Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S3 Ep107: Episode 107: Creepy Holiday Tales around the Campfire

Episode Date: December 24, 2022

First up we have an original story by Absinthe Rose titled ‘Jack in the Box Come to Life’:  r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6leufh/fictionjack_in_the_box_come_to_life Next up we have ‘Do not Enter’ by Chad Austin:  r/DrCreepensVault/comments/78daod/fictiondo_not_enter_by_c_austin Our third tale of terror is ‘The Moose Man’ by Feisty Environment:  user/Feisty_Environment We round off with ‘Hellhounds’, a story by Spencer G. Jackson:  http://www.creepypasta.com/hellhounds-2/

Think about your health for a second. Are your eyes the first thing that come to mind? Probably not. But our eyes go through a lot. From squinting at screens to driving at night. That's why regular eye exams matter. And at Specsavers, they come with an OCT 3D eye health scan, which helps optometrists detect conditions at early stages.

We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.ca. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dutch. Well, my dear friends, happy holidays to one and all. It's a festive time, but still a perfect time for a few scares, as we gather together around the campfire to enjoy some festive holiday tales.

Now, as ever, my dear friends, 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. Deacon loved yard sales. Yet despite the size of the neighbourhood sale he'd found on his way home from work, nothing had caught his eye. Disappointed, but glad he'd stopped anyway.

Deacon turned away from the table he'd been going through and tripped over something at his feet. With a few ungraceful steps and a hop, he managed to keep himself upright and look to see what he'd stumbled over, at the same time choosing to ignore the amused looks and snickers of his fellow treasure-seekers. Acting as though nothing had happened, he bent over and picked up the object that had been carelessly left behind him. It was a simple box, covered in a thin, tight layer of old dark leather. approximately 18 inches by 18 by 18 with a brass latch and pin, securing a circular lid in its top,

as well as brass trimming and a crank on the right side. The design was clearly that of a jack-in-the-box, a common Charles toy that, when turning the crank, produced a tinny song and a cheap scare as an overly made-up clown or jester popped out upon the song's completion. This, though, was not your average jack in the box. Typically, the toy, now mass-produced in various warehouses across the world, was made out of pressed tin, was feather-light and about half this size.

Also, Deacon could not recall ever seeing one that latched shut. What was the purpose in that? It would ruin the scare if the clown couldn't pop out at the appropriate time. He tried to pull the brass pin out, but it was stuck, and refused to budge even a hair. The result was the same with the crank as well, and despite his efforts he couldn't get it to produce even a single musical note. Even though the toy didn't work, it intrigued Deacon. It was clearly old, and probably needed some repairs, but he was willing to bet that even he was. in its current state it was worth some money.

He turned the heavy box over and around, looking for a price sticker, but could find none. Someone here must be selling it. Perhaps a kid had taken the sticker off in hopes of playing with it. He carried the jack-in-box to the only table with someone sitting at it. A rail-thin, middle-aged woman, with long red, extremely frazzled hair and tired blue eyes, sat with a clipboard in a metal box,

exchanging various odds and ends for cash. He waited patiently behind three young boys who were debating the value of a box of sports cards. When they finally agreed on a price, they paid for their cards and moved on. The woman at the table looked at him with such exasperation, he was sure she was going to demand to know what he wanted. He was surprised, though,

when her expression softened. Can I help you? I can't seem to find a price on this thing. Do you know how much it is? He held the jacking box out for her to see, but not enough for her to take it from him. What is it? She tilted her head, but saw nothing but an old box.

A broken jack in the box. He turned the box enough to let her see the crank on the side. You want to buy a broken toy, and a dirty one at that. She sneered at the box in his hands, mistaking the aged leather for stains. Deacon shrugged, eager to make the purchase, but not wanting to make his excitement apparent. No need in letting on that he thought it might be worth more than a few dollars. Oh, a project, really. I like to repair things in my spare time. Oh, a handyman, she smiled.

Well, I'll tell you what. Seeing as it's not marked, let's say five dollars. He'll go in the donation fund from the animal shelter, my favorite charity. Oh, sounds fair. Egan agreed. Paying for his new treasure, he hurriedly headed for his car, eager to get home and see what he could do with the toy. an hour later he had yet to locate any information on his particular jack in the box there was no manufacturer's stamp no signature or initialing of any kind to indicate who might have made the toy he was surprised though when examining the box for at least the fourth time since bringing it home to find a pentagram surrounded by latin writing on the bottom the sinister star and the latin

were burned into the otherwise soft leather covering. He hadn't noticed it earlier and wasn't sure how he could have missed it, but it was as clear as day now. In his excitement over its age and potential profit, he must have overlooked it, he reasoned. Pantagram certainly added to the mystery of the toy, and he had hoped that the Jack in the Box's uniqueness

would make it easy to locate information about it, but it was quickly becoming apparent that maybe its uniqueness was the very thing holding up this search. Frustrated, but not discouraged. He began yet another search when he heard the front door open. Hi, honey, he called out to the only other person who had a key to his home, his girlfriend of two years, Melanie. Hey, baby, she answered from the hallway, as he stripped out of her jacket and shoes and dropped her purse before joining her.

him on the couch and planting a kiss on his cheek. Deacon set his laptop aside, turned his head and eagerly returned her kiss. How was your day? he asked. Oh, you know, long, drawn out and uneventful. Glad it's over, she laughed, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder and cuddling up to Deacon. What's that? Deacon reached over and picked over and picked her. picked up the toy. Oh, I picked this up on the way home from work. Pretty sure it's a jack in the box. Pretty sure, she asked quizzically. Though looking at it, she couldn't think of anything else it could be. Well, the crank won't turn, and I can't get the pin out of the latch. He shrugged and handed the box to Melanie. But it's obviously old. So even if I've got to get some work done

to get it in working order. I think I can make some money off of it. I've been surging online ever since I got home. Melanie turned the box over to examine it, noting the pentagram and Latin before setting the heavy box on her knees and rubbing her fingers together. Surprised, and a little disgusted

by the soft texture of its surface. Weird, her? It's covered in some type of leather, but that's got to make it even rarer. Never seen one like that before. Deacon grinned, hopefully. Melanie nodded in agreement. What does Aladdin say? I'm not entirely sure.

I've put it through a translator, but it makes no sense. Something about music and sleeper. What about these? She asked, pointing to the metal caps on the box's corners. Deacon leaned in close and noted that every three-sided. cap had engraved on each of its flat surfaces the number six, so that each corner read six, six, six. He stared for a moment in disbelief. How could he have missed that as well as the pentagram? Perhaps it was time to go have his eyes examined, he thought ruefully.

I didn't even see those. I'm not surprised. Not something you usually see on a toy. Melanie said distastefully. Well, it kind of makes sense. Deacon said, straightening up. The original toy has been traced back to the 16th century German clockmaker, who got the idea from a 13th century churchman, who was said to have protected the city of Buckinghamshire by casting a devil into the boot.

The clockmaker took this legend and created the devil in a box for the son of a local prince. when he turned the crank a simple tune plate and at the end a comically painted devil popped out and surprised everyone it was instantly popular all the nobles wanted their own devil in the box sometime during the renaissance the devil was replaced with a jester then the toy became known as a jack in the box jack was an old nickname for the devil so it still meant the same thing but it seemed to have more appeal to people that way deacon explained Oh, creepy, Melanie sneered as she picked it up off her knees to hand it back in.

In her attempt to touch as little of it as possible, she misjudged its heaviness and her hands slipped, nearly dropping it. Her reflexes were quick, though, and she caught it by the crank, causing the old brass handle to move forward. When it did, the first few beats of pop goes the weasel rang out in tinny. clear notes. I thought it didn't work. Deacon excitedly grabbed the jack in the box and set it on his own lap. Oh, it didn't. I couldn't get it to turn at all.

Must have just been stuck. Guess you loosened it. He tried pulling the pin out once again, but it still refused to budge. He could see nothing that was preventing the pin from moving. no substance clogging up the latch But still it would not move Shrugging off the disappointment

He grabbed the handle and gave it a gentle push Effortlessly the crank moved forward And the room filled with an eerily slow rendition of the children's rhyme Deacon tried to hurry it a lot Turning the crank faster But it refused to speed up As the climax of the song approached, Deacon fell his stomach tighten in anticipation, even though he knew the scare wouldn't come because of the stuck pin.

Melanie was tensed as well, mesmerized by the languid tune. When the pot rang out, the single note did not disappoint, the lid of the toy jumping in its frame. Melanie gasped and grabbed Deacon's arm. arm, who started in surprise himself. The vibration of the box's movement still ringing through his hand. A second later, the couple looked at each other and laughed. Clearly Jack is ready to come out and play, Deacon chuckled, pulling at the pin again. Melanie sighed loudly, shaking off the scare. Well, I am ready to eat, she informed him, taking the jack in the box from

his lap still touching it as little as possible and setting it on the coffee table next to his laptop gee i'm craving burgers from maize in truth you didn't really care where they went she just wanted to be out of the house and away from that creepy toy uh-huh you got it he agreed dinner at maize had turned out to be an excellent idea for nearly two hours they sat in the corner booth sharing food wine and stealing kisses while discussing their anniversary plans for the following weekend. After dinner, Melanie asked Deacon to drive her home. She was a lightweight when it came to alcohol,

and she didn't want to drive herself home. Unable to convince her to stay at his place, he dropped her off and promised to bring her car by before she had to go to work the following day. Entering his place alone, Deacon felt a little light-headed himself, but decided a single beer wouldn't put him over the top. Grabbing the drink, he flopped down on the couch and looked down at the jack-in-the-box.

Shocked to see the pin. Stuck all day despite his best efforts, laying neatly next to the antique taunt. Deacon said the unopened beer on the couch next to him. Picked up the brass pin and stared at it in confusion. Unable to. to reasonably explain how it had come loose and landed so neatly next to the jack in the box. "'Hem. Ready to show yourself,' Deacon almost whispered.

As he flipped the latch back and began to turn the crack, Deacon felt strangely apprehensive and wondered for the briefest moment, if, perhaps, he was better to leave Jack alone. Maybe I shouldn't have the beer, he said aloud to himself, shaking his head as he listened to the song's slow progression. When the pop came, nothing happened. The box sat motionless. Not even a thud from within like earlier. Deconcide. Now what? He went to the kitchen, to retrieve a butter knife. If he had to, he would pry the lid up. Sitting once again in front of the toy, Deacon raised the knife as the crank began to turn slowly of its own volition, and the tinny song began to

slowly play. "'Heh, I must have cranked it too much,' he told himself, as he watched in silence. As the pinnacle approached, Deacon was suddenly unsure whether he wanted to meet Jack or not. Before he could decide, the circular leather covered lid flipped soundlessly open, and a blur of grey and white shot out of the box towards Deakin. More startled than he would ever admit, Deacon jumped and reflexively put up his hands, then cried out as a flash of white, hot pain shot through his palm. Yeah, son of a bitch! Deacon cradled his hand. Deacon cradled his against his chest and stared in disgust at the thing bubbling slowly up and down on its noisy antiquated spring ten inches high minus the spring it looked more like a corpse than anything else

certainly not the typical jack the spine appeared to grow out of the spring itself and barely supported the thin malformed skeleton draped in stringy dry flesh The mouth hung open, revealing a dozen sharp-looking teeth, just below an empty hole where the nose should have been. Above the vacant hole, the eyes were sewn shut with thick strands of black thread. The top of its head came to a lopsided point. The skull almost entirely exposed, except for a few stubborn patches of grey scalp clinging to short tufts of yellowed hair.

Worst of all were the unnaturally long arms and exaggerated fingers that looked more like claws, tipped red with Deacon's blood and pulled close to its desiccated ribcage. His palm throbbed painfully, reminding him that he was injured. Looking down at the rivulets of blood running down his wrist, Deacon angrily backhanded the toy off the table, satisfied by the noisy way it crashed to the floor, before heading to the bathroom to clean himself up. After deciding he didn't need stitches and bandaging up his hand, Deacon returned to the living room, picked up the jack in the box and set it back on the table.

Despite his momentary anger, he still thought the toy could be worth something, and hoped he hadn't damaged it with that childish gesture. Tomorrow he would look into taking it to an expert, but for now, with Jack tucked back inside the box, a task that took far more effort than it should have. Deacon latched the toy, replaced the pin, and went to bed. Just a few hours later, Deacon woke,

to a sound he knew but couldn't place. Wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep, but knowing that this was not going to happen until he found out what had woken him, he forced himself out of bed to investigate. Nothing was out of place in the bathroom, so he headed down the hall towards the living. It was empty and dark,

except for the bright blue light from his laptop battery. It flashed its low power warning off the amber-coloured glass of the broken beer bottle, which lay in a pile between the couch and the coffee tape. Looking at the mess, he realized what had woken him, the sound of glass breaking. But how had it happened? Even if the bottle had rolled off the couch,

the distance was short and the floor was carpeted. It shouldn't have shattered. As he stood there, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for the beer bottle breaking, he noticed the empty spot on the coffee day where was the jack in the box the brass latch pin once again removed lay next to his laptop but the toy was nowhere to be seen he closed his eyes and retraced his last few moments before going to bed he was certain he left the toy here so where it had gone was someone in the house Had he been robbed? Cautiously, Deacon headed to the kitchen. The only room he'd yet to check.

He'd barely stepped into the room when Pop Goes, the weasel began to play from somewhere behind it. He spun around, expecting to see someone sneaking out of his house with a toy, but he was surprisingly alone. The song, though, continued to play. And to Deacon it seemed to be slowing down, almost as if it were calling to him, enticing him. He left the kitchen and followed the metallic tune through the living room, past the front door and into the hallway, where the song continued, past its climax, only to start over again.

Melanie? Deacon called out tentatively. He knew it wasn't her But hearing a voice, even just his own, Made him feel less alone, Less vulnerable As he searched for the misplaced toy Melanie, is that you? He walked slowly down the hallway

Certain the music was coming from his bedroom But pausing to check the bathroom anyway He didn't want to admit it Not even just himself but he was delaying the discovery of the toy as long as possible Melanie I thought you didn't want to stay over tonight when he reached his bedroom door he could hear the music as clearly as if he were holding the toy but even if it was overwhelmed the music shouldn't still be playing plus he knew he hadn't shut

the bedroom door when he left the room so it had to be Melon It just had to be. As soon as he twisted the door knob, the music stopped. Mow? He pushed the door all the way open, hoping to see her standing there, gritting triumphantly, pleased with herself for scaring him. Instead, he was greeted by an empty room,

empty except for the jack in the box, sitting squarely in the middle of his bed. A chill ran through him, covering him head to tow in thousands of goosebumps. The jack in the box had not been on his bed. He would have noticed it. Melanie had to be behind it. Stepping into the room, he looked behind the door, in the closet, behind a large cardboard cutout of Superman, and even dropped to his knees to look under the bed. but despite his hopes they were all empty he was pushing himself up off the floor when the jack-in-the-box began its serenade yet again it was so startling that his hand slipped and he landed back on his knees next to the bed shh son of a the music picked up speed making deacon's heart skip a beat stop he whispered please

reaching out to halt the crank. Before he reached it though, it stopped. One note before the pop, laughing in nervous relief. Deacon sighed and dropped his head on the edge of the bed. He had never been so relieved or felt so stupid. He's dead at the box and couldn't believe that he had let paranoia get to him. It was only a toy. Nothing but wood and metal.

Nothing vicious, nothing to be afraid of. While he knelt there berating himself, the single note announcing Jack's arrival shined. The metallic ping was like a gunshot in the silence, and as he raised his head, the monstrous toy sprang from its hiding place, his long spindly arms reaching out for him. This time Deacon screamed and threw himself backwards, landing on his backside as Jack continued forward. The momentum carrying the toy off the bed where it landed between his legs.

Holy crap! He cried angrily. Not sure what he was more mad at. The toy or himself were fearing it. It was very old. They were kinks. loose parts, things that surely needed to be repaired. Hell, the Spring alone was in desperate need of an oiling.

He knew it was a desperate grasp of logic, but he didn't care. It was better than any other explanation. The Jack in the box lay on its side. Jack and Spring stretched out towards him, looking as though it were reaching for him. He shook his head, angry with himself for his apprehension, and forced himself forward to scoop Jack back into the box. When it moved, the fingers stretching slowly as he reached through it.

Deacon paused, and not trusting his eyes, and in his hesitation Jack confirmed his suspicions, his claw-like hands swinging viciously at his fingers. Too shocked to cry out, Deacon scooted back, his now bloody fingers making the floor slippery. as he tried to stand. After a fumbled attempt, though, he succeeded. Instead, in disbelief as Jack used its unnaturally long and narrow arms

to pull itself across the floor towards him. No way, he breathed, his stomach clenching in fear as he sidestepped towards the hallway, not wanting to turn his back on it. He glanced towards the doorway out of the corner of his eyes. and as he did he heard the rusty creek of the spring and for a brief moment he had the crazy idea that jack was putting himself away but when he looked back jack was airborne launching himself towards him using the force of the spring to push his body forward and dragging the heavy box along it landed just a few inches short of deacon's bare feet and in his panic he kicked at it intending to send the awful thing flying across the room, hoping to break it, before his foot even came in contact with the toy. Jack lashed out and grabbed onto his ankle, digging its sharp fingers deep into his skin.

Deacon shrieked in pain and began to kick wildly. But instead of tossing the toy off, it seemed to energize it. And Jack's clawed fingers sought perchance higher up his calf as it sank his ragged teeth into his shin. get off he continued to thrash his leg furiously until his foot made contact with the heavy wooden box and he felt at least two toes crush instantly the pain was nauseating and deacon reached down to rip jack off his leg when his hands wrapped around the dry thin body of the toy he could feel the fierce raw strength that flowed through it, despite its apparent delicacy, and Jack released his leg only to snake its way up his forearms.

No! Deacon screamed in horror. Blood was running in half a dozen tiny rivers down his leg, and pooling beneath his feet while he fought to get the horrible thing off of him. As he struggled desperately, he lost his balance, slipping in his own blood. There was a brief moment of hope When he thought he could remain upright But it was quickly lost

As he fumbled into even more blood He fell backwards hitting the floor hard First his shoulders and then his head Bouncing off the hard wood with a crack The house was suddenly silent And the pain faded away As a heavy blackness came swimming coming up through the corners of his eyes.

He saw Jack, clawing its way up his chest, but felt nothing. Please, Deacon begged, as darkness enveloped him completely. Deacon draped his arm over his eyes, having no desire whatsoever to open him. His head pounded ferociously, but he had never been so glad to be awake. He was giddy with relief. That had been, by far, the worst and most vivid nightmare he had ever had in his entire life. He would definitely not be drinking that much again any time in the near future,

sighing heavily at the thought of getting out of bed, but loving the idea of a hot shower. He put his arm down and sat up in one motion. But instead of the edge of his bed, and a sun-filled room. All he saw was blackness, filled with a deafening and heart-sinkingly familiar, creak.

Deacon rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to clear them. As he did, his fingers caught something rough, something that made his heart ache with fear. He traced the roughness tentatively with his fingertips, knowing immediately what it was. Thick strands of thread bound his eyelids to the tops of his cheeks

and came together in knots at the corner of his eyes. He shook his head violently, trying to wake himself. He had to be dreaming, he thought, desperately, because the alternative was too horrible to concede. And he proceeded to fling himself around until he came up against a hard, flat surface. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

He couldn't hear his own voice, but he continued the mantra anyway as he explored the walls that confined him on all sides. With every movement, he was taunted by the awful metallic creek that filled him with a sickening dread that he didn't want to confirm but could not ignore after what seemed to deacon like an eternity of hesitation

he placed his hands on his chest startled by the sunken spots he felt he continued down to his waist aware of areas of pain and a wetness he was sure was blood but neither of which concerned him he forced himself to explore past his belly button and then nothing no more flesh no more bow nothing but a cold

downward spiraling ring of metal in an instant all reason abandoned him and he began to thrash and scream a raspy torturous cry drowned out by the incessant creaking of his spring. Hey Ontario, come on down to BedMGM casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out. Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM. Access to the Price is right fortune pick is only available at BetMGM Casino. BetMGM and GameSense remind you to play responsibly. 19 plus to wager, Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns

about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BenMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. When I first moved into my apartment, the landlord taught me a strange thing. Always check that the room is the right one before entering. Hmm. Sage advice from a master of the obvious, you might say. Truth be told, I hadn't really been paying much attention up to that point. My landlord was the type of woman that put no,

effort in sounding happy to meet you. And whatever Eastern European actions she had certainly didn't make it any easier to understand. I probably should have asked a few more questions, but signing a lease wasn't a process I wanted to prolong any longer than I had to. Besides, it's not like I really needed an explanation. My early childhood diet didn't consist exclusively of paint ships after all. for how cheap the rent was i wasn't about to worry over a bad joke the place was one of those oddities of design that seemed to suck the fun out of everything anyway nothing but a series of copy and paste apartment stacked on top of each other for 13 laborious floors each one was practically identical right down to the way the front door stuck when it rained not a single single

window among them. They even came furnished with a full set of drab appliances and furniture, devoid of any particular style or taste. It's like living in a filing cabinet, sterile and lacking a life of its own. You'd think we all lived in alphabetical order, referred to each other by apartment numbers. My accountant would love this place. As dull as the accommodated accommodations were it didn't take more than a month for things to get interesting there were little things at first mostly just noises nothing particularly sinister but they did a great job of keeping me up at night one night i'd hear unintelligible whispers coming from my neighbor's bathroom that lasted for hours the next i swear i heard wolf like howls

from the floor above, despite a rigidly enforced no-pets policy. Once I even caught the unmistakable sound of crashing waves on sandy beaches from an apartment on the sixth floor. Occasionally, I would hear the noises coming from rooms in my own apartment. However, nothing would be out of place when I checked. Oh, I may have forgotten to mention that I lived alone. It took a bit longer

for anything really strange to happen more. It was four months into my stay when the sound of clinking glass and slamming cabinets woke me up. It came from the kitchen

and I knew it had to be an intruder. I quietly slipped out of bed grabbed the aluminum baseball bat I kept next to the door to remind me of how I really should get more exercise.

Hmm. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous, tiptoeing down my carpeted hallway to the kitchen, with how much noise the intruder was making. When I reached the doorway to my kitchen, I chanced a peek inside. Sure enough, I saw a dark figure furiously rooting through my kitchen cabinets. Tightening my grip on the baseball mat, I flipped on the light switch. Lucky thing I did, too. otherwise I might have beaten an old, innocent woman to death.

My midnight intruder started at the sight of me, her wrinkled face twisting into a mixture of fright and confusion. The unassuming dirty dressing gown and fluffy pink slipper she wore seemed an odd choice for a burglar. I recognised the woman. She was the old lady who lived two doors down from me. I'd even helped her with her groceries that very evening. after managing to calm the poor woman down

and assuring her that she was not in fact in her own flat my elderly neighbour apologised profusely she'd woken up in the night craving a cup of tea she explained I must have gotten lost in the dark on lit building how she managed to slip into my apartment without either of us noticing was beyond me she must suffer from dementia because she was absolutely convinced that she should still be in her own place. I don't think she understood just how close she had come to a baseball bat to the head,

and I wasn't in the mood to explain it to her. I tried to be as plight and understanding as I could as I escorted her back to her apartment. But something was bothering me. Something about the whole affair made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It wasn't until I locked my front door behind me that I realized what it was. Before going to bed, I remember quite clearly locking the door from the inside. I racked my brain all night, but I just couldn't explain how the old woman could have wandered into my apartment without opening my front door. Having no one else to ask, I decided to bring the subject up to my next door neighbor the following day.

cornering him in the hallway that evening, I had trouble broaching the subject. When I'd finally stammered out my story, however, he seemed rather unsurprised by the whole ordeal. Apparently, this sort of thing happened all the time. Not just to the old lady down the hall, either. Almost everyone in the building had a similar tale. It was the doors, they said. They didn't always lead to the house. the same place. Sometimes you could be facing a door that led to your bathroom, only for it to lead to your bedroom instead.

He could even lead to a completely different apartment on a completely different floor. Once he heard that someone's closet door had opened to the alley on the north side of the building. It was a pretty crazy thing to think that your door could lead anywhere in the building without notice. But my neighbours seemed to believe that the door. phenomenon stretched farther than that to get around this little nuisance he suggested I do what the other tenants do the generally accepted method was to make two marks on either side of each doorway in the apartment with a marker that way you could tell if the room you were about to enter was the right one at a glance if the two marks didn't match up

you were staring at a doorway to the unknown at least That was the idea. The old lady must have forgotten to check when she stepped into my kitchen, or at least not seen it in the dark. My neighbour seemed rather annoyed by the thought. He made it painfully clear that I wait for the door to go back to normal before using it. I should, under no circumstances, ever enter a room that shouldn't be there. Always check first. My neighbour had experienced the anomaly himself in the past, but only as a mild annoyance.

Even still, he was extremely adamant that I take the matter seriously. But how could I? Who in their right mind would believe a story as insane as this? Sure, it could explain how the old lady down the hall got into my apartment without using the front door, but it created all sorts of other questions. and the last thing I wanted to question were the laws of physics. Mass hysteria, it had to be. A building filled to bursting with lunatics.

In the end, I found it simpler to write my neighbour off as a headcase and move on with my life. However, I did, as he suggested. With a red Sharpie secretly borrowed from work, I drew a line on each side of every door jam in my apartment. It was more out of curiosity than anything else. Or maybe, I was just daring the universe to prove me wrong. Either way, after a few weeks, I'd gotten into the habit of checking if both marks were there before I entered a room.

I saw it as a little inside joke. When in Rome, do as the wackos do. Eventually, it became a silly little ritual I would do to remind myself the world wasn't crazy just the guy next door. I've been living in my apartment for a little over a year before it happened to me again. I'd gotten up in the middle of the night

to grumpily use the bathroom like I'd done many times before. I was on autopilot. On my way back to bed, I lifted my tire's eyes to the day, doorway leading to the bedroom and grinned at the now familiar red. But I hesitated. There was only one mark, though only lit by a small lamp in the hallway, I was absolutely sure there was no red mark on the bedroom side of my door. I stood there for a while, blinking, sleep from my eyes and trying to

stare the second mark back into existence. The bedroom looked this. same as I'd left it minutes before, save for the missing mark on the doorway. Why, my eyes playing tricks on me? Maybe I was dreaming. It was my kooky neighbour's story the real deal. As ridiculous as it sounded, I was sure of one thing. There had been two marks on my outward trip to the bathroom. I didn't go in right away. I wanted to, but a small part of me took what my neighbour had told me very seriously. First, I waved an empty hand in the doorway. Nothing particularly spooky happened.

Emboldened by the knowledge that this phantom room wouldn't immediately melt my skin off. I took a tentative step inside. At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Everything was where I remember leaving it. Even my comforter was thrown aside like a little. I had just been sleeping under it minutes before. But then, why was the mark missing from my door frame?

I was certain there had to be something different about this room. In that moment, my neighbour didn't seem so crazy. And all I needed to prove it was to find what was wrong with this room. I tore open my closet and flipped my mattress in search of clues. Every drawer was emptied on the floor in my quest. I even tore the carpets up at the ends to look underneath. I looked everywhere in my madness, but found nothing. Everything was where it should be.

Somehow, though, I knew this was not my bedroom, and it wasn't until I turned back to the door to check if the second mark was really missing, but I realized what was different about it. This room had no doors. What if you get attacked? What if you catch a disease? What if you...

I silenced my childhood friend, and at the time high school sweetheart Brian, with a finger over the mouth. Brian was a protective boyfriend, occasionally to an annoying extent. Despite this, I love spending time. with him. I suppose the fact we'd known each other since third grade helped out. It's only three nights. I'll be back before Christmas. Besides, I have my knife and my dad's

bringing a rifle. I would pay to see a wolf try to handle the power of a 22. I wasn't. We were suddenly cast into darkness by the gas-powered lamp which had previously lit up the inside of our clubhouse going out. I sighed and moved the people. piece of plywood which acted as the door. Sunlight flooded the walls and floor, and we both gave a sharp inhale at the assault on our eyes. I exhaled as my eyes adjusted to the outside, and I got up to leave. Our clubhouse was constructed within an old gravel pit, which was used as a trash storage by the nearby supermarket, and the construction crew which built it.

The high mountains of grey rocks were surrounded and covered by empty boxes, spare two-by-fours and sheets of corrugated tin and plywood alike. We'd assembled our house over the span of three days. Two two-by-fours had been driven into the sides of the gravel mountains, which created a short canyon near the back. Plywood and metal was used for the wall in which we had installed our door, as well as the roof. An old nail-gun was stashed in one corner,

in case a drunk or hobo wandered in while we were there. It only had enough gas to fire a few shots, but we only had three nails, so it didn't matter. A tarp had been used for insulation, as well as a way to keep the sunlight from leaking in. We'd use one of my dad's old gas-powered camping lamps to light it up, a lamp which was now out of fuel. Brian followed me out of the clubhouse, giving a slight grunt as he moved the plywood door back in its place. I pecked him on the cheek as we said our goodbyes and we rode in separate directions on our bikes. One day and a four and a half hour drive later

we were at the back of the campground. The Park Ranger gave us our favourites, a 20 years of membership reward. The site was larger than the rest and had a few layers of seclusion provided by the verdant July pines. I was hunting around for rocks to use. as a firing and my dad was assembling his tent with the effortless perfection of an eagle scout. The birds chirped, and something large, an elk, or maybe a moose, crashed around in the trees

just out of sight. That night, as we sat around the crackling flames, I found myself watching the tree line. The great pines seemed dark than usual, their shadows more pronounced. In fact, Their shadows seemed to swallow the forest entirely, blocking sight for anything more than five feet in. Movement. It was fast, less than a second long. But whatever had moved, it was huge. It looked like a man, but it was almost eight feet high. Its arms were long, and what I can only describe as lumpy, like twisted tree limbs come to life.

Its back legs were animalistic and curved back before ending in long curved talons, like a combination between wolf and eagle. Its hands were almost human, but its claws were almost perfectly straight. They reminded me of the paper claws you would fold in fourth grade and pretend to be some fearsome beast come recess. But this was no manning costume. In one hand, it clutched a deer by its. neck. The creature was dead, and scarlet trails slithered down the obsidian claws. The kill was only

barely touching the floor. What struck me most about the thing was its face. It was covered in a great mask. It reminded me of one of those cow skulls that you see in every western movie, but it was elongated and far too thin. Instead of curved thick horns, There were wide antlers. They ended in sharp points, which were coated in a brownish-red substance that trickled down like paint. Hey, hey, you all right? I split my mind from the trance I developed and pulled the sausage, now a blackened crisp likened to a cat-tail from the fire.

I inspected it, then chucked it into the fire. I grabbed a new one and impaled it on my stick before returning it to the fire. My dad took a bite out of his. Oh, you look like you've seen a dead body. I pondered this before responding with, Yeah, I'm fine, just a wolf or something. You want me to take a few warning shots? My dad asked with a chuckle,

before drawing out the long rifle from the other side of the log. No way, I'd rather not get kicked out on our first night. My dad took another bite from his sausage. I withdrew mine from the fire and loaded it into a bun before adding a stripe of hot sauce. I looked back to the trees. Whatever I'd seen there was gone. How very naive of me. I woke up at, according to my watch, 2.27 a.m. in my one-person tent, 40 feet away from my father,

and 30 from the picnic table which held our gun. In its case, my dad isn't a moron. I sat up in my sleeping bag, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My toes, despite the 20-degree sleeping bag, were freezing. I wrapped my hand around them, encased in their wool socks, while I tried to figure out why I'd woken up in the first place. The interior of my tent was warm enough to keep me asleep. The crickets were a sound I was used to as a Colorado native.

I finally realized the second set of breathing, five minutes after I woke up. I couldn't imagine how I'd missed it. It was extremely heavy, but it wasn't my dad. He snored, but he didn't snore that loud. It was likely an elk.

I figured they were creatures of the night. And if it were a wolf, I could try to stun it with my flashlight and yell for my dad to get the gun. If it was some pervert who'd found his way to me, then I'd get the gun and deal with the problem myself. My fingers found the cold ocean blue steel body of my flashlight. My thumb pressed against the nylon-covered button on the back.

I got ready to yell and then swam. The moment my light turned on, the tent was flooded with a synthetic yellow light from the flashlight. I scrunched my eyes together, and I heard who, or whatever was outside, hissed, surprise and pain. My eyes adjusted to the light and I got a good look at the silhouette of my nighttime visitor. I nearly relieved myself when I saw it. The antlers extended wider than my light allowed, but the sharp spear-like points were all too familiar. I saw the small, half-centimeter

high ridge that protruded down the skull-like mask of it. The arms were great bowels come to life in the form of powerful arms, and the front claws were almost perfectly straight, but had sharp triangular points, an almost exact copy of the origami claws of my youth. One of its hands covered its eyes to block the sun light. I let out a trembling breath, hoping, praying to every single deity I could imagine. Odin, God, even the driving force beyond cosmology that whatever was near to my tent

would retreat back to the shadowy tree line. It put down its hand, and I gave a single, high-pitched scream at what I saw. The dark silhouette of the head and body was blocking the lights, but the eyes were non-existent. Two golden circles in the mask,

which let the night through. Its head cocked to one side, and then, as if I were dreaming, it repeated the sound. It was like I'd heard a recording played back to me underwater. As it repeated my terrified grasp, the eyes flickered,

as if they suddenly filled with smoke. From far away there came footsteps. The creature turned its head towards my father, then got up. The shadow of mangy fur surrounding its lower legs came into view Then it stalked off towards the trees No less than a minute later Someone else was outside my tent

My dad unzipped the tent flap and peered inside Dark shadow supported his eyes Which looked concerned You're okay? Thought I heard screaming I'm fine, just a nightmare as all his face turned from concern to empathy if you want to sleep in my tent I guess I can spare some space

no it's fine I just want to sleep my dad ran a hand through his beard then closed the tent flap I shut off my flashlight and squirmed down into my sleeping bag I was re-enveloped in the tendrils of sleep before two forty-five

I woke up to the center of campfire cooked pancakes and the voices of two men as well as my father engaged in conversation. I yawned and rubbed my eyes. I strayed my hair using my pillow and pulled on a pair of pajama pants as well as a tank top. I slipped my feet into my flip-flops and crawled out of the tent. My dad was speaking to two park ranges. One of them said something and my dad motion to the rifle, making another unintelligible comment. The ranger looked at it, then looked to the other ranger who shook his head. The first ranger said something to my dad and asked a question in turn. Nobody had noticed yet that I was here. I caught only a few lines of the conversation.

So, you're sure you saw nothing? The first ranger asked. Yeah, maybe a deer in a few campers, but nobody else. My dad said. Any nighttime occurrences, nightmares, strange visions, sudden blackouts. The second ranger responded. Well, my daughter had one last night. She had her flashlight on and everything. She seemed freaked out. Face was pale. When did this happen? The first ranger questioned, apprehensive. They each had one hand hovering over their service pistols. Um, I don't know. Two-thirty, maybe? Hey, Dad.

I smelled pancakes. The Rangers were at ease after this comment, and my dad looked over, startled. Good morning, eh. These Rangers wanted to know if you saw anything last night. Well, there was the nightmare. Other than that, just you. Hey, did we bring syrup this time?

I neglected to mention the thing which I had nicknamed the movie. out of fear for the park ranger's actions and if the moose man had some way to hear everything I said I poured syrup over the yellow cakes took a bite with my plastic fork the Rangers smiled and said their goodbyes to me and my dad one of them muttered something to my dad his face fell he placed another log on the fire and then told me to watch it while he relieved himself I looked down to the fire, poking at it with a stick I'd used to cook the sausage last night.

I figured it would make an effective spear if the moose man returned. Then I remembered our rifle. I turned around to run a finger down the cool wooden body, but it wasn't there. I looked up to my dad and my suspicions were confirmed. My dad had walked into the tree line, slung over his shoulder was the rifle. My dad returned a few minutes later, rifle still on his shoulder. I'd asked him why he'd taken it with him. Well, there were some giant tracks outside of your tent when I woke up this morning.

Looked like they'd come from a wolf the size of a bear. Didn't want to get jumped, so I brought the gun. Hope I didn't scare you. Now, when people lie, they always do something. They talk animatedly with their hands. They look down, they use, oh, and um, more often. For my dad, well, he runs his hand through his beard. He did this as he gave his answer, and then quickly set the rifle back down on the table.

He poured more batter into the pan, and I looked at the rifle. The safety was off. The world was normal up until that night. We had ham and barbecue sauce. sandwiches for lunch, the wonders of camping food, and campfire cooked hot dogs for dinner, yes, again. The key difference was that this time, my dad and I brought out an old Dutch oven. Dutchey peach pie was a camping tradition in our family. One can of peaches with syrup, sandwiched between the layers of flaky crust and topped with powdered sugar. It was delicious

if done right, but doing it right took almost three hours. At the time we were finished, it was almost midnight. My dad had just lifted the top of the Dutch of Noff to check the pie when we heard something that chilled us to the bow. Imagine a wooden creak sound, but almost twice as high-pitched and ten times as loud. The birds in the trees flew to the sky, cawing, hooting, and twittering as they flapped away.

The crickets and frogs were silent. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole campsite was awoken by the loud screeching rumble. I looked at my dad, who was watching me. What the hell? I asked, dumbfounded. My dad's head snapped around. Coming from the thin layer of trees that separated us from the rest of the campsite was the unmistakable sound of twigs and leaves crunching beneath feet. I grabbed my knife, and my knife, and my head.

dad pointed the rifle towards the shrubbery which was violently gyrating back and forth. My dad's finger was curled around the trigger, ready to send a shot into whatever was going to burst forth at any moment. A, stay behind me. A park ranger, who wasn't one of the first two, came forth from the trees. My dad lowered the rifle and I placed my knife back on the table. The rangers stumbled over a tree root and looked around. In one hand he held a flashlight, which was off. In the other, a giant silver revolver. You guys are the only ones here?

He yelled out. Oh, yeah, just me and my daughter. The ranger stepped forward. He didn't put his gun away. You see anything strange? Any bones, antlers, large creatures. No. Nothing since.

The bushline twitched near my tent. It was a small movement. The ranger pointed the gun and flashlight at it and turned the light on. It was a raccoon. The creature poured around at the ground, picking up and eating small items we couldn't see. It zigzagged back and forth, sometimes returning whatever he picked up to the dirt.

Station, this is. This is 17. Raccoon near one tent. No sign of two or beta. I'll call in with any update. The Ranger shone his light back to the raccoon. It was gone, but there was something on the ground in front of my tent. The Ranger walked forward to it and lifted it up. I could barely make out what it was, but it was curvy and human-shaped. The Ranger looked at it for a few seconds. then turned around and looked toward me. He looked at the thing's back. His eyes widened.

He yelled into his radio and then ran back towards me. His gun trained on the trees. He got back to us and turned towards me. Ma'am, did you see anyone other than your father tonight? No. What? Sir, the ranger said, turning towards my dad. If you or your daughter have seen him, anything, and I mean anything, then you have to let me know, okay?

The solemn look on his face said it all. I said nothing. That night, despite the pie, a slice of which the ranger politely declined, was a single, unequivocally worst night of my life. It started around 1.30 a.m., the series of long, heavy foot, like snow crunching beneath the ground. Then I heard the breathing. When I was five years old, we lived in a house which had one of those old furnaces,

the ones which could roar like a strange tone with the occasional click. That furnace terrified me. The breathing I heard reminded me of this furnace. I heard the unmistakable creek of wood. followed by the soft thumb of something hitting leaves and twigs outside my tent. The breathing slowed. Then I heard the soft clink of metal on metal. My hand shot out, grabbing my flashlight from the bag,

then shifting my shirt to the side, drawing my knife. It flipped open with a click that was music to my ears. I leaned forward, preparing to launch myself. If it was who I think it was, I would drive the blade into one of the long-nosed slits of that horrible mass. The tent flap, slowly unzipped. With a blood-curdling scream, high flew forward, but the moose man was ready for me.

He folded to one side, and I dropped into the dirt. I whirled around, but the moose-man was ready for me. was on top of me. He was surprisingly heavy. The mask was even larger up close. I could have reached out and not even got my fingers around the tip of the antlers. He let out another one of those ripping screams we'd heard from earlier that night. I was overcome with terror. Then I remembered my knife. I looked to one side. The handle was a few inches away from my fingers. I struggled to reach it, but the moose man was keeping me in place. It placed a hand on my right shoulder.

The claws acted as a cage for my arm. It reached its other hand up, ready to strike. I lunged sideways, wrapping my hand around my knife. I thrust it forward straight into where the eye should have been. The blade hit what felt like stone. The beast cried out and slammed its hand down to where my head had been a second earlier. I slipped downward. I slammed my elbow into the knee of the thing.

It stumbled down, then reared up to its full height. I made a dash from my drop knife. The beast reached up to his mask and poured. I only caught a glimpse of what was under its mask. I was overcome with an extreme wave of. nausea. I closed my eyes and looked away. From somewhere else, someone, my father, yelled.

Two gunshots cracked the night. I heard a second voice, one who I presumed to be a park ranger, yelling something out. Another volley of gunshots wrung through the air. The beast roared its furnace-like roar. There were three heavy footballs, then the armistice. mistakeable sound of someone dropping. At least six rushed footsteps approached. More gunfire.

The beast roared and scampered away. The trees returned to normal, and the gunshots stopped. Someone grabbed me by the shoulders. I shrieked and kicked my dad in the shin. He gave a heaving groan. Someone else grabbed my legs, and a second man took my arms. I looked at the two Rangers' faces, both plastered with fear. My breathing slowed.

My tears stopped, and the Rangers relaxed. It took almost two hours for me to tell my story. Another one and a half for my dad to tell his. We were both held in the Rangers' station jail, under guard by a huge man with a gun to match. By the time everything was figured out, The other campers were cooking on the fire, talking about all the sounds that they'd heard. Sight, too, was empty.

A great plastic wall had been erected around it, but it didn't do much to hide it from you. I saw the silhouette of a great statue, like the one the ranger had found near my tent. This one was almost as tall as the moose man himself, and there was the shredded shadow of the tent behind it. Before I could even inquire about it, a ranger saw me staring and escorted us back to our sight. We were back home by lunchtime. We were told to tell our acquaintances that the campsite had been closed early due to a small fire nearby. It would not likely do any damage, but, hey, better safe than sorry. As far as I can tell, nobody knows about the moose man.

I've tried to forget the whole thing. and hope that writing this story helps with that. Because every few weeks I have this nightmare. I'm running through the woods, and I can hear something behind me. It is large and fast. I trip over the wall, and I turn around to see the moose man thundering towards me.

It stops when I can see his mask. I wake up, and I see the shape burned into my vision. I love the Colorado Rockies. It was late October when my father told me that I would be going out hunting with him. I was 13, and this would be the first time I was allowed to join my father

on one of his expeditions. Recently, some of our cows had disappeared from our farm. A few days ago, my father, father found one of them dead on the edge of the property. He said it was either wolves or coyotes, judging from the bite marks. Being so close to winter, my father and I knew that we couldn't afford to lose any more cattle. We would have to trap and kill whatever it was that found our farm to be its new feeding trough. The night we set out, I was caught up in a blend of excitement and nervous anticipation.

Most of the other boys in our village had already been out hunting, and they often made rude jest to remind me that I was still a whelp. Even though a trace of summer warmth still touched the autumn air, my father taught me to wear my wool coat as he checked and loaded our rifles.

When we were ready, he grabbed the oil lamp from the front deck and stepped down the stairs. He turned and said, no matter what, make sure you know where you're pointing that thing. If I take a bullet from you, I'll haunt you forever. I let out a nervous laugh, but the thought made my stomach do a small turn. Ever since my mother and older brother had passed away, my father and I only had each other to look after. Without him, I'm not sure what I would do.

Earlier, my father had taken some scraps from hogs that had been butchered the day before and set traps out along the forest path leading to Silver Mountain. It was the path he was certain was carrying the scent of the farm into the forest. It was the best lead he had anyway. We crossed the pasture until we reached the fence on the edge of the woods. The moon was nearly full, and its light made it easy to see in the dark. despite the light layer of mist that blanketed the open field. My father cursed something about needing to cut the trees back farther

as he climbed over the fence. He had to help me make it over, the rifle being a new kind of burden for me. We reached the overgrown path, still trodden down to plain dirt in the centre. The path was too narrow to walk side by side, so my father led the way, igniting the oil lamp with a match as soon as the tall pines above us fully occluded the moonlight.

I almost wished he hadn't lit the lamp. Somehow the new light only served to limit how far we could see between the pillars of pine trees that surrounded us. There was a brushing noise as something nearby scuffled its way over the leaves and pine needles. The sudden sound caused me to draw in a gasping breath. I whirled around, fumbling to point my rifle in the direction of the noise. Wait, my father hissed at me. We paused for a second, but there was no other sound. I turned to give my father an anxious glance.

It's probably just a squirrel, he said, quite a. Don't be afraid. There's nothing around at night that isn't there during the day. I nodded to him and readjusted my grip on the rifle. He nodded back and kept moving. There were a few other noises, the fluttering of wings and a stick snapping in the distance. But as time went on, I found myself more calm and less afraid of the dark. This was what all the other boys had gone through, and I wasn't going to let myself stay under their shadows. More than that, I wasn't going to disappoint my father. We're coming up on the first one, my father whispered.

He hunched his shoulders down and slowed his pace, walking heel to toe with each step. I matched his posture and kept close to him. To the right was a small opening in the pine grove. There my father had set up a snare trap around a pile of entrails. He paused to let me catch up until I was standing by his side. He then raised the lamp and stepped into the clearing. The entrails were scattered and slightly chewed up. What was more interesting,

Was it the trap had worked in catching something? But we wouldn't know what it was. Something got caught all right. My father sighed in frustration. But something else got to it first. He pointed to some ivy leaves on the ground, coated in blood. The pine needles around the ivy were spread out in a way that showed that something had been dragged away. judging by the size of it

it was either a large coyote or a small wolf my father began to shake his head and curse and then suddenly a shrill cry of an animal in distress rang out further down the path my father's head shot up without hesitation he ran full speed back onto the path

and deeper into the forest I wanted to shout for him to wait But the noise would startle any animals around us And I knew it would upset him Instead I ran as fast as I could to keep up Ahead of me The dim yellow light of the lamp twinkled And faded

As he disappeared behind trees and bush The sounds in front of us were definitely coming From some kind of wild dog there was growling, howling, and cries that echoed out amongst the blackened sentinels. I ran, trying not to let my labored breathing make too much noise. I rounded a corner, and ahead of me I could see the light of my father's lamp re-emerge into view. Just then, I heard a loud gunshot, followed by the most haunting sound. I've ever heard. My father screamed in a way that I never thought a man could. There was more

growling to accompany his terrified cries. I abandoned all notion of stealth as I sprinted towards the light. I screamed for my father between painful fiery breaths. Jumping through a thicket of brush, I emerged in into another clearing illuminated by the lamp, which was now overturned onto the ground. The oil had leaked out and caught fire on the forest floor. My father was laying on his chest. Even in the light, the thing I saw hunched over him seemed like a creature made of pure shadow. Without hesitation, I quickly raised my rindched. rifle, lining my sights up with the center of the creature's body, I pulled the trigger.

The resulting muzzle flash illuminated the animal for an instant. The only thing I recall seeing were enormous claws and a mouthful of bloody, razor-sharp teeth. That was all I saw. The thing moved so quickly that I didn't know which direction it had gone. I know that my bullet had made contact, however, as the monster led out a painful wail, unlike anything I would ever hear in nature. It was as if the animal had two sets of vocal cords. One was that of a dog, the other more human-sounding.

The double-octave cry was incredibly likely, loud, echoing throughout the entire forest. I was frozen in that moment, overwhelmed by what had just happened. The fire which had been started by the overturned lamp had spread among the pine needles and leaves, emerging into a large blaze. The light shone on my father, who was now kicking and screaming on the ground, rolling and convulsing in a newfound agony. He was tearing at his shirt,

as if it too had caught fire. Beneath his collar, I saw a large bite wound that stretched across his shoulder from his upper back to just above his breast. Each fang had left a wide goutge that leaked blood as well as a thick yellow pass. Even though it had

literally only been second since he'd been bitten. The wound took on the look of a long, untreated infection. His breathing became hoarse, and in between his agonized screams, I thought I could hear him trying to say my name. I rushed to his side, trying to find the words to calm him down, but I could only repeat, oh God, oh God, over and over again. I tried to grab him by the arm in a panicked attempt to get him back to his feet. I knew I wouldn't be able to drag him or carry him out of the forest, but I could not let him die. Just as my fingers closed around his arm, I felt his other hand hit my chest, throwing me away from him and onto my back. Immediately after, I heard a loud snows.

nap, followed by another terrifying wail of pain. I sat up to see my father lying on his back with his chest arched up high. His arms were raised up over and behind his head. It looked like he was being stabbed in the centre of his back. There was another snap as he contorted the opposite direction. The growing light from the spreading fire illuminated a sight that would stay with me. until the day I died. My father's back was not only breaking, it was stretching. He tried to reach behind himself

in a desperate attempt to alleviate his torture somehow. And, when he did, his arm snapped itself backwards at the elbow. There was this awful, crunching sound, as the bones in his arms broke themselves in multiple places. I saw that, with each break, his appendages gained a few inches in length. That sound was accompanied by a tearing, pressured stretching noise, as his skin and flesh strained to keep up with the unnatural growth of his bones.

His shoulders buckle together first, before snapping about an extra six to ten inches apart. And his face, his face imploded as an invisible force, suddenly broke all the bones of his skull, pushing his nose and mouth inward. His anguished, wild screaming, was suddenly cut off as he continued to writhe upon the forest floor. In his sudden silence, I realised that I had been screaming in horror the entire time.

I fought to get back to my feet, realizing I'd drop my rifle. I looked my father in the eyes, weeping at the ungodly torment I could see in his own gaze. There was a popping noise, and his face suddenly elongated to resemble a sound. snout, like a horse, or a dog. He choked and coughed, gagging on something apparently. Then, in a spew of bloody vomit, he sped out all of his teeth. The next time he screamed, I could see deadly sharp points emerging from the bloody sockets in his jaws. His scream, his was different now accompanied by the sound of something inhuman something wild suddenly i realized with a

new kind of horror that the sound coming from him was the same double octave scream growl i'd heard coming from the beast i had just shot the skin around his eyes grew black and that darkness spread over his face, leaking through the skin of his neck and spreading over his shoulders. Patches of thick, shining black hairs emerged from his flesh. In an instant, the thing I was screaming at resembled nothing of the man who had raised me. The gentle person who taught me to fish, to ride a horse and to skip stones. No, his screams became less human and more animalistic, and the remaining ember of my sanity chimed one rational thoughts into my brain.

The most unthinkable notion imaginable, I scanned the ground at my feet, and found the rifle I'd come with. Tears streaked my face. as I pulled the bolt back and then pushed a bullet into the chamber. Sobbing, I raised the rifle and lined the sights up to the spot between his eyes. I didn't blink when I pulled the trigger. The unspeakable monster my father had become immediately fell still. My entire being was numb.

I felt myself collapse as I sobbed like a child. There was no way to reach any small precipice of understanding about what had just happened. I stared at the corpse in front of me, uncaring of the blaze which was now reaching its way up the pine trees and throughout the forest floor. I felt as though I wanted the fire to consume me, to take us both from this dark nightmare.

Then, suddenly, I heard a howl from beyond the inferno. It was a sound from the deepest circle of hell. Before it ended, a chorus of double-voiced roars joined in. The noise pierced through my body, electrifying my spine. I wasn't thinking. Instead, I channeled my actions through an unquestionable instinct to get as far away from the source of that hellish orchestra as I possibly could. I turned and bolted in the direction of the farm.

Terror had seized every inch of my body, and I sprinted with an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy towards the safety of the village. The light of the fire quickly died away as I tore through the forest, jumping over roots and large rocks. I had no idea if I was on the path or not. I simply ran. There was a point as I ran through the murky blackness of the forest that I realized I could hear more than my own panicked footsteps.

A rapidly loudening rustle could be heard as something was chasing me. Given how quickly it was growing louder, I knew it was moving. incredibly fast. In the darkness, I could still see my father's horrified, agonized eyes looking into mine, and I begged God not to let that happen to me. I ran faster than I ever thought possible. My whole body numbed the fire of any exhaustion. Behind me, the rustling had obtained a new attribute. A fervent, ravenous growl.

I knew I was close to reaching the edge of my father's property as I saw traces of moonlight reaching its way through the thinning canopy. In the growing light, I dared to look over my shoulder. Behind me, only several yards away. I could see the roiling figure of another dark beast, as it charged after me on all fours. Behind it, two more were in pursuit. I didn't look back again.

I was so sure that any second I would feel the weight of a beast to fall upon my shoulders. I would feel its claws first and then those awful teeth. Immediately after the burning, the snapping bones and the stretching flesh. agony, terror, and then whatever hell would follow. The edge of the forest came upon me faster than I could keep up with, and I ran full on into the fence. My torso flipped over the top of it, and I landed hard on my face and stomach.

In any other circumstance, the fall would have left me breathless and incapacitated on the ground, but the adrenaline had me pushing my way back to my feet. Just then, I was ripped back as the beast had finally caught me. It snarled as it tore into my back. I wailed, but realized there was no pain. That's when I noticed it hadn't bidden into me, but into the thick wool coat my father had insisted I wear.

I dropped the rifle I didn't even know. I was still carrying and rolled out of the jacket in a single turning motion. Once free, I sprinted with a new top speed, fueled by a tiny flicker of hope. At some point, probably when I heard the chorus of howls wring out from the forest, the cattle had managed to break free from their pen. They ran in large circles around the pasture, panicked and trying to find some means of shelter. I ran through the stampeding cows towards my father's house. Behind me, I heard the distressed moaning of livestock being pounced upon by the hell-hounds. I glanced back to see that the beasts pursuing me had opted for easier, meteor prey. I wasted no time in putting

more and more distance between them and myself. I ran right past my house, determined to reach the safety of the village, to the company and protection of other human beings. My father's farm was just outside of the small neighbourhood. I ran my legs and chest on fire, with tears soaking up my face, up and over the hill.

The light of the village was my salvation, and I raced in that direction until I crested the hill beyond my father's farm. The light of the village was my salvation, and I raced in that direction until I crested the hill beyond my father's farm, the one that overlooked the village. When I saw the source of light ahead of me, my feet skid it to a stop on their own, and I fell to a stop. my knees. Fire. Nearly the entire village was engulfed in flames. Even from the distance I was from those once beautiful little streets, I could see the figures of men and women frantically scrambling as they fled from larger, more menacing silhouettes. Screams of terror and anguish rose up with the smoke, fire mixed with a growing number of ungodly howls and roars. The longer I watched, the fewer people I saw.

More and more beasts, my former neighbours, darted back and forth among the flames. Howling from behind me prompted my feet to move once more. I ran closer to the village, not knowing where else to go. I ran until I came across the small culvert just outside of town. Throwing myself off to the side, I fell into the stony river with a painfully shallow splash. Wasting no time, I crawled into the small opening of the culvert, hiding myself there under the road. Above me, I could hear the sound of the beast's paws, rapidly pummelmed.

down as they raced to join the slaughter down the road. Exhausted, terrified and shivering, I sat in a catatonic horror as I listened to the visceral chaos of my entire world, being savagely torn apart by the fangs and claws of absolute nightmares. The terrified screaming of friends and neighbors devolved into agonized wailing, which, over time, was completely replaced by an unprecedented number of double-voiced howls. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories. 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.