stopped trying to wriggle free of my grasp, and the chef began to scream bloody murder.

As predicted, when I looked online at the classical station's playlists, there was no indication they ever played Nevada. Why, this keeps happening to me. but I don't want to live like this. July 16th, 2016. After the incident at the restaurant, I decided that I needed to get as far away from any source of music as possible.

I don't know why this started happening or how I'm the only one who seemed to notice it. I don't want it to hurt anyone else. I packed my backpack with some water, the journal and a ton of earplugs. Maybe if I can't hear it, it won't affect people. Either way, I don't want to risk exposing anyone else. I headed up to my family's cottage.

I needed to take the bus, and I hope that between the earplugs and the short time frame, I'd not hear the song again. Unfortunately, I had myself fooled. It was little enough I could do to escape from the song. It always seemed to find a way. We were maybe a half hour outside of the closest town to the cottage when someone on the bus dropped their headphones. I heard nothing with the earplugs on.

I just stared at that spot on the floor where the headphones laid. The owner of them were staring too, not picking them up. That's when I heard it again, like it was playing directly into my head. I'm not like them, but I can't pretend. I knew the intro all too well. I was filled with dread immediately. I knew I had about ten seconds before the verse would come in. I ripped the useless earbuds out of my ear as I stormed to the front of the bus and demanded the driver's stop and let me on.

I only stopped at the register stops and station skid. Sit down, he casually muttered, as if he'd used the line hundreds of times before. A day is done, but I'm having fun. Let me off the goddamn bus, I screamed. at the driver. We hit the break and we halted. But it was too late. I'd heard it. I think I'm dumb.

Maybe just happy. The lyrics were normal. Could it have all been in my head? Or rather, had whatever this curse was finally lifted. Well, get off then. The driver snorted at me. I stood there with the door

opened to my back. I considered getting off and simply going back home. I looked down the aisle to see the guy lean down to pick up his headphones. He stared into the audio output of one of the ears vapidly. Sorry, I muttered as I walked back up the steps. The song was still playing off the headphones in the background, but strangely it stopped feeling like it was playing in my head. Suddenly, as the driver shook his head and began to accelerate, from every phone and every audio device, including the bus radio, it blasted louder than ever.

I think I'm dumb. I'll take you all with me. The driver continued accelerating as I ran up to the front of the bus. Stop the bus, I yelled again. At this time, no answer. He had that same blank stare. It almost fell through the bus doors as he hit a sharp turn, down a small country road, not built for buses. I knew this wasn't the bus route.

I didn't know exactly where we were going, but I knew it couldn't be anything less than fatal. I began struggling with the driver for control of the wheel. Without taking his eyes off the road, he stuck out one of his thick, stumpy legs and plunged his boot straight into my chest. I fell down the bus's steps and through the door. As I laid there, winded,

attempting to recover from the hard fall and the kick to the chest, I could still hear the bus crunching branches of trees and kicking up stones. Then the high-pitched reeling of acceleration with no friction, and then nothing. About 40 metres further was another sharp turn on the road. It had been completely ignored, launching the bus through some shrubs and small trees, off of the ledge beyond them. Even from the ground I saw the swath cut through the foliage and knew exactly what waited on the other side. After what felt like hours, I finally gathered myself enough to get up.

I felt strangely emotionless, like I was removed from the whole ordeal. Deep down I could feel that I was on the verge of bursting into tears. I didn't want to succumb to that just yet. I walked over to the edge of the cliff. It was a pretty drastic drop. The scenery of the trees in the distance and the sun lowering itself over the horizon could in any other situation be described as beautiful. But to me it felt mocking.

Prepare for another day, it was telling me another day of abstract hell. Suddenly a strange urge came over me, not an unfamiliar one. That feeling when you look in front of an oncoming subway train or into some other dangerously fatal experience. When you feel curious enough to listen to that little voice inside that says, Well, what if we did? I finally decided I'm going to end it. Not a reckless succumb to the call of the void.

I've been deliberating with myself for over an hour now. The sun is setting and I'm nowhere near enough to town to make it before sundown. Even if I did, I'm sure some radio, some phones. some random boombox or earpiece would start playing that song. I can't take it. I can't live like this. This will be my final entry in this journal. I don't have any idea what this is going to look like to someone on the outside looking in.

Maybe it's all been a dream. Maybe I'm delusional. All I know is that I had no willing part in the fire. What happened to the chef or the people on that bus? Tell my parents, I'm sorry. The inspector put the journal down wordlessly. He sat for some time debating internally. I definitely answered a lot of questions,

but was absolutely too ridiculous, too supernatural to really be true, right? Just as he rose from his chair and walked over to the door of his office, he caught the sound of something peculiar. He heard it mildly. muffled from behind him. I swear I turned that up, he mumbled to himself, as he stared, puzzled at the radio. He recognised that song,

and felt his heart sink as he realized it was his own voice he was hearing. I think I'm dumb. As someone who spends a lot of time reading some very strange and unusual and horrific things, I don't always want everyone to know where I've been online. Now, I know what most of you are thinking. Why don't you just use incognito mode?

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In French, Esprit de lescalio. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. The stairway. The hike was long, nearly six miles. The first five were easy enough, but the last mile was a series of constant switchbacks on a steep slope that left me gasping for air with each step. We were exhausted and drenched in sweat,

but in good spirits when we finally arrived at the top of the ridge shortly before sunset, my friend seemed eager to explore the nearby landscape, and I shared their enthusiasm. From what we'd heard, the view here was stunning. It was our annual summer camping trip, a rigid tradition that it had endured since childhood. my family and the families of my three best friends who also happened to be my neighbours spent a week in this park every summer it was a serene environment that allowed one to shed their stress their worries and all the troubles of the previous year here next to the sprawling forests of pines and under the shadow of the appellation mountains we came to forget the problems of life and simply enjoyed ourselves had many fond memories of this place that spanned throughout my childhood fishing and swimming in lakes, marshmallows and ghost stories over the campfire,

hiking along the many trails that covered the park. I look forward to this trip each and every year. However, this year was slightly different. Our families had stayed at the usual campgrounds while Tony, Astor, Margaret and I hiked onward to a different area. For many years, we've been told that there was a campground on top of a ridge that offered an absolutely incredible view of the valley below. On more than a few occasions my friends and I had begged our parents to take us there,

but we could never convince them to make the long hike. For our younger siblings, six miles were simply too far to walk. At least that was the excuse they used. Nevertheless, we collectively convinced our parents to allow us to make the hike all alone this year. They'd agreed that we were definitely old enough to camp out on our own and wished us well on our journey. And here we were, five hours later, on top of our time. of the heavily forested ridge and excited to pitch our tents. As soon as we reached the top of the ridge, the dirt path leveled off.

There were pine trees on either side of the path that cast long shadows in the evening sun. About a hundred yards ahead, the other edge of the ridge could be seen, and we picked up our pace in anticipation of the view. I noticed that there was a small building at the edge of the path that was built very close to the cliff. It looked like a house, and I curiously wondered who, we'd be living up here. Turning my mind back towards the reason we were here.

I hurried past the house with my friends and arrived at the opposite end of the ridge. The view was everything we'd anticipated. The setting sun illuminated the valley below us, the August grass shone gold, and waved with a light breeze that swept through the valley. A few wisps of clouds gently floated through the sky and were illuminated red by the dying beams of sunlight. I heard Astor and Margaret gasp in awe as they admired the landscape. Tony and I stood in silent appreciation, taking in the beauty. We must have stood there for close to ten minutes as the sun sank ever lower towards the horizon.

We were so hypnotised that we felt to notice the man behind us. Well, as soon as I turned around, I saw him. An old man, he looked perhaps 70, and he sat in a little. chair smoking a cigarette on the porch of the building I'd seen earlier. He was looking at us with an amused expression on his face as he puffed away. Feeling a little embarrassed that all four of us had walked past him without so much as saying, good evening, I decided to approach him and introduce myself. His eyes locked on me as I walked up to his front porch.

Good evening, I said in a friendly tone. Damn right it is. The old man immediately responded, taking another drag. on his cigarette. I was a little startled by his forwardness, but I smiled and introduced myself. My name's Chris Harding, I said as I extended a hand to him. The old man pulled a tobacco-stained hand out of his right pocket and gave me a good firm handshake. Water, Walter McNeil, he said with a smile. And these are my friends, Astor, Tony and Margaret, I said, pointing to each of them. Sorry for not noticing you earlier. Walter waved his hand.

in a dismissive manner. That's all right. That view is a lot prettier than me. He chuckled, and my friends and I chuckled along with him. I liked his sense of humor. Oh, we've never been up here before. We didn't know anybody had a house up here.

What makes you live here? I asked. Walter held out his hand, palm upwards, pointing towards the scenery behind us. His eyebrows were raised in amusement. I immediately felt incredibly stupid for asking such a question. Oh yeah, that's some view, isn't it? I said.

It is, ain't it? Best time of the whole damn year, actually. You want to be here in January. Windows are something fierce, he stated. Do you live here alone? That, just me. Been here my whole life and I don't have a plan on moving. So you grow up.

up around here? Sure did. It used to be a little town down in that valley. That's where I was born and raised. What happened to it? I inquired. The town, why isn't it there anymore? Well, nothing happened to it so much as it just withered away. All the young folk of my time moved on.

Didn't want to live their lives in a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. Walter said, with a touch of sadness in his voice. but not you you didn't want to go anywhere not me perfectly happy to be here till I'm dead Walter said nothing further and seemed to go into deep thoughts

we stood around awkwardly for close to a minute before finally deciding to say goodbye and head to the camping area we were tired from our hike and needed to pitch our tents and sleep excuse me I said waking Walter from his silent contemplation How do we get to the campgrounds from here?

The campgrounds, yeah, just follow the trail there for about half a mile. Goes all along the ridge and it'll lead you straight to a clear end where you can set up camp. You'll have the place all to yourselves. Hardly anybody comes up here anymore. Water pointed to the right of his house and eyes followed his finger. There was a thin dirt path leading into the trees. Okay, thanks for your help, Mr. McNeil, I said. we waved goodbye to him and started to turn towards the trail.

Just as my head turned away from the house, something caught my eye. It was another trail, even thinner, that led into the trees on the left side of the house. Where does that trail lead? I asked, nodding my head towards the other path. Walter glanced over towards it, and a smile crept onto his lips. He took a drag on his cigarette and responded. Oh, that trail. That leads to the stairway. He said casually.

The what? The stairway. That's what everyone calls it. Don't think it has a proper name. What's the stairway? I inquired. Genuinely curious. It's the damn strangest thing I ever saw.

Just a set of stairs carved out a rock. Goes right over the cliff. Been there just about forever. What? I said incredulously. A stairway made out of rock right over the cliff? Yeah, exactly that. You've got to see it to believe it, but it's there. Who built it? Why would anyone build something like that? Well, about ten years ago these archaeologists came up here to look at it. They got a load of fancy tools and such. One of them tells me it's nearly 900 years old, if you can believe it.

so I guess the engines must have built it. Sure as how wasn't anybody else here 900 years ago. I see. Why did the Indian... Native Americans build it? I asked. Ain't nobody got a clue. Well, those archaeologists couldn't even tell how they built it.

Said it looked like the staircase was carved straight out of the rock. But the way it sticks out over the side of the ridge, it couldn't have been any mountain to carve it out of. In fact, it's a damn... miracle it hasn't fallen over. Shouldn't even be standing with how it is. Walter explained. At least, that's what the archaeologists say.

The way he emphasized the word archaeologists, made it clear that Walter was not telling the full story and was merely waiting for us to ask him to elaborate. I decided to humor him. After all, he clearly didn't get many visitors. So, um, what do other people say? Walter's face lit up in honest excitement As he was given the opportunity to tell a story His cigarette was nearly gone

And he threw the butt on the ground And pulled a new one from his pocket As he lit it with a match He looked at us and asked You kids like ghost stories Sure, we love ghost stories Our story exclaimed The rest of us nodded in agreement

Many ghost stories have been swapped Between our families over a campfire And a fresh one was always welcome Well, pull up your pants and get ready, because I've got one hell of a story for you. Walter said, as he puffed on his new cigarettes. So, there's this guard, you see. It rules over this land, and... Is this a Native American legend?

Margaret cut him off. To tell you the truth, Miss, I don't know. Very well could be, but I don't got a clue where it came from. It's just a story I heard as a boy. Jimmy Dwight's granddad used to tell it when he was drunk as hell and couldn't keep his old mouth shut. Walter laughed hard and his laughter turned into a wheeze, which turned into a coughing fit that lasted several minutes. When he finally composed himself, he continued with the story. So, anyways, there's a god that rules over this land.

He's got these spirits under his command. These spirits, they got a job. when someone's close to death when their time has come so to speak these spirits go to the dying man and they help him along they take him and show him the way to the next life

so they're good spirits you see they help people to go peacefully or to ruminate it for a moment it looked as if he was having trouble remembering the story so uh anyways what was I saying oh yeah there's the good spirits that take dying people away

except one of these spirits was actually no good. He didn't do his job right. He liked when people died, you see. Something about it. Something about death that he liked. So he starts taking people when it ain't their time. Healthy people, young people, people that got no business dying. And this bad spirit, he's killing them.

Just for the sake of killing. Ain't that awful. Yeah, sounds real bad, Tony agreed. This mean spirit, he goes around killing people for no good reason. And the killing seems to give him power, makes him stronger. So the God figures that this can't go on any longer. So he banishes him. The bad spirit gets thrown out of God's realm.

Heaven, you could call it. He lands on his ass right in this area. Most of his power is gone too, but not all. So, the evil spirit's here, roaming around. Is that it? Astor asked. You're ahead of me, young lady. Walter responded.

As I said, most of the bad spirit's power is gone, but not all. He's still got some juice left. Like I said, killing makes him stronger, so he keeps on killing. Safety doesn't bother with individuals no more. That ain't no fun. He likes groups of people. groups he can play with. He taunts him, like a cat taunts a mouse, before killing it.

The more the people suffer before they die, the more power he gets. What does he use his power for, you ask? Well, he uses it to build that damn stairway. Every time he does some poor group of people in, he heads on over to that stairway and uses the power to add an extra step to it. In fact, it's his power that keeps the stairway from falling over. He's been building that stairway for close to a thousand years. He's a patient little bastard.

He's building upwards so that one day he can get back to heaven and have his revenge. Walter laughed hard again, but thankfully his laughter did not degenerate into another coughing phase. Oh, how's that for a stairway to heaven? I chuckled at the reference to the song, but I was also impressed by Walter's story. It certainly was a rather creepy tale. It seemed perfectly tailored to scare them, an evil spirit roaming these lands, only preying on groups of people such as themselves. An excellent ghost story. And how many steps are on this stairway now?

How many groups of people come here and meet with a terrible fate? I asked with an amused tone. There's on... Walter Trout off. I'll be damned if I haven't forgot. I went on that stairway when I was young and counted the steps. but that was long ago. I can't remember how many steps there were.

Well, of course, you're free to go and find out. Water's coiffa piqued my interest, and I also found that it interested my friends. He told us that the trail leading to the stairway was only a few hundred yards long, and we'd still have time to see it before the sunset. I didn't take much convincing to get us on the path to see the legendary set of stairs.

My mouth hung open in chris. shock. It was exactly as Walter had described it. Even so, I was still completely blown away by what I saw. A large staircase made entirely of grey rock jutting out over the edge of the ridge. It was steep and had no support as far as I could tell. It looked as if it should fall over at any second. I could tell that my friends were as amazed as I was. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. Water understated when he called it the damn strangest thing he ever saw. We silently stared at the stone monstrosity for a long time. The sun was starting to touch the horizon when Tony spoke.

How many? How many what? I responded. How many steps are there? Count them. I'm sure as you're not walking out on that thing. All four of us began counting the stone steps in our heads as the remaining rays of sunlight illuminated the stairway.

I lost count once and had to start over. 39, Margaret declared. Tony and Astor agreed with her count. I was the last one to finish my tally of the stairs, and I arrived at the same conclusion. 39, I agreed. 39 groups of people, killed by the evil spirit that haunts these lands,

Tony said in an overdone, spooky voice. We laughed, and Astorne, or mentioned that we should tell all our parents about this place as soon as the week was over. We had a great ghost story to share. The sun finally dipped below the horizon and left behind only a blood, red sky. We decided to head back towards Walter's house and take the path to the campground, promising ourselves that we'd come back to see the stairway at least once before the week was over. 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 bedmgmgm. Access to the price is right fortune pick is only available at bedmgm casino. Betmgm and game sets 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. BedmGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. Well, the walk to the campground was fairly uneventful. We saw Walter again as we passed by his house and told him that there were 39 steps on the stairway.

He mumbled something along the lines of, well, that sounds about right, before bidding us goodnight and heading into his house. It took less than 15 minutes to walk the half-mile path to the camping area. In the fading twilight, we chatted and did our best to spook each other with dreadful stories of the evil spirit that lurked in these woods. About halfway through the walk, Tony spotted the dirty skeleton of a squirrel laying just off the path. Astor, the most squeamish member of our group, had been unwilling to so much as look at it, so Tony had picked up the skull and chased her with it, laughing as she let out

angry cries of disgust. While Margaret scolded him like a mother, warning him that he could get all sorts of diseases from animal carcasses, but Tony didn't seem to care. He chased Astor with a skull for most of the walk before finally tossing it on the ground and kicking it into the trees. It was these types of antics that I missed And so dearly looked forward to each year as I camped with my friends The campground was merely a clearing in the woods It was on even ground along a narrow scar in the woods That followed the high ridge we were upon

There were three fire pits lined up in a nice row Along with room for three groups to set up camp We had the entire place to ourselves We were seasoned experts at pitching tents and Tony and I had a race against Astor and Margaret to see who could pitch their tents faster. Tony and I won by just a few seconds, and the girls cried foul because the ground beneath their tent was rockier and harder to drive a stake into. We all had a good laugh over it. The tent that Tony and I were using was closest to the trail, and Margaret and Astor's tent was

directly opposite to ours, with a fire pit between us. In the cool night air, we build a bright campfire and cook hot dogs on sticks. each taking turns coming up with new ghost stories. From the position of the moon, I could tell that it was easily past midnight when we finally decided to crawl into our tents and drift into sleep, exhausted from the long hike.

The next day was wonderful. There were no clouds in the sky, and a gentle breeze swept through the trees, keeping us cool with the hot August sun above. We passed time in bliss, exploring the nearby woods. Margaret stumbled upon a small, pretty stream not far from the camp and we must have spent two hours sitting with our feet in the refreshing cold water.

Nobody said anything. Nobody needed to say anything. We were as content as we'd ever be. The day so far had been perfect. Unfortunately, that perfection would not last. It was evening and Tony was building the campfire. Margaret had gone into the woods to go to the bathroom, and Astor sat directly behind Tony, watching him toss wood into the fire.

I had just entered our tent to retrieve the hot-dogs for our evening meal when I heard Tony scream. It was a clear scream of pain that echoed throughout the woods and jolted me upright. Rushing outside, I saw Tony laying on the ground next to the roaring fire. His cries of agony had ceased, and he now clutched his left hand to his chest, biting his lower lip and taking deep breaths. I could see that the side of his left hand, from his pinky finger to his wrist, was an angry shade of red and covered with blisters.

I immediately knew that Tony had burned himself. As an experienced camper, I was accustomed to emergencies, and I quickly ran back into our tent. We'd brought a thirst-aid kit that included burn ointment. I was rummishing through my backpack, searching for the burn cream. when Tony began cussing. Astor,

what the fuck did you do that for? Tony cursed. There was clear anger in his voice. What? I heard Astor stutter. Why the fuck did you push me? I found the burn cream and some bandages and stepped outside the tent to see what the problem was.

Tony's face had become red with rage and Astor stood with a shocked expression on her face. Tony looked at me, while pointing at Astor. Christ! That bitch tried to push me into the fire! I was extremely confused by the accusation that Tony was making. I turned my head to look at Astor, who was pale with shock,

then looked back at Tony. Tony, what are you saying? I asked as I walked over to him and bent down to apply ointment to his hand. I could see that there was no charing of the skin, which meant that the burns were over. only second degree. That was good. The hand would heal fully. She pushed me. She freaking pushed me towards the fire and I got burned, he hissed with venom in his voice. Tony winced as I wrapped a bandage right out his hands. I was disturbed by what he was saying. Tony had always been the most level-headed

member of our group. I didn't understand why he was accusing Astor of hurting him. You just fell down. You tripped and you stuck your hand in the fire, and that's all that happened. I said calmly. Don't blame Astor. I was pushed. I felt it. Someone pushed me really hard, right in the back. I didn't freaking trip.

I know someone pushed me. Well, Margaret isn't here, and you were in the tent. But Astor was right behind me the whole time. She definitely pushed me. I looked back at Astor and could tell that she was close to crying. I'd known her since I was a toddler, and she was one of the sweetest people I'd ever met. There was no way, absolutely no way, that she'd tried to push Tony into the fire.

Tony, why would she do that? Why would Aster push you into a fire? Think about what she's saying, I rationalized. I don't know. Maybe she's mad, mad about the squirrel skull I chased her with. Yeah, she was mad about that and wanted revenge. I asked to choke back a sob Tony I would never do that

I mean push you into a fire that's horrible I'm sorry about your hand but yeah sorry that my head didn't go into the fire instead Tony sneered back I'm lucky I caught my balance and only touched some embers Geez I nearly lost my freaking face Astor then burst into tears and ran into a tent I could hear her sobbing into her sleeping back

and how I was angry and I turned to Tony What the hell's wrong with you? Why did you make Astor cry? I asked Tony in an angry tone. Because, shut up, shut up and think about it. You've known Astra as long as I have. Have you ever seen her do something mean, even once? Tony's face softened and his eyes fell to the ground.

Well, no, no, I haven't, but... But nothing. You're being ridiculous. Astor didn't push you into the fire. Nobody pushed you, you just fell. Go apologize to Astor for making a cry, immediately. I'd always been the strong voice of command in Agri. Tony capitulated, went into the tent to apologize to Astor,

but not before insisting that someone had indeed pushed him into the fire. Margaret returned from the woods, and we filled her in on what had happened to Tony. She suggested that we should cut our trip short and get him to a doctor, but Tony was completely against the idea. He insisted that the burn was not serious. The ointment and bandages kept his hand from hurting badly, and there was no point in ruining the trip, he said. And so with Tony and Astor on good terms again, we fell asleep in our tents and spent another cool, pleasant night on the ridge. I awoke to screaming, not a scream of pain, but a scream of pain. fear. It was high and shrill, jolting me upright from a deep sleep. Even before I stepped out of my tent,

I knew it was Astor. Only she could produce such a sharp cry from her vocal cords. The sun had just begun to rise, sending fresh beams of sunlight through the trees. I wearily stumbled out of the tent, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Our tents and the grass were covered with sparkling dew, but I had no time to admire the beauty of early morning. Becoming more alert, I noticed that Aster was standing in the entrance to her tent with her hats over her mouth. Margaret had been awakened by the sudden scream and stood behind her. Both of them looked down towards the ground in front of their tent. I followed their gaze and saw that something laid in the dirt.

I walked around the fire pit towards the girl's tent in order to get a good look at what had caused Aster to cry out. I approached the tent and focused on the object in the dirt When I could clearly see what it was I recoiled in disgust It was at squirrel's skull And not just the skull to be precise The entire skeleton was there as well Laid out in a sickening pose that made it appear to be dancing

It looked exactly like the squirrel skeleton that we'd seen on the first night Except this skeleton was clean his bones were bright white and did not have a single speck of dirt on them, as if somebody had rigorously scrubbed each and every one, carefully making sure that any impurities were removed, leaving a shiny white pile of bones perfectly laid out in front of Astu's tent. Astor continued to gasp in horror and discussed as Tony stepped out of our tent and walked towards us with a concerned look on his face.

What's wrong? What's going on? he asked. Astor wrenched her gaze from the skeleton and looked at Tony as he approached. The expression on her face turned from terror to anger. What's wrong? What's wrong? Astor screamed hysterically, as if you don't fucking know. Tony looked confused. He stood next to me and peered down at the ground, seeing the skeleton for the first time. You're such a freaking asshole, Tony.

I thought we made up last night. you said you were sorry for blaming me what a fucking liar fuck you well I absolutely agreed with Aster it was one thing for Tony to be paranoid and believe that he'd been pushed into the fire but now he'd taken things too far

taking the squirrel skeleton that he'd tormented Aster with earlier and placing it outside her tent was cruel it seemed clear to everyone that he'd done so in a petty attempt to exact revenge for the perceived assault Aster had committed I became angry extremely angry. I turned to Tony

I was about to tell him off to go on a tirade against him to cuss him out for being such a thoughtless, paranoid asshole. I opened my mouth to begin my rant and then immediately closed my lips and swallow my words when I saw his face. He'd taken a step backwards from the skeleton. His face had gone pale

and his hands were clenched into tight fists. I could see the tension in his arms and neck. He was afraid, truly, sincerely afraid. Astor continued to curse her, Tony. After several moments, he turned his wide eyes towards Astor and looked her in the face. All he could manage was a barely audible squeak. I didn't. I didn't do this, Tony whispered as his voice cracked.

Oh, sure you didn't, Astor replied sarcastically. No, that's scum. skeleton just walked up here on its own and sat itself down in front of my tent. You're a lying asshole. That's all you are. A lying asshole. Astor ran back into her tent sobbing. Margaret said nothing and only scowled at Tony before returning to the tent to console Astor. And in that moment, I became afraid. Tony wasn't lying. There was genuine fear etched across his face.

He hadn't placed that skeleton outside of him. of Astor and Margaret's tent, that I felt sure of. I sure as hell hadn't put the skeleton there, and Astor clearly didn't. She wouldn't so much as touch such a thing. That left only Margaret, but what motive did she have? She never liked practical jokes, and this had far exceeded what was appropriate for a joke. I knew Tony was having the same thoughts that I was. He turned towards me and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, I shook my head and said, Don't look at me. I didn't put it there.

Tony's face grew whiter. He gave a short nod of understanding and went back to our tent, mumbling something about getting breakfast ready. I stepped into the girl's tent and tried to help calm Astor down. I told her that I honestly thought Tony hadn't put the skeleton there, but she could not be reasoned with. In between bouts of crying, she merely kept repeating. Somebody put it there. Somebody put it there. The rest of the day went by without more incidents,

but the damage had already been done. Astor refused to speak to Tony and hardly left the tent. Margaret again suggested that we cut the trip short. And this time I agreed. I was unsettled to say the least and wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of this place. There was something going on here, something not good,

and I didn't care to find out what it was. That evening we ate our dinner in silence Asked to remain in her tent And spoke to only Margaret Before the sun had set We were all in our tents Attempting to fall asleep The plan was to wake at the crack of dawn

Pack up our supplies and leave Nobody wanted to stay here any longer As I laid in the tent next to Tony Wrapped in my sleeping bag and waiting for sleep to take hold My mind wandered in the manner that minds are prone to do For a moment, just a brief moment, I allowed my mind to consider the unthinkable. He likes groups of people, groups he can play with. He taunts them like a cat taunts a mouse before killing it.

And the more the people suffer before they die, the more power he gets. That was what the old man Walter McNeil had said, wasn't it? Well, here they were. A group of four people out in the woods. and there was certainly suffering going on. Tony's hand looked like a fried lobster. Astor was an emotional wreck that couldn't stop sobbing. Margaret and Astor were angry at Tony,

and Tony and I were scared to death because we knew that we had not put the skeleton outside that tent. I shivered and pushed the thought away. Here I was, letting an old man's ghost story get to me. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't push it away completely. The subtle fear remained. A constant, what if, in the back of my mind?

I remembered what Astor kept repeating this morning. Somebody put it there. And what had Tony said the day before? Somebody pushed me. Somebody. Or something. And with that thought, sleep took me. There exists a sound so monstrous.

so utterly horrid that no human ear should ever suffer through it. The sound that woke me from my uneasy sleep and infected my soul, spreading absolute terror throughout every limb. The moment I heard it, my entire body went numb. I was paralyzed with fear. Truly paralyzed. I couldn't move my body. To twitch even a muscle was a task as impossible as gliding through the air like a bird.

No words in the English language exist that can describe this sound. The closest description I can give is the noise of a hundred bloodthirsty wolves howling at the moon. It's sent through an audio distortor such as the kind used at rock concerts and then played back at maximum volume. The ground beneath my sleeping bag vibrated, and it felt as if the hounds of hell brought the earth around me. Such was the sound that ended my slumber. I felt Tony next to me, as rigid as I was.

I couldn't so much as move my lips to cry out in fear. No sooner had the sound started before, it ended, leaving behind a horrible silence. Then a new sound took its place, much quieter, much less bone-chilling but horrible nonetheless. It was a sound of Margaret's screams. I suddenly snapped out of my paralysis. my body was free again. I felt Tony bolt upright next to me. My left hand went down to the tent floor

next to my sleeping bag, blindly searching for my flashlight. I always kept a flashlight right beside my sleeping bag, and my hand finally found it. I grabbed it, switched it on, and ran out of the tent. Fire. It was the first thing I saw. The brown summer grass around us was on fire.

I knew we'd left embers smouldering in the fire pit before we retired to our tents, but there was at least five feet of dirt surrounding the pit. Embers could not have accidentally started this blaze. I looked across from our tent and saw that Margaret and Astor's tent had collapsed. I ran straight towards it, running through the smoking fiery grass that surrounded us. Margaret's whales continued, but they seemed to be getting further away. Astor was still in the tent, thrashing around and yelling for help. I got to the tent and picked up the fabric, allowing Astor to exit.

When I raised the tent back up, I saw that the backside of it had been torn to shreds. Four long gash marks ran across the entire side. It got her. It took Margaret. It took her. Astor cried. Her words were barely understandable through her history. hysterical sobs of terror. I shone my flashlight over the tent and across the clearing, and my blood ran cold. Margaret screamed as she was dragged across the ground. She was being pulled feet first into the forest, her head scraping against the rough, stony ground.

I caught only a brief glimpse of the thing that held her leg. It was dark, pure black. It was a person or a beast. or both, I couldn't tell. It had no defined form. It was like a shadow except even less than a shadow. It had no substance, no depth. It looked like a two-dimensional drawing of a dark monster.

Margaret disappeared into the pine forest, but her screams continued. Somehow through all the fear, the terror and the shock I felt I was still able to run. A sort of blind fury overtook me. Now I wasn't just afraid. Now I was angry. Angry that... That thing that tormented my friends and I had taken Margaret from her tent as she slept. I sprinted.

Faster than I'd ever sprinted before. I sprinted after Margaret. Forgot about Tony. I forgot about Astor. The only thing that mattered was saving Margaret from the dark beast that had her. I tore across the clearing and into the trees, following Margaret's screams. I held my flashlight ahead of me. I could see her.

She was still being dragged across the forest floor. I wheeled my legs to pump faster. I ducked under branches, leapt over logs, and narrowly avoided crashing into trees. Yet no matter how hard I work my legs, no matter how much energy I expended in pursuit of the unknown beast, Margaret grew further and further away. After a while I could only see her head, still being smacked by the uneven ground. Soon, even her head disappeared

and I had only her screams to guide me. But those grew even fainter, and I realized that I would not be able to save her. When I couldn't run any longer, I stopped and bent over, gasping for air. Margaret's screams continued to grow more, and more distance. And abruptly, they ceased altogether. My head perked upwards. I strained my ears, but I heard nothing. The forest was completely still. I was alarmed. If Margaret were still

screaming, that meant she was alive. But now there was only silence, meaning, I shook my head. I refused to let my mind consider that gruesome possibility. But deep down, in the back of my mind, I knew what had happened to Margaret. I just couldn't admit it to myself. I started jogging forward, calling out her name in a horse voice. Margaret, Margaret, where are you? I cried out. I suddenly noticed a new noise, one that wasn't there before.

It was a sound of running water. I realized that I must be near the small stream that we'd visited two days before. Picking up my pace I walked towards the sound of the stream My flashlight illuminated the path ahead And I saw moving water And then I saw Margaret

She was laying face down in the stream Her black hair was waving gracefully In the eddies of the water Margaret I yelled as I sprinted towards her As soon as I got within five feet of her I stopped The bright flashlight

beam lit up her entire body. There were cuts and bruises along our legs and arms, and her clothes were tattered. Her right leg had four large cuts along it, no doubt where the beast had been holding her. And her head.

Her head was bashed in. A large rock laid next to the stream. It had bits of skin and brain on it, where it had been used to crush her temple. One look into her eyes told me there was no life there. A current of blood had started washing down the street. Margaret was dead. That thing,

that beast straight out of Walter McNeil's story had crushed her skull. For a few seconds I stood motionless. My flashlight focused on the lifeless body of my friend. Then I took a step backwards, turned around and ran. Hey God, Margaret! This was all I could think as I sprinted back. towards the clearing. He got Margaret, now he's going to get us. We have to get away. The light from the grass fire guided me back towards the clearing. After seemed what like an eternity of sprinting, it was probably just a few minutes. I arrived back at camp. Dry grass burns quickly and the fire mostly burned out in the time I'd been gone. Astor and Tony were huddled next to the ruined tent. Astor was rocking back and forth, and Tony sat next to her in a daze.

His eyes were unfocused and foggy. I approached them, and they turned to look at me. Get up. Now, we have to go, I ordered. Where's Margaret? Tony asked in a voice that sounded very far away. Margaret's gone. Let's go. It was a considerable effort to keep my voice calm. Gone. What do you mean, gone? Astor cried out. She's fucking gone. Now get up and go. This seemed to motivate Tony. He jumped to his feet and bolted towards the path that led back to Walter's house. I struggled to help Astor stand. Her knees were too weak to support her weight, and she had to lean on my shoulder. Tony, wait, Astor sobbed. Aster sobbed.

just let him go we need to leave now walk with me i commanded her slowly but surely we managed our way towards the park my eyes darted back and forth searching for any danger any sign of it my anger was back it had killed my friend one of my best friends since childhood and i hated it for that i hated it with all my soul but now was not the time for hate, I needed to ensure our survival. Margaret was gone, but we could still save ourselves. We entered the dark trail. I held my flashlight in my left hand as my right side supported Astor. The dirt path took a sharp curve and we rounded it as quickly as we could. When we came fully around the corner, the bright beam of my light from my flashlight revealed a grisly sight. Tony was up in one of the pine trees

His feet dangled about four feet from the ground He'd been completely impaled on the many branches that grew from the tree Thinner weaker branches had snapped off But the thicker, sturdier ones had held strong and penetrated his body He'd been forced completely up to the trunk of the tree One branch protruded directly through the centre of his neck Another stuck out through the right side of his chest, revealing a horribly bent rib cage. His head hung downwards at an odd angle,

and all the pine needles nearby were speckled with blood, and a steady drip, drip, drip, could be heard as warm liquid spilled from his fresh corpse. I felt puke climb into my throat, and I forced it back down. I grabbed Astor by the arm and gave her a rough pole. Just keep walking, Don't look at him, I said in a shaky voice. But Astor wouldn't move. She stood rooted to the spot, her face deathly white and her eyes wide with shock. Astor, we need to go now. We can still get away.

I pleaded with her. She took two steps toward the body of Tony and then ran the other way. Stop, you're running the wrong way, I cried out as I began to chase her. She didn't seem to hear me. Panic had taken hold of her, and no amount of instructions or logic could get through to her. I tore after her, but I was already exhausted from chasing after Margaret, and I couldn't keep up. Astra had always been a better runner than me. She sprinted across the camp clearing in a blind panic as I begged her to stop.

When she disappeared into the woods at the opposite end of the camp, I followed her in. I ran after Astor in the same way I'd run after Margaret's. I caught out her name and asked her to wait. wait. I had a sudden, terrible realization. Astor was in complete panic mode, following no clear path. The ridge we were upon was only about a hundred yards wide and had steep cliffs on both ends. With the overhead foliage blocking the moon and stars, a person who was running quickly might not see the edge in time to stop completely. I put my head down and ran faster than I'd ever run before.

Astor seemed to be slowing down now, perhaps, becoming tired. I was gaining on her, but now I saw something else through the trees ahead. Stars, my gut sank when I realized that my fears had been correct. The cliff was no more than 20 yards in front of Astor. I was at least 10 yards behind her. I put in every bit of energy I still had into running after her and screamed. Astor, you're going off the cliff. Astor understood the danger now, but it was too late.

She attempted to stop herself, but her shoes slipped on the rocky ground and she tumbled forward. I slowed down as fast as I could, no more than two feet from the edge of the cliff. I reached out my hand and swiped at Astor's torso, attempting to grab her arm. My hand smacked against her shoulder, hard and spun her around. But I had nothing to grab onto. Her terrified eyes met mine, and she opened her mouth to scream. But her scream was taken by the wind, and she was gone. I stood on the edge of the cliff.

I didn't dare look over the side. Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit. I was all alone now. All of my friends were gone. I was alone in the forest. Alone with it. Somehow I still had the energy to run. I ran back towards camp as fast as my legs could carry me.

I was determined to escape, to survive. Through all this, I still had my flashlight. It was a miracle I hadn't dropped it. I arrived back at the clearing. The grass fire had completely gone out. I met a straight line for the path that led out of the campgrounds, a swell of panic rising in my stomach. But something stood in my way.

directly in the entrance to the path. It was Tony. Tony stood in the path. His body had been taken down from the pine. The branches through his throat and chest were still there. They'd been snapped off from the tree. Blood still ran from the open wounds on his body. Behind him, I could see it.

The thing that had dragged Margaret to her death. The thing that had impaled Tony upon the tree. the black two-dimensional being that had terrorized us strangely it was somehow transparent i could see it but i could also see everything behind it and held tony's body up like a puppet his head lulled to one side and then turned upwards and looked at me with blank dead eyes tony's mouth curved into a grin but it was not a grin of his own he looked as if his cheeks had merely been forced upwards by an outside force. Then Tony laughed. It wasn't a real laugh.

It sounded as if air was simply being forced through his mangled vocal cords by the thing holding him up. His smile dropped and then he spoke. Except it wasn't Tony speaking. It was that thing speaking through Tony. The voice was so garbled

that I could hardly understand it. But I made out a single word. The thing dropped Tony's body on the dirt path and disappeared. Tony crumpled into a heap of useless flesh. It looked like an action figure that some angry toddler crushed and stomped into the ground. It had told me to run, but Tony's body in the centre of the path sent another clear message. Don't take the trail. And so I ran.

I ran into the woods next to the path. I planned on turning back towards the road. trail when I could, determined to make my way out of this forest from hell. But there it was, right beside me. It followed along with me, keeping pace with me. Every time I tried to turn in the direction of the path, it was there. It wasn't going to let me escape. Like a dog-herding sheep, it ran beside me. It kept itself between me and the trail, ensuring that I could not make my way onto the dirt that led to safety. Absolutely knew that if I ever could ever come to the trail, I crossed its path I'd be dead. I had no choice but to continue straight ahead through the thick

forest of pines. It had changed now, taken on a more definite form. It was no longer transparent but pure black, as it had been when it had taken Margaret. It was a beast, a beast with four long, thin legs that ended in huge claws. Its snout was lengthy and pointed, and its back was horribly arched. It lumbered alongside me, mad with thirst for the kill. I looked ahead and saw stars. I was nearing the other edge of the ridge. If I didn't change direction soon, I'd go over the edge, just as Astra had. I curved my path to the left, away from the trail, but it was there too. It had disappeared from my right side and appeared on my left, continuing to hurt me straight ahead. There was only one direction it wanted me to go.

Wee tauntsome, like a cat tauntsome mouse before killing it. The words of Walter McNeil echo through my mind as I ground to a halt mere inches from the cliff. I turned around to face the horror that pursued me. My mind was completely empty. I had no more sense left in me. There was nothing I could do to protect myself. It stayed in the trees, several feet from the edge of the ridge. prowling back and forth like a giant cat as its hideously long claws scraped against the rocks on the ground.

I didn't dare try to run anymore. Every potential path of escape was blocked. I saw its mouth open wide to reveal a set of monstrous black teeth. It curled back onto its hind legs and looked like a spring that was waiting to be set loose. His hind legs thrust forward with enormous power, and it leapt at me from the trees. Sharp teeth bit into my chest as it crashed into my torso and took me over the ledge.

Walter McNeil awoke with the sun creeping over the horizon. He hadn't slept well, not well at all. Halfway through the night he'd heard something awful, a horrible noise that seemed to come from the direction of the camp where those kids were staying. He thought he'd dreamt it, but he wasn't completely sure. Stepping out onto his front porch, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He felt uneasy.

He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but something was throwing him off. For some reason on this morning, he felt drawn to it, drawn to that damn stairway that stood so defiantly over the ridge. Perhaps it was the horrible noise that had awakened him in the night. Perhaps it was the fact that there was no smoke creeping up over the nearby campgrounds, As it had the past two mornings while those kids were camping, Walter walked along the short, narrow path that led to the stairway. The rising sun illuminated it, and to him it was beautiful.

It looked just like it had when he was a boy. It was exactly how he remembered it. Walter placed his foot on the first step and began climbing. In his mind, he counted the steps. One, two, three. fall. Any other man would be afraid to do such a thing to climb out on an impossible stairway over a large cliff that looked as if it would fall over at any moment. But Walter knew he was safe. It had been there for 900 years and hadn't fallen over. At least that's what those archaeologists

claimed. And he climbed out on it when he was a boy, hadn't he? He hadn't fallen over then. No, the stairway would not falter to the weight of Walter. McNeil. It had been there when he was born and it would remain long after he died. Water hesitated before taking the last step. Carefully he raised himself onto it and peered out over the valley. It was a beautiful view, better than the one he'd enjoyed from his porch. The sun illuminated the valley below in a splendid swirl of colors. But instantly a darkness came over him. His Skin tightened up and goosebumps broke out over his arms. This place was no good.

He could feel that. For the first time in his life, he could tell that the stairway was not something he should disturb. Water quickly rushed down the steps, taking them two at a time. It wasn't until he was back on the trail to his house that he felt better, when the sense of darkness finally left him. He laughed out loud in the morning air. What an hopeful fool.

he was, scared of a stupid hunk of rock that some crazy engines built a thousand years ago. Nevertheless, his mind returned to that feeling of dread that had overcome him on the top step of the stairway. He thought back to the story he'd told those kids a few days before. Walter shuddered and decided not to think about it any longer. He'd lived in that house for nearly fifty years and had not a single whiff of the supernatural. Because it doesn't go go after individual people, only groups. His subconscious goaded him. He shoved the thought out of his mind.

That ridiculous story came from a superstitious old drunkard. It wasn't even worth considering. Stareway to heaven, my ass. But in his heart he knew that nothing could completely wash away the fear he now felt towards that place. The fear that had invaded his soul and taken roots, like a weed, as soon as he arrived at the final step of the stairway. He could ignore it, rationalize it, explain it away as best he could, but the seed of doubt would never leave.

Ah, kids these days, you can't even count right. What good school anyways? He thought to himself. Yeah, that's it. They just miscount it. Couldn't see it right in the sudden sun. That's what happened. That must be it.

He said out loud, attempting to console himself. There must be it. Because there are exactly 40 steps on that damn stairway. In your nightmares, I will live. This story was inspired by the song, Hallow Be Thy Name by Iron Maiden. The idea for the story is also inspired by Johnny Frank Garrett, who was executed in Huntsville, Texas in 1992.

James Anderson III stared down at a stainless steel table smudge with greasy fingerprints from God knows how many doomed inmates before him. Sitting unceremoniously on top of the table was a greyish white plastic plate filled to its edges with a dinistyle breakfast platter. It included three fried eggs over easy, overdone,

grits with butter, nice cold, three strips of bacon, undercooked, hash browns, overcooked, and two pieces of toast cut into triangle, A single pack of butter and a single jelly labelled fruit medley sat on top of the cold toast. James stared at it a while longer.

The thought of putting any of it into his mouth and swallowing made his stomach turn thrice over. The last meal. The last practical joke of his life. You'd have to be completely insane to have an appetite at a time like this, he thought. The only reason he chose the plate of Greece is his farewell dinner. was because it reminded him of happier times with his family. The only happy memories he could recall were the ones of him and his little sister. When they were kids and his mom had a little extra money,

she'd take them to the diner at the edge of town. They'd sit at the counter and his sister, Sarah, would get waffles with powder, sugar and syrup. Sometimes the cook would sprinkle chocolate chips on them, and she'd have a grin from ear to ear, arranging the little chocolate morsals into ice, mouth and a nose to make a friendly waffle-faced creature on her plate. James always got the working man special, to seem more like an adult. Came with fried eggs that bled a rich, creamy yolk when poked, crispy bacon, hash browns, and a thick stack of toast with butter and jam.

In truth, he often looked longingly at his sister's waffle plate, but he had concluded that only babies ordered that kind of stuff, and at twelve, he thought of himself as nearly a man. Those times were worlds and worlds away. The reality was that being a man had turned out to be one big, sick joke. A curse, he thought now, looking at his last meal. The platter in front of him, all these years and worlds later, was a poor imitation of the breakfast he remembered from the diner.

James stared some more, eyes widening at the thought of his younger self from the long, tortuous path he'd walk to get where he was today. Not even going to take a bite, the guard asked from his post at the doorway. James shook his head, slowly back and fall. And after all the trouble

we put into making your special dinner, talk about gratitude, the guard said. James knew he was trying to get a reaction out of him. The guard hated him. They all hated him. Everyone looked at him like a piece of shit on the sidewalk, like something disgusting and unwanted, a smudge upon their good, clean world.

The guard knocked on the glass of the closed door, signaling someone to come and take him back to his cell. James was glad for it. The smell of the congealing food was making him sicker by the minutes. Minutes, he thought, how many do I have left? Another guard entered, unlocked the chain from the steel chair that was attached to James's handcuffs, and walked him out of the door and into the hallway. He walked down the hallway and could see the other inmates in their cells, staring out at him with faces like floating masks. One was a grotesquely exaggerated mask of sorrow. Another was a fool's mask, cross-eyed and deranged. The fool laughed at him as he walked by. Another looked like a devil, reaching through the bars at him. The guard slammed his nightstick on the bars

of the cell and the inmate jumped back, his face returning to normal. James stared at him as he walked by. They locked eyes in the inmate, a middle-aged white man with thinning grey hair and a wiry build, ran his thumb horizontally across his neck and then waved goodbye. James was taken back to his cell to wait for the audience to arrive. He was sentenced to death by a lethal injection, and it was to be carried out on that day, June 10, 1992. The guard locked the cell door and looked through the box.

bars at him. Today is a beautiful day for Gillen's scumbags, he said before walking away with a little spring in his step. James wondered if they really believed he was guilty. He was an innocent man. He'd only been a teenager when he was first jailed, accused of horrible things. Sometimes at night he tried to imagine doing those things as they'd said he did, and he couldn't. Sometimes the world twists in ways that make you question your reality, he thought. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I did do it. He put his head in his hands and was surprised to find that he had more tears to cry. He let them out, almost savoring the sensation. Everything was his last. What would be the last thing he saw? What would be his last thought? He wanted it to be about his mother and sister.

He planned to close his eyes in that final moment and imagine him. an alternate reality, one in which his father hadn't died when he was four, and his mother had never gotten remarried to a man who'd repeatedly abuse him and his sister. In this alternate world, James had gone to college and met a girl, and they'd both worked hard to build a life together. They'd have one daughter, maybe, who he would name Sarah after his sister. They'd buy a little house somewhere, maybe even in another state. He would move his sister and his mother to Maine, maybe. He'd never been there, but his father had,

and he'd shown him pictures when he was a little boy. It seemed like a beautiful place. They'd live there in a little cottage, and smell the pine trees and the salty sea, and be happy. You would picture that life from beginning to end, as they injected him with a poison that would kill him. Maybe death would take him there if he was lucky.

James was poured out of his fantasy by footsteps, approaching his cell. They were heavy and slow. He didn't recognize them. He knew the sound of all the guards' footsteps, and these didn't match. They got louder until a pair of old, worn out penny loafers, stopped in front of his sound. James looked at the shoes and then scanned up to the faded corduroy pants, the pot-bellies stretching the buttons of a beige button-down shirt,

a brown and yellow striped tie, and tweed jacket, and finally up to the round head of the man. His thin lips were mostly hidden by a greying moustache. His nose was round and red with long, dark hairs poking out. His eyes, greenish-brown, shone out at James from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Hello, James, the man said and smiled guiltily at having intruded on his solitude. My name is Mr. Arcon. I'll just have a wee bit of paperwork here of your design before the big event.

he said while rooting through a pile of papers in a folder he looked at the grim look on james's face and corrected himself well uh that is to say the um well your execution to be frank hey what do you know that's my first name call me frank if you like he said with a self-conscious chuckle you a lawyer james said mostly just to say anything He wasn't expecting to see anyone else before they took him to the execution room. As if in response to his question, the cell door slid open with a metallic clang. Mr. Arcon stepped into the room and the door slid closed behind him. James was surprised the guards would use the automatic unlock system for this. He assumed an armed civilian to visit his cell, but here he was, stepping into the cell of a supposed murderer without the slightest hesitation.

The rest of the cell block was eerily silent. James had gotten used to the continuous sound of shouting, jeering, begging and quite often praying. He wondered who they thought they were praying to. The guilty had no business asking for mercy, and the innocent had obviously been left to rot by either a pitiless God or the absence of any God at all. James believed the latter was more likely. What kind of God would deal out of fate like this?

Sick joke indeed. James Anderson the third, yes indeed, Mr. Arcon said as he found the paper he was looking for. He pushed his glasses up onto his stubby nose again and again and again as they slid down relentlessly towards the paper. Well, Mr. Anderson, I am not a lawyer, but a clerk of the state sent to tie up the loose ends of your case. Well, with all due respect, Mr. Frank, my case has so many loose ends. I'd be surprised if you could tie them up in the few minutes I have left. Mr. Arcon looked at James with an almost comically exaggerated expression of pity. He pouted his bottom lip out and shook his hands.

Oh, what a world we live in that deals out such a fate to a young man such as yourself. It really is a shame to meet you under such bleak circumstances. But alas, here we are. There are still a few things we can accomplish before your time comes to an end. Mr. Arcon shuffled over to the metal bed and sat down, laying his battered briefcase on its sides. He popped the latches and shuffled through another mound of disorganized paperwork, whistling a tune as he searched. James stood there, staring at the man, feeling that familiar wave of unreality wash over him. This could all be a bad dream, he thought.

Mr. Arcon's whistling took on a strange tone as the notes lilted up and down, and a sad melody that he recognised from somewhere. He closed his eyes and remembered his 13th birthday party. He'd just turned 13 years old, he was sitting in his bedroom, waiting for his mom to get home from work. That summer she'd taken up a job cleaning houses, and he spent a lot of time alone. At the time, she was also married to her second husband, Tom.

Tom was a travelling salesman that was often on the road, which was okay with James. as Tom was a bad man. It was the only way his young brain had been able to put into words what kind of a monster Tom was. He told his mum one time that Tom was a bad man and she hadn't believed him. She said he had to stop reading those pub comics. They're turning your brain to mush, she shouted defensively. It wasn't the comics that had ruined his brain.

It was the bad things that a bad man named Tom had been doing. On that day of his 13th birthday, Tom had come home to surprise James with the gifts. He came whistling up the walkway, whistling into the house, and whistling up the stairs to James' bedroom door. It was a slow, cascading tune that turned James' blood to ice. James, the birthday boy, Tom said outside the door with a flourish of little knocks. Tom opened the door and stood there in his shabby tweed jacket and faded cook. orderlies, holding a wrap gift. James sat frozen on the bed, hoping he'd turned to stone and be unbreakable.

He'd hoped for that many times before, and sadly, he'd remained flesh and bone. Tom sat on the bed next to him, smiling like a lunatic. Go on, open it, he said. Mom will be home soon. I'll open it when she gets home. James had whispered, never taking his eyes. off his shoes. His mind was already separating from his body, taking him to the alternate reality that he dreamed of every day since his father had died. Be a good boy and open it now, Tom said with a sudden biting intensity. He pushed the hair back from James' forehead and stroked his

cheek. James' consciousness had blessedly floated up to the ceiling to watch the horror from afar, as it had done during the previous visits Tom made to his room when his mother wasn't around. Ah, here we are, Mr. Anderson. Mr. Arcon said gleefully with a paper clutched in his chubby fist. James opened his eyes to find himself back in the cell. Be a good boy, and sign right here for me, please. He held out the crumple paper in one hand and a pen in the other. James stared at the man in his cell.

With dawning horror, he realized that he was looking at an aged version of his stepfather, Tom. He jumped back against the cell door, clutching himself tightly as he had as a child, trying to turn to stone. Now, now, James, there's no reason to be frightened. Just a simple form stating that you're a very bad man who's done very bad things. You're dead. I saw it in the paper. He died 15 years ago. You're dead. James whispered, clutching himself tighter.

His whole body shook. Mr. Arkham's smile widened. His eyes, which had seen greenish-brown before, looked yellow now. His glasses slid down his sweaty nose again, and those dead yellow eyes stared nakedly at James's terrified face. They were the eyes of a corpse. I'm not dead James, you're dead, dead as a door name. He cackled and threw back his head with glee at his own cleverness.

The thing that called itself Frank Arcon stood up and James watched in sick horror as his bloated purple belly expanded. The smell of decay filled the sound. James turned and gripped the bars, pressing his face against them to look for a guard. help help me james screamed into a silent hallway the hand gripped his shoulder and he screamed again he turned around and looked into the face of his mother james she sobbed she stepped back towards the bed and picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper from mr arkon's pile james looked wildly around the cell there was no sign of the mr arkon tom creature he looked back at his mother who was well as well as well as wearing one of her old house dresses. Her greying hair was coming loose from her usually neat bun. She looked very old and tired. She was looking at the piece of paper with her hand over her mouth, aghast.

Oh, James, how could you? she said. Mom, what are you doing in here? What's happening? He screamed, shaking and crying. Breaking and entering, rape, murder. Why did you do that to that old woman? How could you? She said, backing away from him, shaking her heads. You know I didn't do any of that.

You know that. They framed me. He shouted back at her. Your sister is so disappointed in you, she said. No. No. No. James said, sliding down the bars to the floor.

I'm a statue made a stone. Nothing can break me. He thought. desperately. He cupped his elbows and made himself small, shuddering and gasping for air. Oh God, someone stopped this. Someone help me. He said quietly to no one. Why won't anyone help me? He screamed. There was no reply. The silence engulfed him. He felt paralyzed in fear and sorrow and for a moment he believed he really had turned to stone, a marble monument to his suffering. Here stood a boy he was fed nothing but pain, and in payment he was handed a death

sentence for heinous crimes he did not commit. Justice is dead. Life is a sick joke. The end, an eternity passed, and the silence coaxed James out of his paralysis. He opened his eyes. A woman sat in his bed. A stranger. Her presence calmed him. She was yupt. She was young. He was young. He opened. He opened. He and beautiful. Her green eyes glowed out of her face with sharp, comely features. Her dark hair cascaded past her shoulders, shiny and smooth. She wore an expensive-looking black suit, tailored to perfection. She had one leg crossed over the other, and a foot with a pointy black high-heeled shoe bounced up and down. She looked completely at home, and elegant in a jail cell on death row.

What is this? Am I going crazy? Crazy? he asked the one. No, James, you just took a trip through your own brain. She said with a calm smile. My mother, she thinks I really did those things, he cried with the heartbreaking strength of a child. No, dear, she's waiting for you in the audience. She and your sister are heartbroken that you're paying for the sins of someone else. They believe you. I believe you. But I don't understand, he said. His tears dried up at last, and he sat in stunned silence, waiting for something, anything to make this all stop.

Mr. Arkham was Tom. He's dead. He was here, he says. No, I'm Mr. Arkham, she said with the patience of a mother talking to her beloved toddler. you yes James I'm mr. Argoe I showed you those things I don't want you to die without realizing the full extent of your misfortune I want you to feel the injustice that's been done to you your life was worth so much more and these people took it from you Tom the lawyers the guards all the people sitting out there waiting excitedly for you to die in front of them I I'm not never did those things. They don't know me, he said. I know that my love. She said as she stood up.

She reached down with perfectly manicured nails and took his hands in hers. He suddenly felt a warm, spreading joy that he'd never known before rushed through him. She poured him to his feet and looked down at him. She was at least a foot taller than he was. James, she said as she tilted at her head and arched one of her exquisitely dramatic eyebrows. Did you know that when your mother and sister were seated on the family side of the execution room just now, the mob on the other side threw things at them? No, he said. Did you know that one man spout in your sister's face and called her a slut? No, no. Did you know that they're sitting there right now cursing your dear mother and sister for simply being related to a monster such as you saw?

James shook his head, no, and looked down at the floor. He felt his cheeks go hot with the beginning of deep rage. They're going to cheer when you take your last breath. When you think your last thoughts, they'll be laughing and smiling and your family will walk out of here humiliated and harassed, probably for the rest of their lives. God, it's not their fault, James said, clenching his teeth. Of course not.

It's these people, she said with a voice that echoed in his head through all the years of his life. All the injustices he'd been dealt for simply being born. Wrong place at the wrong time and here comes the punchline, he thought through a thickening red curtain of anger. James squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists tight enough to make his fingernails draw blood in the soft pads of his hands. He gulped in the rancid air of his cell and screamed with a. every ounce of energy had left. When the last of the howl had escaped him, he fell to his knees panting. What can I do? What can I do? he says.

Do you believe in immortality? she asked. I don't know what she mean, he said, looking up into her beautiful face. I am the bringer of justice for lost souls. You deserve revenge. What were your last thought be, James? I don't know. I want all my family to be happy. No, she said, her eyes flickering like flames. Suddenly James's mind went blank.

It was a relief. He could see himself standing in the blackness. Behind him was a figure in a black robe. A rotted hand reached out from beneath the cloak and pointed down. He looked down off a precipice into a never-ending pit of flames. They ebbed and flowed like the sea. Bodies were writhing down there, screaming and screaming. He saw Tom and the judge that convicted him and the lawyers that failed him

and all those people who were so excited to see him die. And he smiled at their suffering. Mr. Arcon's voice rang out beside him, and he was back in the south. Your death is inevitable, but... A curse will last forever, she, it said. James could hear the guard's footsteps approaching. It was time. He smiled up at Mr. Arcon, and she smiled back.

The guard opened the gate and grinned at James. He didn't seem to notice the tall Mr. Arcon standing behind him. He put James in handcuffs. Ah, showtime, the guard said. walked him out of the cell. James looked over his shoulder and smiled at his tall friend who nodded back at him.

Two guards opened the double doors to the holding area of the execution room. James could hear the crowd murmuring on the other side of the wall. His mind was clear. He knew what his last thought was going to be. They had guard nodded to the others and they took him out to face the audience.

A roar of noise erupted as soon as he emerged from behind the curtain area. One side of the room was filled with people screaming at him, their faces red with fury, some with tears and some with smug smiles. On the other side, separated by metal bars, said his mother and sister. They were the only ones there to mourn him.

They were both crying, sat up straight when they saw him. He made eye contact with his sister and gave her a smile. The crowd grew louder at the sight of that. He looked at his mother and mouthed the words, I love you. Devil, bitch, someone shouted at his mother. James turned to the man and saw a flash of him burning in a pit of flames until he was nothing but blackened bones.

The bones continued to beg for mercy. The man shrank back at James' stare and shouted no more. The guards walked him over to a gurney. He laid down willingly and stared at the ceiling, feeling as strong as stone as they tied his arms and legs down. Once he was strapped down, the man in charge of the operation, Master of Death, James thought somewhat amused, asked him if he had any last words.

He did. James turned and looked at his audience. My life has been filled with pain and horror. The injustice is done to me and my family can never be fully repaid. but I can try. Today I will be put to death for crimes I did not commit. Not only do you condemn me, but you condemn my family who deserve none of this. I have had a day of last. My last meal, my last piss, my last cry, my last conference with demons. I do not mourn my last day on this because I believe in immortality.

My body may perish today in front of you, but you will not be rid of me. I curse you. I curse all of you who came to see me die. I curse the ones who worked to take my life away and those of you who did nothing to stop it. I curse the bad man who have hurt me over the years. I curse this world for being what it is.

I curse your blood. because every person who is born of your bloodlines. In this curse, I will live on. When you think you've put all this behind you, I'll be the chill that grazes your neck on the dark streets. I'll be the fear that creeps up on you and consumes you the last years of your life. I'll be the sickness that takes your wife, your child, your own sinful heart. In your nightmares, I will wish.

live in the deepest pits of your own hell, I will wait for you to join me. I'm immoral in your suffering. Mom, Sarah, I love you and I always will. The rest of you can go to hell. The crowd surged and had to be held back by guards. The needles were inserted into the veins of each arm and the poison injected. James looked at his family one last time and willed them to remember him as a good man. His sister sat up and screamed his name.

James, she sobbed. His mother stood and pulled her close, kissing her head. She looked up at her son. I love you, my sweet boy. She mouthed to him. James smiled at them both. The sound of the crowd was nothing but background noise to him. He turned his head slowly and looked at him.

up at the ceiling, feeling the poison rushing through him. There on the ceiling above him was Mr. Arcon. She was up there in the shadows, just a pair of yellow eyes staring at him with joy. James closed his eyes and died, happy that justice had finally prevailed. 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 from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.