Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S3 Ep108: Episode 108: Bad People Doing Bad Things

Episode Date: January 12, 2023

First up we have ''Latrodectus'' by Sinister Silver, narrated here with express permission from the author under the conditions of the CC.BY-SA 2.0 license:  http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Latrodectus Special thanks to my wonderful collaborator, Penny Dreadful Moment:  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCUSaJp8UPiWgTsqD2r58yhg Next up we have ''The Last One of the Family'' by Boe Whiskey:  /r/DrCreepensVault/comments/7002zv/the_last_one_of_the_family Our third tale of terror is ''Knock Knock'' by Bree NicGarran:  This story was sent to me via email. We round off with ''Don’t Shut the window'' also by Boe Whiskey:  /r/DrCreepensVault/comments/74irs0/dont_shut_the_window

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.cai. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Growing up in the north of England, we had to say, as now as strange as folk. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the peculiarities of the Northern England dialect,

that basically means there's nothing as strange in this world as other people, as we will see in tonight's four tales of terror. Now, I am delighted to introduce to you one of my own. all-time favorite storytellers, any dreadful moment in this first story. Now, before we begin, as always, 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. Chapter 1. My Lovelies.

The world doesn't understand me. They think I'm a monster, and that my work is grow up. And horrific. What they fail to realize is that I preserve beauty. If I let my lovelies grow old, they will decay and become wrinkled abominations. What I do to them is often necessary due to their resistance. It is rather unfortunate how they struggle, scream and cry. They don't understand my work either.

If they did, they would embrace the process. however unpleasant it may be. It certainly is no easy task to preserve something as natural as warm human flesh after the life has left it. But you can learn quite a lot from having a job at a morgue. I know what you may be thinking, but I have never taken a body from work. I may sneak a few embalming supplies out from time to time,

but I wouldn't lower myself to using one of the badly damaged or just generally hideous specimens that go through that place. I usually find one of my darling lovelies over dating services on the internet. Many sad and lonely women out there have their beauty go unappreciated. I aim to change that with my work. Once I have them in my workshop, I put them on my table. after they've been properly strapped in I use a variety of chemical products with long and boring clinical names to touch up any superficial cuts from the acquisition process and fix any blemishes on the skin then it comes time to preserve their beauty with an

injection of embalming fluid this usually causes my lovelies to quickly lose their painful lives. What I have to give them is greater, though. How many women's grooming products are dedicated to the idea of eternal youth and beauty? I can give that to them. Isn't the end of this suffering existence in a world of constant turmoil, a small price to pay for every woman's dream? Anyway, there are a lot of uninteresting details about the process.

Fluid needs to be drained, a mechanical pump is used, and several more injections are necessary. When the process is complete and the injection sites are concealed, they always look so beautiful. With their appearance preserved so perfectly, I often can't help myself. I simply must take them for my own. It's so magical to bond with someone once their beauty has been made permanent. I would love nothing more than to keep them all, but my home workshop is not large enough to house my collection. So, regrettably, I must often let go of one of my lovelies

and dispose of them in the only way I know how to keep my work intact. I clean and dress them up to the best of my ability, and lay them in a field or a garden. I have a few words with my lovelies and take a picture to remember them by before I reluctantly leave them. I often pray that animals and insects leave them be and do not disturb their preserved radiance.

Recently, it seems my work has garnered the attention of the police and local news. They're calling me the embalmer. What a crude name for a beauty preservation artist. Chapter 2. The test. Men don't understand me. They see me as an object. A prize to be won in some misguided competition of masculinity.

It's really rather pathetic. But I could at least ignore those Neanderthals, and they usually go away after a while. The real animals are the ones who see. out weaker prey and think they can do whatever they please and they'll get away with it. Those are the kind of men that inspired me to start fighting back. Of course, in order to do that, I have to go where they hunt and make myself appear weak. Most of the local dive bars are host a whole myriad of unsavory, savory, characters. So I never have to go far. It helps my case if I can go in looking

reluctant, like a lost college girl whose sorority dared her to buy them a beer. The most difficult part is finding a balance between timid and sexy and what I wear. My blonde hair usually gets me noticed pretty quickly, so I try to mess it up a bit to go a little. along with the ruse. I use very minimal makeup and a pair of thick eyeglasses that makes me look more like a bookworm. I always make sure to pick out an outfit and that shows off just a little bit of skin, but then I accessorize it with a kind of cheap costume jewelry that a poor college student could afford. It's a delicate process. And sometimes I have to be a little bit to adjust the minor details to make myself more or less appealing. After all, that's what the

ladies' room is for. Not that any of the bars I frequent have particularly clean washrooms, but I don't go there for quality service. Some nights I hang out in the corner or by the end of the bar, waiting for one of them to spot me. Then there are nights when I know exactly. Exactly which would-be predator has his eyes on me. Usually, I'll have a glass of not very fine wine, and a man will approach offering to buy me another. I may accept, but I always make sure to pace myself. He'll usually be drinking a beer,

though the older ones tend to go for whiskey or scotch. I'll pretend to let my guard down and start to casually flirt, giving me an opportunity to have my hands near his drink. Nowadays women tend to be more careful about letting their drinks out of their sight. Men, however, don't give even the first thought to the possibility of being drugged. Even if you warned them, they'd probably laugh and joke about how getting slipped to roofy probably means that they got laid as well. What they don't realize,

is that sometimes they will be drugged, and there are far worse things that can be done to them while they're unconscious. By now, I know exactly when I need to ask. Do you want to get out of here? In order for him to pass out in a dimly lit parking lot, I quickly drag him to his car or truck and take out his wallet. I take whatever cash is in there, and I look at his driver's license to find an address.

I drive him there and scope out the place. Usually the guy lives alone and there's no problem. If he doesn't, I just quietly drop him off and leave. If the coast is clear, I bring him inside. Sometimes this is particularly difficult because men can be quite heavy. compared to women. Once inside, I go to his bedroom and strip him naked. I do the same and lie next to him. After a few hours, I give him an injection, providing just enough time for him to wake up and play my little game. It usually happens that morning after sunrise. He'll be foggy and have memory loss,

but it is this very moment that I test him. I tell him that we had drunken sex the night before, and that I was a virgin before that. I also bring up the lack of birth control and allude to the possibility of pregnancy. Very rarely do the targets I pick handle this news with respect and kindness. If they did, I would give them an injection from the other vile.

Let them rest in bed and quietly leave. However, this is a test that most of these selfish, shallow, man-children consistently fail. It can get rough, and sometimes his anger is a bit physical, but it doesn't take long for all that activity to wear on him. Within a few moments, he begins to feel dizzy and light-haping. Not long after that, he falls to the floor and loses consciousness. In less than an hour, he'll die from a nearly untraceable poison. Once he's motionless, I tuck him back into bed and walk away as if nothing happened.

Afterwards, I go back to the bar to retrieve my car. The public eye has noticed what I've been doing. In a way, there are reports of dead bodies turning up as the result of unknown causes, but most are written off as natural. While I prefer anonymity, part of me wishes I could tell the world how I fight for women. I rid the world of the lettrees, misogynistic mouth-breatzers that would steal a young girl's innocence. and refuse to take responsibility for the consequences. I am nothing, if not fair, though. After all, I always give them a choice.

Chapter 3. The Meeting. It seems the conveniences of the modern world can be fragile. The search from my latest lovely was interrupted by a sudden and unexpected loss of internet connection. A loss made all the more devastating as my need and desire to add to my collection grew stronger. Tonight, I will attempt to fulfil that need the old-fashioned way, as it were, by going to a local watering-hole. She first catches my eye as I walk into the bar, feigning confidence. It's been a while since I've interacted socially without the aid of a backspace key to filter out some of my less appealing thoughts. But she doesn't strike me as superficial, at least not enough to turn away a suitor at a minor

slip of the tongue. No, I feel very differently about her. Golden locks of hair shimmer from atop her head. Yet it appears she either has difficulty styling it, or perhaps it has been disheveled from some rigorous activity. As I gaze upon her, I notice a large pair of correct eyewear and some less than fashionable jewelry she looks young far too young to be in a filthy place like this I decide I must approach her and ensure that none of these vermin get her I approach modestly but not with trepidation I tell her she's far too beautiful to be in a den of debauchery where such beauty will undoubtedly go unappreciated I also warn her, though not with intent to frighten, that she should proceed cautiously

with so many womanizing scoundrels about. She receives my words well, and introduces herself. Her name is Tanya. Her voice is incredible, timid yet stir. Something about it seems out of place, as though beneath her reluctant exterior. there was inner strength her spirit or her soul perhaps but of course it can be difficult to say about someone you've just met i feel something different about her though something special i suppose you would call it we talk for what seems like ours on various subjects likes dislikes

hobbies, etc. Yet somehow I can't tear my eyes away from her magnificent beauty. If only she didn't hide it so. All she would need is a bit of hairspray, contact lenses, a nice dress, perhaps some better jaw, and a very few minor touch-ups with a makeup brush. Of course, that sounds like a lot, but it would be a very simple makeover, and as she would would look ravishing. Then again, if that happened, these bar-room troglodytes would be all over her. After conversing for a few more minutes, I cordially invite Tanya to stay the evening at my humble abode. She's had a few glasses of wine after all, and is in no state to drive. I treat her with respect every step of the way, as a good gentleman should. I hold the door for her,

and carefully guide her head into the car so she doesn't bump it into the roof. We arrive at my place and I show her to the guest room, warning her not to go into the basement because it has a rat problem and has recently been fumigated. Though the truth is that my lovelies are down there. I don't expect her to understand what my collection is and why I keep it. for now it is better to lie to her about such things i bring her some sweatpants and a shirt to sleep in both of which are probably three sizes too big to fit her small frame she asked me why i haven't tried to make a move on her i tell her i admire her beauty far too much to take advantage of her drunken state she laughs and confesses that she was merely pretending to be drunk so that I take her home. She claims she can hold her liquor much better than that,

and even offers to take a field sobriety test in the hallway. She walks a straight line over to me, and we start kissing. We go into my bedroom and fall onto the bed. She asks if we have protection, which I affirm, and she says, Good. While you take care of that, I'll slip into something more comfortable.

She leaves the room for what seems like an eternity. I prepare the contraceptive and anxiously await her return. Finally, she comes back wearing the sweatpants and t-shirt I'd given her, and we both share a good laugh about it. Stripping them away, she reveals a very enticing set of lingerie. She climbs on top of me, and we are entwined. at last. Her soft, warm flesh feels like pure bliss as I stare endlessly into her deep, enchanting eyes. It is all so perfect, until she pours my head next to hers and bites me on the neck.

I push her away for a moment and see that the look of desire in her eyes has changed to one of hatred and anger. She lunges back at me. Trying to scratch and claw with an insatiable blood loss. I grab her by the throat and begin squeezing until the light in her eyes is extinguished. I thought she was different from the others. It's a shame she'll just be another part of my collection tomorrow. Right now, I feel a bit weary. I'll just sleep beside her for tonight.

Chapter 4. The Basement It's been a slow night at the ball. and hardly anyone is making a move. I begin to wonder if I need to adjust my wardrobe. When suddenly he walks in, immediately, I know that this little grin is a facade and that he's hiding something. He sees me and already starts making his way over. I can tell this one's going to be tricky. He can barely hide his eagerness to talk to me.

I get the, what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this, routine from him. Though he phrases it a touch more eloquently, he claims that I'm far too beautiful to be surrounded by such a crass and ill-mannered bunch of ruffians. I admit, it has a tad classier than the usual array of terrible pickup lines may news on me, but it is a means to the same end. I smile and introduce myself. He says his name is Jacob. He seems charming enough. Had I not been so intent on finding his dark side,

I may have even been fooled into thinking he was a nice guy, but I can see it in his eyes, and that he's hiding something, and I'm going to find out what it is. He bores me for what feels like in eternity with meaningless small talk, and I pretend to be interested. What's worse is how he keeps staring at me. I get the feeling that he's admiring me, but also judging my intentionally modest wardrobe choices. Then again, if I were wearing a sexy dress, this creep probably wouldn't

have the balls to approach me. Unfortunately, the bastard invites me back to his place. He said, Before I get a chance to drug his whiskey, I can't say no if I want to keep him on the hook long enough to find out what he's hiding. So I'll just have to be extra careful and rely on the element of surprise. I pretend to be tipsy so he walks me out to his car. He holds the door and touches my hair as I sat down in the passenger seat. I suppose he thinks he's being a gentleman. We arrive at his place, which I expect to be a filthy bachelor pad littered with porn. Instead, there's a well-capped house, with enough room for a small family.

He warns me not to go into the basement, claiming it has a rat problem. But I immediately know I have to find a way to get down there. You see, it's always the one place they tell you not to go. that will house their darkest secrets. He shows me to his guest room and quickly retrieves some sweatpants and a t-shirt for me to sleep in. I turn on the charm and ask, Why a guest room and pajamas instead of your bed and my underwear? He says, because I respect your beauty too much to take advantage of you in such a manner.

I laugh and tell him I was only pretending to be drunk, so he'd take me home. Jokingly, I offered to prove it by walking a straight line. I walk right up to him and we start making out. We go to his bedroom and I ask him if he has protection. He says he does, so I tell him to put it on while I change. I know this is my chance to see the basement. while he anxiously awaits my return. In order to make my excuse valid, I quickly change into the sweatpants and shirt before I go.

I make my way down the dark steps, feeling around for a light switch or a flashlight. There's an awful stench coming from deep within the basement. Smells like chemicals and death. And for a moment, I consider that maybe Jacob was telling the truth. Then, a thin string brushes past my face, and I reach for it. It has a little plastic piece on the end, and I realize it must be a pull string for a light bulb. I pull down on it, and the room is illuminated. The cold stone walls are lined with dead bodies of women.

All of them are dressed in various outfits, most of which are sexualized. I can also see makeup and jewelry carefully placed on each one. It takes everything I have not to scream in horror at the sight of them. Jacob is worse than any of the pigs I've ever tested before. He doesn't just objectify women. He kills them. I quietly turn out the light and make my way back up the stairs. I go back into his bedroom and joke about how I changed into the sweatpants

because they were more comfortable. I take them off, get on top of him, and we start to have sex. God, even now, he can't stop staring at me. I can't stop thinking about what he did to those women. How he killed them, dressed up their bodies, and did, God knows what else to them. It's all so sick. I pull them close, pretend to bite him on the neck.

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BEDMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. The day of the funeral was one of the longest days of my life. I could hardly hear any of the words of the eulogy or anecdotes shared by family and friends. All I could do was stare at the photos that passed in steady rotation on the screen. Whenever someone approached the front for their turn to share something, The projector will be blocked momentarily and I will be able to break my gaze and look at the floor This never lasted though

And within a couple of minutes I'd be back to staring at the pictures Lost in thoughts of how I would never see my sister's beaming face again I felt my eyes begin to well up with tears When an image of Leah Myself and our parents was displayed. It was from our trip to the carnival. We were all smiling and happy. I could never have foreseen the tragedy that would follow only a few short weeks later. No one could have. It happened

almost a year ago. Lear and I were at home when an officer came knocking on the door. Being the older one at age 17, Leah answered the door. I can recall hearing a thud and rushing over to find that she had fallen to her knees. Our parents had been in a horrible car accident. The officer, a greying man that was probably in his mid to late 40s, crouched down in front of Leah, asking if she was okay. She didn't respond. Once I was standing beside her, Leah grabbed my arm and pulled me down into a hug so tight

I thought my rib cage was going to be crushed. At some point the officer asked if there was anyone he could call to come be with us. Shortly after, our aunt and uncle arrived, Leah was in shock and didn't speak for hours. When she finally was able to mumble something, She ended up rushing to the bathroom and vomiting. She was hysterical for days after that. We moved in with our aunts and uncle in the days following the memorial for our parents. Life never actually normalized in the next year,

despite trying to continue like the typical 17 and 14-year-olds that we were. We were met with hesitant smiles that oozed pity for months. Everyone felt sorry for us. I was relieved when people finally stopped looking at me like a lost puppy. But here I was again, the lost puppy, sitting amidst a bunch of people I didn't care about and waiting for my sister to be lowered into the ground next to our parents. No one seemed to really know what to say around me anymore. I don't blame them.

What are you supposed to say when someone, who, within a year of losing both parents, had then lost her sister? The three people I grew up with were now gone. Even being worried about what words to use in my presence, I knew what most of them were thinking. Poor Amy losing her sister like that. How could Leah throw away her entire life? how could she leave her little sister?

They blamed Lear for taking her own life, but I didn't. I understood. Lear had never been the same after our parents. The funeral continued, and everyone moved to the cemetery for the burial, myself included. A few final words were shared.

A poem was read, and the casket was lowered, into the ground. My body felt numb as I watched. Slowly, everyone began to leave until the only ones left were my aunt and uncle, myself and the burial custodian, who was completing preparations to return the soil back to the hole my sister was now laid in. Amy, do you want to stay here for a bit longer?

my aunt asked me. Touching my shoulder lightly, I nodded. Okay, we'll wait for you at the car. Take all the time you need. My uncle chimed in. I only nodded again in response. I listened to their soft, grassy steps received and took a deep breath.

The exhale, ragged and broken. I didn't want to cry anymore. But it would seem I didn't have a choice. The tears that had been welling up, off and on throughout the day, finally made their way to the corners of my eyes, and began slipping down my cheeks. I knelt down and sat on my heels, facing the two headstones and open, occupied grave.

Absent-mindedly, I plucked blades of grass from the ground and began dropping them into the ground. a pile. I'm not sure how long I sat there with my family. The attendant left at some point without me realising it. I was alone now in every sense. I had my aunt and uncle, but they weren't my parents. They weren't Leah. How was I supposed to return to school, where everyone would be walking on eggshells around me? How was I supposed to learn to drive? Who was I going to share my crushes with?

When their silent tears stopped flowing, I stood and turned away. As I solemnly walked to the car, a single thought repeated in my mind. How dare you, Leah? I didn't eat dinner. I didn't feel like I could stomach a single bite of anything. As soon as the sun started to fade, I shut myself in what was now only my room. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to escape everything.

I just wanted to sleep. The black dress, stockings and heels that I had so carefully picked out that morning, now lay in a heap on the floor where I had thrown them. They felt dirty, tainted somehow. I donned a brown tank top and shorts before climbing under my covers. Before lying down with my head on the pillow, I sat there looking around my room. It was a mess of clothes, books, various lotions, knick-knacks, pictures and papers. Despite this, it still felt empty, without leer in the bed opposite mine.

When I lay down, I couldn't help but feel a few salty drops sleep onto my pillow as I stared at the empty bed. My eyes fluttered open and blink sluggishly as I looked to the alarm clock on top of my dresser. It read 2.47 a.m. Why had I woken up? Instead of facing Lear's bed, I was now facing the wall on my other side. I watched for a few minutes as shadows grew and shrank on it from cars passing by. I was ready to give up on trying to determine why I was awake when I thought I heard a soft laugh from behind me.

I flipped over and sat up quickly when I realized it couldn't be Leah giggling from something she read like she used to. Leah was gone now. When I saw that the bed was empty, I sighed. She would never be sitting in bed reading comics ever again. I scanned the room and found it to be the same, devoid of any other life than my own. I eased myself back down to my pillow, concluding that I must be missing Leah more than I realized. I close my eyes, not to sleep, but to remember.

Why did you have to do it, Leah? I loved you. You were my sister. So why did you have to do it? I thought back to our final conversation. It had been less of a conversation and more of a fight. She'd been going through a box of old notebooks and schoolwork, trying to find something when she discovered the old composition notebook I used to use as a journal. She skimmed through it to figure out what it was, and when she came across an entry I had written shortly before our parents died, she confronted me. It quickly turned into yelling at one another. She demanded to know why I would write such things about our father.

I tried to explain to her that it was all true. The nightly visits, the hidden bruises, the pain. pain in specific areas, the loss of my virginity. When she refused to believe me, I screamed at her that she was just like our mother, who did nothing and ignored my pleas for help to make it starve. Leah just couldn't and wouldn't believe that our loving parents, the ones who did everything they could to give us whatever we wanted, could be so crass and malicious.

She threw the notebook at me and told me that I was full of shit, that I just wanted attention, and I'd do or say anything to get it, that I'd always lie to put the spotlight on myself. I cursed at her and stormed out of the bedroom, then through the front door, slamming it with a loud bang behind me. Once I knew my aunt and uncle would be home from work, I returned for a quiet dinner. because it wasn't unusual for us to barely speak. They didn't have any idea about the argument Lear and I had just had a few short hours ago. The following morning, I'd been jolted awake by a scream when my aunt discovered Lear in the backyard.

It was ruled as suicide immediately and determined that the cause of death was strangulation. They speculated that she wanted to be absolutely sure. she would die, as they found cuts on her arms and a large dose of hypnotic medication in her system. No one could say why she wanted to meet death so desperately. It was heartbreaking, but people weren't entirely surprised, given how melancholy and miserable she had seemed. Now, as I lay there in the dark, eyes clenched tight, remembering that final day, with my sister, I felt guilty.

The last things we spoke to each other were hurtful. I rolled onto my side and buried my face in the pillow. I sobbed until I couldn't breathe out of my nose anymore. Reluctantly, I pushed the blankets aside and shuffled into the bathroom to retrieve some toilet paper. I blew my nose and discarded the snotty tissue. I tore off another piece, and was wiping my nose when I turned and saw the mirror.

My blood ran cold. My heart stopped. My lungs captured a gasp and held it. I wanted to scream, but my vocal cords forgot how to function. Next to my own reflection was Leah. Her skin looked pale. Her brunette hair stringy and lackluster. Her eyes drab, but angry. She glared into my reflection. I spun around more out of reflex than anything else. I expected to see nothing, but there she was, standing just behind me.

Her material countenance was more terrifying than her reflection. Her skin looked thin. Her skin looked thin. than when she was alive. Purple and blue veins stood out against the pale grey flesh that she now possessed. I saw the bruising around her neck from where the rope had tethered her to the tree. She grinned with blue-grey lips, as she held her hands out, palms up to me to show me the cuts along her wrists. Darken blood dripped steadily from the wounds and lids. onto the bathroom floor. I backed up to the counter

and gripped the edge with both hands. Leah took a step forward. Bloodied arms still reaching out to me. Her grin widening. Aside from anger, I could see determination in her cold eyes. Leah was always the type to fiercely pursue what she wanted.

She took another step forward, and I leaned back as far as I could, the edge of the countertop pressing hard against my body. Frigid hands cut my face as my dead sister leaned forward, staring directly into my eyes. Oh dear Amy, Mom and Dad know what you did. cutting the brake lines on their car. They and I also know how you made sure I wouldn't tell anyone what I figured out. Tell me, did you really think you'd get away with this? On the night of October 27th, 2004, several residents on E Road in B

called the local police station to report a disturbance at the home of one of them. neighbors. The reports indicated that a possible home invasion was in progress, as a number of people in dark clothing had been seen moving furtively around the property acts. Later determined to be the residence of one Alice L, a single female in her mid-20s who lived alone. Some callers reported Ray's voices, which were taken to be indicative of a confrontation between the homeowner and a possible assailant. Officers arrived on the scene at 23-23 hours, approximately two minutes after a 911 call,

indicated that a young woman was seen confronting one or more possible intruders at her front door. However, the caller could not give further information due to a sudden search in the local electrical grid which shut down the power for the entire neighbourhood. When the responding officers searched the resident, The front door was ajar and there was no sign of Alice L.

Investigators noted that there was no sign of forced entry or struggle inside the house. The subject's possessions were all intact including valuable electronic equipment and a set of car keys left in plain view. The vehicle they matched was still in the driveway. The only evidence at the scene was a partial set of footprints in the gravel walk

which led around to the rear of the house, and these were discarded on the grounds that they were too small to belong to an adult. It is believed that they were made by one or more of the neighbourhood children, although investigators have not been able to determine which child in particular, nor when the footprints were made. The following missive was found by police during the subsequent investigation. The pages were scattered on the floor of the living room,

It is believed that they were originally stacked on a table in the foyer and were blown off by a breeze from the front door, or disturbed by the entry of officers H and N. It is believed that the subject roved in account of certain odd goings on in the days and possibly minutes leading up to her disappearance. Investigation into the matter is ongoing, though the case officially went cold in the spring of 2010, and no new leads have been generated. in quite some time. As of this writing, no trace of Alice L has ever been found. The written document found at the scene

remains the best and only insight into the subject's life immediately before she went missing. I'm not sure who's going to be reading this. I'm not even sure who would believe me if they did, but I have to get it down on paper. I have to. Somehow

It's not quite real When I tried to put things together in my head But with writing it becomes clearer In any case by the time anyone reads this I doubt I'll be around to listen to their criticisms I doubt I'd care Even if I did hear it Because there are lots of stories in this world

Real and imagined And this one Well, this one is mine. I've never been a big fan of other people. Even when I was a child myself, I felt out of phase somehow. My classmates seemed to shun me, not out of any particular malice, but simply in the way that a round hole shuns a square peg. Of course, the fact that my family moved just about every other year for most of my life

and didn't help matters much. It started when I was in grade school, and there never seemed to be any reason for it. My folks didn't have military contracts or job transfers. I'd just come home and find another for-sale sign on the front lawn. I spent so much time feeling disconnected from the people around me, but it started to feel normal by the time I was in my twenties. Living alone wasn't so much a choice as a necessity.

I didn't have any close friends. I had no siblings, and since my teens, I'd been getting a strong impression that my parents really wanted me to leave. That impression waned somewhat, when they helped me lease a small house of my own for my 23rd birthday, but solidified again later. Overhearing a conversation expressing relief at your forthcoming absence will do that. Nothing like hearing your own parents say that they, can't wait until their own kid is out of their hair for good. So, that's how I wound up in this two-bedroom rancher. I have a job with one of those big software companies.

So the second bedroom is my office, and that's where I spend most of my time. A lot of the clients were overseas, so my hours are pretty scattered, and often extend into the small hours of the morning. doesn't leave much time for a social life. I don't mind it much, though. Computers are nice and predictable. Very few problems that can't be solved with the new patch or a look at the instruction manual.

People are complicated. They don't come with instructions. They lie. They laugh at you. They kick you when you're down. Yes, it's people you have to look out for. It was on one of those late nights that all of this started. I'd just taken a break from a template redesign, and was walking out to the kitchen for a snack,

when movement out of the front window caught my eye. I went over for a close of look. There was a kid standing in my driveway. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl through the gloom, but it looked like they were wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I figured it was just one of the neighbour's kids, sneaking out. I didn't know anyone on my street by name, so I couldn't have told you whose kid it might have been.

In any case, it was none of my business, so I got my snack and went back to work. About ten minutes later, somebody knocked at my door. Now, sometimes I order a pizza or take away tie when I can't get away to cook something, but on this particular night, I hadn't. Rumbling at the interruption, I went to answer. If it was that kid from earlier, I was going to be pissed.

Sure enough, I could see the same kid through the window, standing on my front step. I went to open the door, ready to tell the kid to go the hell home. But then I stopped. Something felt wrong. My eyes were glued to the same. silhouette behind a frosted glass. My hand frozen on the door handle. A strange, cold feeling crept into my stomach.

Like I'd swallowed a lump of ice. For one split second, my entire being was filled with an overwhelming certainty that if I opened that door, something awful was going to happen. The figure outside raised a hand and knocked again. I nearly jumped out of my door. skin and then had to laugh at myself of being such a candy house. I'd handled living alone just fine, and I could damn sure handle one annoying little ding-dong ditcher, even if the kid was planning to try some stupid prank. Leaving the security chain latched, I opened the door just enough

to peer out at my visitor. The porch light cast the kid's face in shadow, but I thought I saw short hair and boyish features underneath. I couldn't decipher an exact age. An educated guess might have been somewhere in that indeterminate period between 11 and 13. His jeans were dirty. Likewise, the battered sneakers on his feet. The red hoodie looked oddly down. Had it been raining?

I couldn't recall hearing rain on the roof. More importantly, what was the kid doing? walking around at this time of night. Hey, I said. Proud that my voice sounded firm and confidence. No trace of a wall. You need help, kid? Can I come in?

The question sound rehearsed, like the kid was reading from some hidden script. He made no move to raise his head, and I still couldn't get a good look at his face. Um, excuse me? Can I come in? Are you lost? Do you need me to call your parents or something? I need to call my parents. Let me in.

That chill rippled up my spine again. Something had sounded off that time. Not just like the lines were rehearsed. But as though the kid were using a stage voice, that it just slipped. Something was underneath that childish tone. I couldn't put my foot. finger on it, but it was nothing good. The security chain suddenly looked a whole lot less secure.

Listen, I said. If you want me to call somebody, I'll do that. Are you in trouble? Do you want me to call the cops? Silence for a moment. Then the kid raised a fist and banged on the door again. The sound echoed like cannon fight. The blow vibrated the whole. The blow vibrated the whole. frame, making the glass panes rattle. Hey, what the f-let? Let me in. There was no mistaking the menace now. There was such malice behind that voice, such anger, more snarl than speech, and a strange undertone like the screech of tearing metal. That was not a child's voice. There was just no way. Another blow struck the door I rushed to close it

The kid was looking straight at me Through the gap under the security chain I could see his face now And it made that sick chilly feeling creep into my gut again His skin was white Whiter than salt Whiter than cracked ice

Whiter than snow White like paste or paper with a too perfect finish, like someone had sculpted it, fired it, and sanded it smooth, a facsimile of a child's face, a life-sized dog. But the eyes, oh, they are the worst. Pitch, black, pools of lifeless ink, horrible in contrast to the porcelain skin.

The porch light made stars of half-consumed light in their depths, but only just barely. The child thing smiled, and one thin hand reached toward the gap in the door, toward the increasingly flimsy-looking chain, the only thing between me and this thing from the pit. I threw myself against the door. The kid jumped back to avoid losing a finger as it slammed shut. I threw the dead bolt and leaned against it, waiting for another blow. It never came. After a few seconds, I heard footsteps on gravel and realized with a terrified jolt that the kid, the thing, was moving around the side of the house.

I dashed for the back door and bolted that too. Barely seconds later, the knob began to rattle. unlike the front door this one had no glass panes only a peephole for once i was grateful for that the footsteps circled the house for the next several hours i closed all the blinds so no one could see in and huddled on the couch in that living room baseball bat in hand staring at the front door at any second i expected to hear another knock or the sound of breaking glass from one of the other rooms. The thought of calling the cops, as I'd threatened to do earlier, did cross my mind. But what could I tell them? 911, what is your emergency? Um, yeah, I'm trapped in my house and there's a creepy-looking kid walking around outside.

At best, they'd laugh at me. At worst, I could be fine for prank calling emergency services. Either way, they wouldn't send help. No, I was on my own. Story of my life. Around 5 a.m., I realised that I hadn't heard the footsteps in a while. I risked a peek through the blinds in several rooms. It showed that kid thing had vanished.

I hadn't heard it leave. It was just gone, as if some distant timer had dinged. and the lurker had vanished with the snap of its chalk white fingers. I went through the rest of the day in a bit of a daze, trying to wrap my head around the night's events. Was it some sort of elaborate prank? Something involving sclera contacts and voice modulators. Had I had some bad takeaway and just dreamed the whole thing?

Was I finally losing it after too many late nights been staring at a computer screen? Well, I tried to work, even though it was my day off. That was my usual go-to when I didn't know what else to do with myself. Work and more work. It felt safer outdoors while the sun was up. But when the afternoon started to wane, I still made sure all the doors and windows were locked. I finished early, so I made myself some dinner and settled in to watch a movie.

A little bit of paranoia kept me glancing at the front door, but all was still. By 1 a.m., I had almost managed to convince myself that I'd imagined the whole thing. There was no creepy kid that I should just pack it in and get some much needed sleep. And then, I didn't want to look, but somehow I had to. I crept to the front door, and sure enough, there was that kid. kid-sized silhouette behind the frosted glass. One arm raised. Let us in.

That same in human tone. That same underlying snarl. It wasn't even bothering to pretend. I wasn't dreaming. I wasn't dreaming and I wasn't crazy. This was happening. We know you're there. Let us in.

Wait. Us? What did it mean? Us? A second set of knocks on the back door. My heart thumped so hard it almost choked me. There were two of them. Go away! I yelled. Go the hell away and leave me alone. I'm calling the cops. Us in. Get lost! I grabbed my bat again glad I'd locked up well before dark

I went to find myself up the hell with being laughed at and the hell with fines I was calling the cocks one weird little kid playing a prank could be ignored but two of them working together two nights in a row

that couldn't be ignored I flicked over to the dial pad and was about to tap in the emergency number when I heard it. Not on the door this time. God help me. It wasn't the door. It was my bedroom, window.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I turned. And there, standing just outside the window, not even three feet away, was a little girl. I could only see her outstretched hand in the top. of her head, but that was enough. Her nose was level with the sill and a pair of dead black eyes were looking straight in at me. The tiny hand that reached up to wrap against the glass was corpse white. The tiny fingernails were an odd shade of bluish grey, as if the blood that flowed beneath was something other than crimson. I heard her little voice through the window,

tinny and nasal overlaid with a rising yowl like an angry cat let us in I yanked the blinds down and dashed across the hall into my office the window pane there was mercifully empty for the moment

I wasted no time in drawing the blinds there too I pulled the tall bookcase in front of the window for good measure the knocking continued for hours, as did the footsteps circling around the house. A few times they knocked on the window on the other side of the bookcase, but I stayed quiet, crouched inside the closet, waiting for the sun to come up. The next night they came back, and the next, and the next. With each visit, their numbers grew, until it sounded like there was a

small hand, knocking on every square inch of the walls and windows. A bevy of screeching whispers followed my every step and filled my dreams with a never-ending chorus of, Let's us in. I stopped sleeping. I barely made it through my workdays. I only ever left the house in the broadest daylight, and I always searched each room thoroughly when I returned, half dreading that one of the little monsters would somehow get in and be crouched under my bed, all behind a door, waiting for me. What could I do? The house was all I had.

My parents weren't going to take me in. I didn't have any friends to call, nor did I have the money for a hotel. Moving was out of the question, and anyway, it wouldn't happen fast enough to help me. I was on my own. I covered my windows with newspaper to block out the sight of those small shapes darting by. I couldn't tell exactly where they were, but at least they couldn't see me either. The baseball back was never out of my reach, not for one second. I didn't know how much good it would do against these things, but if they were

determined to get to me, then I was just as determined to go down swinging. On the seventh night, as I huddled in my office closet with bat in hand, I heard the voice of the boy thing from the very first night, right outside the window. Alice! I know you can hear me, Alice. Let us in. Get Ben, you little creep, I muttered under my breath. We have so much to tell you, Alice. There is so much you need to know. Let us in, Alice. Adrenaline and anger flooded my veins,

driving away the fear for a few blissful seconds. I thumped the bat hard against the wall, as if it could magically pass through and smack the creeper in his pasty china doll face. Go away! I screamed at the top. of my lungs, not caring how hysterical it sounds. Get the hell off my property before I come out there and beat your rotten heads in. Oh, you won't do that, Alice. Crap, since when was calling my bluff

part of the plan. Oh, we know you, Alice. You're ours. You've always been ours, and we know you so very, very well. Just let us in. That scared me more than anything. This wasn't random. These things hadn't just decided to torment someone. They'd happened to discover living alone on a dead-end street. No, they knew my name.

They were looking for me, trying not to hyperventilate. I put my fingers in my ears, curled into a ball on my closet floor, and stared at the bookcase covering the window until the feeble light of dawn glimmered around the edges of the dark wood. That day, I blew off work in time and dove headfirst into the internet, looking for information. A lot of wild theories circulated about weird creatures

that looked like black-eyed kids who'd knocked on people's doors. Some sites said they were demons. Others insisted they were aliens. Still others had wild theories about the spirits of murdered children. I was at a loss. There was too much speculation and not enough hard evidence for me to draw any sort of conclusion. The only thing the various sites agreed upon was that the only defence against these black-eyed

kids was to lock your doors and windows and refuse to let them in. Not one mentioned what to do. If they came to your house more than two nights in a row, three more nights passed. More knocking, more voices, more please for entry. I was in agony. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't even think. The whispers were echoing in my head in the daytime by that point. I tried to block the sounds out with noise-counseling headfonds. But the voices seemed to be inside my thoughts as well as outside my home, like a thousand tiny fingers tapping on the windows of my mind.

The bat had ceased to be a comfort. Nothing felt safe. When the sun went down tonight, I knew they would come. Knew it long before the knocking began. Before the voices leaked through the windows. Before the whispered into a scream. and my own ragged cries joined the cacophony. Alice, Alice, let us in. Let us in.

Sobbing, I bolted from the closet and made for the front door. I don't know what madness drove me. I wasn't feeling brave or heroic or even angry anymore. I just wanted it to stop. I ripped the newspaper off the window beside the door and flicked on the porch light. I froze. I felt my heart gave a terrified, irregular jerk against my ribs, as if it too wanted to escape the sight. There weren't just a few of them now.

Not even a dozen. They had to be close to 50, maybe more, all in those damp red hoodies. All standing stock still with a soulless eyes fixed on the house. Hell's own child choir. A congregation of black eyes and whispering mouths. Through whose pale lips I imagined a faintly glimpsed jagged, sore blade teeth. I could hear them through the door. We know you, Alice.

You belong with us. Let us in. Let us here. Shut up. I banged my fist against the glass. Shut up, you creepy little masters. I'm not letting you in. Go away and leave me alone, damn it. The whispers stopped. The silence that followed was almost louder than the voices had been.

They seemed to withdraw from the front porch, over so slightly. I didn't see them exactly move. They were just on the step one second, and then I blinked, and there were several feet further back on the walkway. Another blink, and that familiar face was inches away on the other side of the glass. He seemed to have gotten taller somehow since that first night, as if my fear was some sort of growth stimulant. Our eyes were almost leveled with each other and I stared into that pitiless darkness. Terrified that if I blinked again, I'd suddenly find him beside me inside the house. Deep in those hollow voids, I thought I saw faint sparks the color of rotten limes.

Alice. Up close, his mouth looked like the more of some primordial beast. too large for his face and full of teeth that sprouted like shards of broken glass from pale greenish gums. He smiled at me and the grin stretched halfway around his head. It's been a long time. A long time. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this all some sort of sick jokes of them? I haven't seen you since you were very small You've grown, Alice Grown out of your pigtails and into your very own house

Our little girl lost All grown up now What the hell are you talking about? You're ours Alice We lost you when you were very small But now We've found out you again. Lost me was falling into the bottomless pit behind those eyes. Something was nagging at

the back of my mind, like pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit, trying to put themselves together. Your parents asked for you, Alice, begged for you. They brought sweets to the toadstall ring and soft, dead things to the old oak. They pleaded and cried. told us their child was dead, asked us to give them another, so we gave them you. The world seemed to fall away beneath my feet. This couldn't be real. My parents were my parents. My mother had carried me, given birth to me. How many times had they told me this story of how my father had nearly fainted in the delivery room. They recounted it every year on my birth. they laughed.

I had a birth certificate with their names of it. I was their child. Wasn't I? But our children are not like human children. The thing outside the door continued. They looked like human children. Walk and talk and breathe and eat and cry the same. But there is always something just a little off.

The mortal ones. They can't explain it. Can't even put words or reason to it. When they feel it, Alice, they feel the strange in you. Haven't you ever wondered why the world seemed to hold you at arm's length? Why no one wanted to get close to you. Why even your parents never seemed sure of you. I'd never even given it a second thought.

I'd always assume that other children just didn't like the new kid who just arrived. at school or the weird kid playing at the edge of the playground had always assumed that my parents hadn't wanted children or maybe that I wasn't the kind of kid that they'd wanted. But looking back, everyone I'd ever met had given me the same look, cautiously friendly at first and then inexplicably wary, uneasy, like I was some wild thing that might be. bite if provoked. Your parents did not honour the bargain, Alice. You were only meant to be there for a short while before you came home, as all our children do. We tried to find you, Alice, for so very long we tried. But you just kept moving, pop scotching from one sound to the next.

Whenever we came calling, they'd pack up and run. And then you grew up and they sent you away. All those unexplained changes of address. The strain looks on my parents' faces when I'd asked why I had to change schools yet again. The silence of clenched jaws on an early morning car ride I could only just barely recall. Why had we moved so much? I felt a few more puzzle pieces slide into place. A picture was beginning to emerge.

The grin was softening now. It looked almost friendly. But now we've found you, Alice. We've come to take you home, as we should have done all those years ago. Open the door. The thing raised one hand and stick thin fingers with tips the same shade as new mull. tap gently against the glass. Let us in.

My throat was drier than a thousand deserts. It seemed to close on itself as I tried to summon the will to choke out the words. Who? What are you? The sea of smiles opened in my yard. Cavernous eyes lit with spring-coloured sparks. I almost heard the words. I almost heard the words before the whispers came. Family, your family, Alice.

We are your family. The tall boy on my porch smiled, and there was something like affection in it. Alice, it's time to come home. I don't know quite how I ended up on the couch, but I know I've been sitting here for a long time, writing this all down. Like I said, it makes more sense that way.

Makes the pieces fit together in my head. I check the internet too. Just once more. And there's a word for this sort of thing. For stolen children, substituted children. You don't see it much outside of the old fairy tales, but it does exist. Changelie. Yeats even wrote a poem about it.

Come away, O human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. There are so many more like me. People they've lost as children for one reason or another, that they come to retrieve. But if those people have spent too much time away, they don't recognize their family anymore. They just know there's something strange, something off about the kids knocking at their door, and fear makes them run like I did. I don't know why my parents did what they did, why they asked for me, why they held on for years to a child that they couldn't bring themselves to

love, why they didn't just give me back when it became apparent, I was too strange, too other for their safe little world. Maybe they wanted to keep trying. Maybe they were desperate. I don't know. It doesn't really matter now. The kids in the red hoodies are still outside, but there's no more knocking, no more whispering. They're just standing there, like they're waiting for me. These fay, inhuman things. my family and I think I think I'm ready to go with them now in my bed I'm rubbed in my cozy blankets all around me the usually night time scent darkness surrounds me as I drift into sleep not a single sound from the world not even a

cold shiver crawled its way down my spine my eyes widen taking in every detail rough and fine I observe every shadow looking for a movement not a single moment wasted everyone wisely spent no sound emitted from the open window and another shiver from a cold wind's blow I contemplate over the shadows

some too dark from the red Each moment threatening to break me, putting my fear to the test. A creek sounds from a corner, forming a new feeling of horror. I pulled the sheets far over my head, huddled my limbs into the center of the bed. I waited and waited for a long time. I peaked and the clock said too on the dive. My eyes adjusted and I could see the silhouette of something. My heart was thumping.

I reached for the lamp. When the light was on, I saw nothing. Sit back and relax with your favorite drink, my dear, dear friends. Because now it's time to listen. Night is a beautiful time when terrors come out to play. whether from your own mind or reality. Crime is more prevalent. Ghosts are easier to see. Monsters lurk under beds.

But how can we know for sure what's real or not? What is actually more terrifying? The idea of someone sneaking into our homes and hiding in a corner or a monster made of shadow and glowing eyes and gleaming teeth, waiting for us to drop a toe off the edge of the bed. I guess it really depends on who you might ask. To a child, a monster in the closet is easier to understand and be terrified of than a burglar who might stab you when caught.

These are just some of the thoughts that trickle through my mind as I lay there, desperately wanting to sleep. I couldn't deny that I felt uneasy, uncomfortable. As most people do, I had trouble falling asleep in an unfamiliar place. It didn't help that this small hotel was home to rumors of crime and ghosts alike. If only there had been another motel open. I would have switched to one that didn't have such a sordid reputation. I would consider myself average when it comes to fears and horror.

Not all scary movies actually frighten me, but I wasn't immune to craving acute, childish comedy afterwards in order to clean my palate before sleeping. I didn't believe everything I heard about superstitions or urban legends, but I maintained a curiosity for hearing stories while also attempting to avoid putting myself into any situation that could cause super, natural ideations. Sure, I believe ghosts could be real, but I didn't put much stock in every ghost story I heard. I suppose I could be considered a skeptical believer. I never doubted

that things could happen to people, but at the same time, I never saw anything that made me think there was a heavy truth to the forces, not of this world. sure as hell wouldn't risk you. I won't walk those supposedly haunted woods at night. There's no way I'm going into that old creaky abandoned house. And Ouija boards? Not a chance. I did believe, though, that rumours of crime and odd occurrences held weight

and could mar an establishment's reputation. In such a small city as this, You wouldn't think there could be much of a bad part of town, as it were. But there is, and that's where I found myself. In all reality, my worries were probably only caused by the chats with the locals I had just a few short hours before at the restaurant across town. The city I was spending the night in on my journey west had a population of around 23,000. It wasn't very large, but it was growing and appeared to be expanding rapidly.

There are plenty of hotels and motels in the area, but being a popular tourist destination, and it being a big holiday weekend. The specific town I stopped in was mostly book-solid, aside from a simple motel-6 on the south edges of the town. I decided to stop too late in the evening to convince myself to drive even one more mile to a nearby town for more availability options. When I walked into the front office of the motel, a bored older man sat behind the counter, and I immediately recognized the air of third-rate employees and even worse patrons.

I would only be here a single night, though, so I'd deal with it. I procured a room towards the back of the building. It was on the second floor, but I didn't have much for luggage that would need to be brought, so I didn't mind. After paying and thanking the man behind the counter, I drove around to the back and found what would be my sleeping sanctuary for the night. The air inside the room was stale, and a little too warm to be comfortable. I unlocked the window and shoved it to the side,

begging a breeze to waff through the screen and eliminate the atmosphere of empty dreams and broken hearts. The sad and disgusting reality of what might happen on a regular basis in this motel room seeped into my paws and mingled with the two days on the road that made me feel grimy and unclean. I felt a little better after I took a shower and put on some fresh clothes though. It was late. almost ten, but I decided to see about finding something to eat.

I hop back in my car and drove to the north side of the city, where I'd seen a plethora of shops and restaurants. I settled on a barbecue joint that seduced me by the delicious smell it exuded into the air around it. I took my place at the bar and ordered a drink while perusing the menu. Throughout my weight, throughout my wait for my meal and the meal itself. I casually talked with a bartender and a few locals who perched themselves in my area.

It was all lighthearted conversation until I was asked what hotel I was in. When I answered, the bartender and the man to my left shared a look that prompted me to ask what was wrong with the motel. For the rest of the night, my temporary friend, explained to me that the motel I would be staying in was known for its drug dealers and lacks policies on calling the police. Rumors of prostitution rings would spark up every so often, and it was a known fact that a few people had died in various rooms from causes ranging

from heart attacks, overdoses, drug deals gone wrong, and jealous spouses catching their cheating significant others. They added in some of the stories of the ghost. that was said to hang around and spook those who stayed, including a kid who drowned in the pool, a man who axed his wife when he found her with her lover, before the lover got hold of the axe and killed the man himself, and a young woman who was known to approach people offering her body, only to disappear after being let into their room,

the worst story of them all. The one that really set me on edge was the one about the local man who escaped the nearby a mental hospital, bit after killing his two brothers, sister, father and almost finishing his mother off. Apparently, he'd just snap one day while his parents were out of town. Having mental disabilities, he lived with his parents even at the age of 32. With them out of town, his siblings took turns stopping by and keeping an eye on him. Somehow, he managed to kill each of them before his parents returned.

turned home, at which time they came upon the bodies of their children in the large freezer that kept in the garage. Upon the discovery, the mother phoned the police and the mentally deranged man pounced on his dad, bludgeoning him to death with a sledge hammer. When the police arrived, they found the man a crazed look in his eyes, slicing his father's body into sections to add to the freezer. that frees her. His mother had been hit in the head and was severely bleeding, but the responders were able to get her to the hospital in time. She would recover slowly, but still make it.

When the officers arrested the man, it was reported he kept licking the blood off his fingers and muttering things over and over. Depending on who you ask, what he muttered varies, that each account and tale agree that he was murmuring something about being told of the sweetest meat, being the helper of someone, that she would be happy with his sacrifice, and that only the best would be worthy of her. The man was being kept at a mental facility that really didn't have the means and proper security to contain someone such as him. He'd managed to escape in less than a week, leaving three people with chunks bitten out of their arms and legs. He was tracked down to where he was hiding out in a room of the very motel I would be sleeping

in. The person occupying the room was found deceased in a horrifying manner, and the man was shot in the chest when he lunged towards an officer. Ever since that event, it is said that the ghost of the man appears in the room he had hidden in room 103 also the ghost of the woman he brutally murdered there is said to roam the grounds weeping and whispering of course most local tales speak of only the deranged psychotic man's ghost after people continually abandoned room 103 screaming and rumors began flying stating that people mysteriously died in the room the motel

I'll stop renting it out. It has remained empty for almost ten years from what I was told. I turned over onto my side. The thin sheets rustling and scratching against the bare skin of my arms. It's just a local legend, I assured myself. Not able to keep the thoughts of the crazed killer and ghosts out of my head. You're more likely to get shanked by a dealer or meth-down junky than you are to see the ghost of a crazy murderer. Besides, you're on the second floor in the back. His room is on the first floor in the front. You're nowhere near it.

I sighed to myself. My thoughts trying to turn to the idea of a drug-addicted person breaking in to steal what they could. I pushed the thought out of my mind and focused on the journey for the next day. I couldn't escape a nagging chill that grass. my spine and caused me to freeze and stop breathing at any little noise though. A crisp breeze drifted through the window I'd left open and I sat up in bed. It's just noises from outside and the cold is probably not helping. Just get up, shut the window and you'll be fine.

I began pulling the blanket off of my body when I heard the faintest whisper float to my ears on the soft wind. Don't shut the window. My eyes darted at the window and there, at the edge of the side furthest from the door, was a sliver of shadow. It looked like it belonged to the silhouette of a person. I jumped out of the bed as silently as I could and stared. The image moved very slowly in the direction of the door, crossing more into view.

I could see it was the shape of a woman, small and thin. I heard the whisper again. Don't shut the window. This time it sounded like it was accompanied by a forlorn sobbing. I took two steps towards the door, grabbing the first thing I could off of the table, so I had some sort of weapon. I glanced down at what I'd grabbed.

My keys were clutched tied in my fingers. and I mentally thanked whatever force there was in the world that I hadn't grabbed my sunglasses. I flipped open the tiny keychain knife and held it, ready to jab at whoever was outside. I closed my eyes tight and took a deep breath, preparing myself for my next move. After a third repetition of the whisper, I opened my eyes, hastily flipped the lock and yanked the door open. Taking a step outside, a knife at the ready. I found no one. I looked up and down the outside corridor,

and there was no sign of anyone. My car sat in the lot below, mostly alone except for another couple of vehicles at least five rooms down. There was no door shutting, no footsteps to be heard, no more sobbing. The wind picked up in a short gust,

the bitter cold forcing me to shiver involuntarily. I stepped back in, shaking my head at myself. Those stories are just getting to you. There was no whispering, you buffoon. It's just the wind. Just go the hell to sleep, and you'll feel better in the morning. I rolled my eyes at my paranoia and locked the door. I gripped the window and slid it to the side, locking it back in place as well.

before setting my keys back on the table and returning to bed. I snuggled under the uncomfortable blanket and shut my eyes, letting out one last sigh. A moment later, my breath caught in my lungs, as I heard a scuffling sound coming from the direction of the bathroom. My eyes shot open and I listened intently as the soft scraping sound approached my bed. My back was to the direction of the sound,

and I was frozen, unable to turn over and look at what could be causing it. I quickly recognized the sounds of steps and something being dragged. I listened, my heart pounding so loudly I almost couldn't hear the noises over the blood rushing past my ears. Step, drag. Step, drag. A wet cough crossed with a chest. chuckle broke me from my immobile state, and I sat up, turning to look at the visage of a man

approaching the bed. The light from outside glared through the window and illuminated the figure. It was a man who appeared to be in his forties, dishevelled with dark, murky splotches all over his clothes. He was missing his right arm, but his left hand held an axe that was being loosely lugged across the floor. Blood streamed constantly in a thin, rivulet between his eyes and down his face from a wound atop his skull. From where I was,

I could see an indentation high on his head and immediately knew it was a blow inflicted from the axe he toted it. When he saw me, he smiled menacingly and his hand gripped the weapon tight. thanks for shutting the window it was too cold

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 favour 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.