Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep257: Episode 257: Houses from the Depths of Hell

Episode Date: July 12, 2025

Today’s opening tale of terror is the classic ‘The Corpse on the Grating’, an old-school work by the wonderful Hugh B. Cave, freely available in the public domain and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA 3.0 license. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/28617/28617-h/28617-h.htm#The_Corpse_on_the_Grating Tonight’s second tale of ghostly terror is ‘The House on Halstead Street’, a wonderful story by nana488, kindly shared with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: /user/nana488/ Tonight’s terrifying wendigo story is ‘We Found a Dead Wendigo on my Grandpa's Property’, a wonderful tale by rephlexi0n, kindly shared directly with me via my subreddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: u/rephlexi0n r/DrCreepensVault/comments/12vdgor/we_found_a_dead_wendigo_on_my_grandpas_property/

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. Creepen's Dungeon. Houses, especially in empty or old, can scare us because they embody both safety and vulnerability. Their places where we expect to feel secure, yet their dark hallways, creaking floors, and hidden corners can stir primal fears of the unknown. Familiar rooms become unsettling when silence falls, and every shadow or distant sound feels like a presence waiting to be revealed.

Our imaginations fill these quiet spaces with stories, ghosts intruders. memories that blur the line between comfort and dread, making the ordinary suddenly terrifying, as we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language as long as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. The corpse on the grating. It was 10 o'clock on the morning of December 5th when MS and I left the study of Professor Damler. You are perhaps acquainted with MS.

His name appears constantly in the pages of the illustrated news, in conjunction with some very technical article on psychoanalysis with some extensive study of the human brain in its functions. He is a psychophonatic, more or less, and has spent an entire lifetime of some 70-odd years in pulling apart human skulls for the purpose of investigation. Ah, a lovely pursuit. For some 20 years I've mocked him in a friendly half-hearted fashion.

I'm a medical man and my own profession is one that does not sympathise with radicals. As for Professor Daimler, the third member of our little triangle, perhaps if I take a moment to outline the events of that evening, the professor's part in what follows will be less obscure. We called on him, MS and I, at his urgent request. his rooms were in a narrow, unlighted street just off the square, and Damele himself opened the door to us. A tall, loosely built chap he was, standing in the doorway like a motionless ape, arms half extended. I've sullen to you, gentlemen, he said quietly, because you two, of all London, are the only persons who know the nature of my recent experiments.

I should like to acquaint you with the results. He looked away to his study, then kick the door to show. shut with his foot, seizing my arm as he did so. Quietly he dragged me to the table that stood against the father wall. In the same even unemotional tone of a man completely sure of himself, he commanded me to inspect it. For a moment in the semi-gloom of the room, I saw nothing. At length, however, the contents of the table revealed themselves, and I distinguished a motley collection of test-dupes, each filled with some kind of fluid. The tube was a tube. The tube was a little. The tube was a little. The were attached to each other by some ingenious arrangement of thistles, and at the end of the table, or a chance blow could not brush it aside, lay a tiny file of the resulting serum.

From the appearance of the table, Daimler had evidently drawn a certain amount of gas from each of the smaller tubes, distilling them through acid into the minute file at the end. Yet even now, as I stared down at the fantastic paraphernalia before me, I could sense no conclusive reason for its existence. I turned to the professor with a quiet stare of bewilderment. He smiled. The experiment is over, he said. As to its conclusion, Udale, as a medical man, will be skeptical. And you, turning to M.S., as a scientist, you will be amazed. I being neither physician nor scientists, are merely filled with wonder. He stepped up. He stepped. to a long square table-like structure in the center of the room.

Standing over it, he glanced quizzically at MS, and then at me. For a period of two weeks, he went on, I have kept on the table here, the body of a man who has been dead more than a month. I have tried gentlemen with acid combinations of my own origination to bring that body back to life, and I have failed. But, yes. added quickly, noting the smile that crept across my face. That failure was in itself worth more than the average scientist's greatest achievement. You know, Dale, that heat, if a man is not

truly dead, will sometimes resurrect him. In a case of epilepsy, for instance, victims have been pronounced dead only to return to life, sometimes in the grave. Well, I say if a man be not truly dead. But what if that man is truly dead? Does the cure alter itself in any manner? The motor of your car dies. Do you bury it? You do not. You locate the faulty part, correct it and infuse new life.

And so, gentlemen, after remedying the ruptured heart of this dead man by operation, I proceeded to bring him back to life. I used heat. Terrific heat will sometimes originate a spark of new life in something long dead. well gentlemen i fourth day of my tests following a continued application of electric and acid heat the patient Daimler leaned over the table and took up a cigarette lighting it he dropped the match and resumed his monologue the patient turned suddenly over and drew his arm weakly across his eyes i rushed to his side and when i reached him the body was once again stiff and lifeless and

it has remained so. The professor stared at us quietly, waiting for comments. I answered him as carelessly as I could with a shrug of my shoulders. Professor, have you ever played with the dead body of a frog?

I said softly. He shook his head silently. You would find it an interesting sport, I told him. Take a common dry cell battery with enough voltage to render a sharp shock and apply your wires to various parts of the frog's anatomy. And if you're lucky and strike the right set of muscles,

you will have the pleasure of seeing a dead frog leap up suddenly. Understand he will not regain life. You have merely released his dead muscles by shock and sent him bolting. The professor did not reply. I could feel his eyes on me. And had I turned, I should probably have found MS glaring at me in honest hate. these men were students of mesmerism of spiritualism and my commonplace contradiction was not ever welcome

you are cynical Dale said MS coldly because you do not understand I'm a doctor not a ghost but MS had turned eagerly to the professor whereas the body this experiment he demanded Damele shook his head. Evidently he had acknowledged failure and did not intend to drag his dead man before our eyes

unless he could bring that man forth alive, upright and ready to join our conversation. I've put it away, he said distantly. There's nothing more to be done now that our reverend doctor has insisted in making a matter-of-fact thing out of our experiment. You understand I had not intended to go in for the wholesale resurrection. even if I'd met with success. It was my belief that a dead body, like a dead piece of mechanism, can't be brought to life again, provided we're intelligent enough to discover the secret.

And by God, it is still my belief. That was a situation then when MS and I pace slowly back along the narrow street that contained the professor's dwelling place. My companion was strangely silent. More than once I felt his eyes upon me in an uncomfortable sense. stare, and yet he said nothing. Nothing that is, until I'd opened the conversation with some casual

remark about the lunacy of the man we'd just left. You were wrong in mocking him, Dale. Emis replied bitterly. Daimler is a man of science. He's no child experimenting with a toy. He's a grown man who has the courage to believe in his palace.

One of these days... He'd intended to say that someday I should respect the professor's efforts. one of these days. The interval of time was far shorter than anything so indefinite. The first event of its succeeding series of horrors came within the next three minutes. We'd reached a more deserted section of the square,

a black uninhabited street extending like a shadowed band of darkness between gaued high walls. I'd noticed for some time that the stone structure beside us seemed to be unbroken by door or window. that it appeared to be a single gigantic building, black and forbidding. I mentioned this fact to M.S. The warehouse, he said simply, a lonely guard for second place. You should probably see the flicker of the watchman's light in one of the upper chinks.

And his words, I glanced up. True enough, the higher part of the grim structure was punctured by narrow, barred openings, safety vaults probably. but the light, unless its tiny gleam was somewhere in the inner recesses of the warehouse, was dead. The great building was like an immense burial vault, a tomb, silent and lifeless. We'd reach the most forbidding section of the narrow streets, or a single arch-lamp overhead cast a halo of ghastly yellow light over the pavement. At the very rim of the circle of illumination, where the shadows were deeper and more silent, I can make out the black mouldings of a heavy iron grating.

The bars of metal were designed, I believe, to seal the side entrance of the great warehouse from night marauders. It was bolted in place and secured with a set of immense chains. Immovable. All this much I saw as my intent gaze swept the wall before me. This huge tomb of silence held for me a peculiar fascination, and as I paced along beside my gloomy companion, I stared directly ahead of me into the wall.

darkness of the street. I wish to God my eyes had been closed or blinded. He was hanging on the grating, hanging there with white twisted hands clutching the rigid bars of iron, straining to force them apart. His whole distorted body was forced against the barrier, like the form of a madman struggling to escape from his cage. His face, the image of it still haunts me whenever I see iron bars in the darkness of a passage. His was the face of a man who died from utter, stark horror. It was frozen in a silent shriek of agony,

staring out at me with fiendish maliciousness. Lips twisted apart, white teeth gleaming in the light, bloody eyes with a horrible glare of colourless pigment. And he was dead. I believe MS saw him at the very instant I recoiled. I felt a sudden grip on my arm and then, as an exclamation came harshly from my companion's lips, I was pulled forward roughly.

I found myself staring straight into the dead eyes of that fearful thing before me. I found myself standing rigid, motionless, before the corpse that hung within reach of my arm. And then, through that overwhelming sense of the horrible, came the quiet voice of my comrades. The voice of a man who looks upon death is a man. nothing more than an opportunity for research. This fellow has been frightened to Deathdale, frightened most horribly. Not the expression of his mouth. The evidence struggled to force these bars apart and escaped. Something has driven fear to his soul and killed him. I remember the words vaguely. When MS had finished speaking, I did not reply, not until he'd step forward

and bent over the distorted face of the thing before me did I attempt to speak. And when I dared, my thoughts were jargon. What in God's name, I cried, could have brought such horror to a strong man. What? Loneliness, perhaps, suggested M.S. with a smile. The fellow is evidently the watchman. He is alone in a huge deserted pit of darkness for hours at a time. His light is merely a ghostly ray of illumination.

Hardly enough to do more than increase the darkness. I have heard of such cases before. He shrugged his shoulders. Even as he spoke, I sensed the evasion in his words. When I replied, he hardly heard my answer, for he'd suddenly step forward, where he could look directly into those fear-twisted eyes. Dale, he said at length, telling slowly to face me,

You asked for an explanation of this horror. There is an explanation. It's written with an almost fearful clearness on this fellow's mind. Yet if I tell you, you will return to your old skepticism, your damnable habit of disbelief. I looked at him quietly. I'd heard MS. claim at other times that he could read the thoughts of a dead man by the mental image that lay on the man's brain. I'd laughed at him, but evidently he had heard.

in this present moment, he recalled those loves. Nevertheless, he faced me seriously. I can see two things, Dale, he said deliberately. One of them is a dark, narrow room, a room piled with indistinct boxes and crates, and with an open door bearing the black number 4167. And in that open doorway, coming forward with slow steps, alive, with arms extended and frightful face of passion is a decayed human form. A corpsedale, a man who had been dead for many days, and who is now alive. They must turn slowly and pointed with upraised hand to the corpse on the grating. That is why, he simply said. This fellow died from horror. His words died into emptiness. For a moment I stared at him, and then, in spite of our surroundings, in spite of the late hour,

the loneliness of the street and the awful thing beside us, I laughed. He turned upon me with a snarl, and for the first time in my life I saw MS convulsed with rage. His old-lined face had suddenly become savage with intensity. You laugh at me, Dale, he thundered. By God, you make a mocked. agree out of science that I have spent more than my life in studying. You call yourself a medical man. You are not fit to carry the name.

I will wager you, man, that your laughter is not backed by courage. I fell away from him. Had I stood within reach, I'm sure he would have struck me. It struck me. And I have been nearer to MS for the past ten years than any man in London. And as I retreated from his temper, he reached forward to seize my arm. I couldn't help but feel impressed at his grim intentness.

Look here, Dale, he said bitterly, I will wager you a hundred pounds that you will not spend the remainder of this night in the warehouse above you. I will wager a hundred pounds against your own courage that you will not back your laughter by going through what this fellow has gone through, that you will not prowl through the corridors of this great structure

until you found room 4167 and remain in that room until door. There was no choice. A glance at the dead man at the face of fear and the clutching, twisted hands, and a cold dread filled me. But refused my friend's wager would have been to brand myself an empty coward. I had mocked him, and now, whatever the cost, I must stand ready to pay for that mockery. room four one six seven i replied quietly in a voice which i made every effort to control lest he should

discover the tremor in it very well i'll do it it was nearly midnight when i found myself alone climbing a musty winding ramp between the first and second floors of the deserted building not a sound except the sharp intake of my breath and the dismal creek of the wooden stairs echoed through the tomb of death. There was no light, not even the usual dim glow that is left to illuminate an unused corridor. Moreover, I brought no means of light with me, nothing but a half-empty box of safety matches which, by some unholy premonition, I'd forced myself to save for some future moment. The stairs were black and difficult, and I mounted them slowly, groping with both hands along the rough wall. I'd left MS some few moments before.

In his usual decisive manner, he'd helped me to climb the iron grating and lower myself to the sealed alleyway on the other side. Then, leaving him without a word, for I was bitter against the triumphant tone of his parting words. I proceeded into the darkness, fumbling forward until I discovered the open door in the lower part of the warehouse. And then the ramp, winding crazily upward, upward, upward seemingly without end. I was seeking blindly for that particular room which was to be my destination. Room 4167. With its high number, it could hardly be on the lower floors, and so I stumbled upward. It was at the entrance of the second floor corridor that I struck the first of my desultory

supply of matches, and by its light discovered a placard nailed to the wall. The thing was yellow with age and hardly legible. the drab light of the match and had difficulty in reading it. But as far as I can remember, the notice went something like this. Warehouse rules. 1. No light shall be permitted in any room or corridor as a prevention against fire. 2. No person shall be admitted to rooms or corridors unless accompanied by an employee. 3. A watchman shall be on the premises from 7.000. p.m. until 6 a.m. He shall make the round of the corridors every hour during that interval,

at a quarter past the hour. Four. Rooms are located by their numbers. The first figure in the room number indicating is floor location. I could read no further. The match in my fingers burned to a black thread and dropped. Then, with the burnt stump still in my hand, I groped through the darkness to the bottom of the second ramp. Room 4167 then was on the fourth floor, the topmost floor of the structure. I must confess that the knowledge did not bring any renewed burst of courage. The top floor.

Three black stair pits would lie between me and the safety of escape. There would be no escape. No human being in the throes of fear could ever hope to discover that tortured outlet, could hope to grope his way through Stygian gloom down a trip to, ramp of black stairs. And even if he succeeded in reaching the lower corridors, there was still a blind alleyway sealed at the other end by a high grating of iron bars. Escape. The mockery of it caused me to stop suddenly in my ascent and stand rigid, my whole body trembling violent. But outside, in the gloom of the street, MS was waiting, waiting with that fiendish glare

of triumph that would brand me a man without courage. I couldn't return to face him, even if all the horrors of hell inhabited this gruesome place of mystery. And horrors must surely inhabit it. How else could one account for that fearful thing on the grating below? But I'd been through horror before. I'd seen a man, supposedly dead on the operating table, jerked suddenly to his feet and scream.

I'd seen a young girl not long before, awake in the midst of an operation with a knife already in her frail body. Surely after those definite horrors, no unknown danger would send me cringing back to the man who was waiting so bitterly for me to return. All those were my thoughts, as I groped slowly, cautiously along the corridor of the upper floor, searching each closed door for the indistinct number 4167. The place was like the centre of a huge labyrinth, a spider-web of black, repelling passages, leading into some central chamber of utter silence and blackness. I went forward with dragging steps,

fighting back the dread that gripped me as I went further and further from the outlet of escape. And then, after completely losing myself in the gloom, I threw aside all thoughts of return and pushed on with a careless surface bravado and laughed out loud. Then at length I reached that room of horror, secreted high in the deeper wreaths. of the deserted warehouse the number god hope I never see it again was scrawled in black chalk on the door 4167 I pushed the half-open barrier wide and entered it was a small room just as MS had forewarned me or as the dead mind of that thing on the great had forewarned MS the glow of my out-thrust match revealed a great stack of

dusty boxes and crates piled against the further wall, revealed too the black corridor beyond the entrance and a small upright table before me. It was this table and the stool beside it that drew my attention and brought a muffled exclamation from my lips. The thing had been thrust out of its usual place, pushed aside as if some frenzied shape had lunged against him. I could make out its form of position by the marks on the dusty floor at my feet. Now it was nearer to the centre of the room and had been wrenched sideways from its holdings. A shudder took hold of me as I looked at it. A living person, sitting on the stool before me, staring at the door,

would have wrenched the table in just this manner in his frenzy to escape from the room. Light of the match dies, plunging me into a pit of gloom. I struck another and stepped closer to the table. And there, on the floor, I found two more things that brought up. fear to my soul. One of them was a heavy flash lamp, a watchman's lamp, where it had evidently been dropped in flight. But what awful terror must have gripped the fellow to make him forsake his only means of escape through those black passages. And the second thing, a worn copy of a leather-bound book, flung open on the boards below the stool. The flash lamp, thank God, had not

being shattered. I switched it on directing its white circle of light over the room. Well, this time in the vivid glare, the room became even more unreal. Black walls, clumsy distorted shadows on the wall, thrown by those huge piles of wooden boxes. Shadows that were like crouching men groping toward me. And beyond, where the single door opened into a passage of Stygian darkness, that yawning entrance was thrown into hideous detail. Had any upright figure been standing there, the light would have made an unholy phosphorescent spectre out of it, where summoned enough courage to cross the room and pulled the door shut.

There was no way of locking it. Had I been able to fasten it, I surely would have done so, but the room was evidently an unused chamber, filled with empty refuse. This was the reason, probably, why the watchman had made use of it as a retreat, during the intervals between his rounds. But I had no desire to ponder over the sordidness of my surroundings. I returned to my stool in silence,

and stooping picked up the fallen book from the floor. Carefully I had placed the lamp on the table, or its light would shine on the open page. Then, turning the cover, I began to glance through the thing which the man before me had evidently been studying. And before I'd read two lines, the explanation of the whole horrible thing struck me.

I stared dumbly down at the little book and laughed, laughed harshly, so that the sound of my mad cackle echoed in a thousand ghastly reverberations through the dead corridors of the building. It was a book of horror, of fantasy, a collection of weird, terrifying supernatural tales with grotesque illustrations in a funereal black and white. In the very line I'd turned to, the line which would probably struck terror to that unlucky devil's soul,

explained M.S.'s decayed human form, standing in the doorway with arms extended in a frightful face of passion. The description, the same description lay before me, almost in my friend's words. Little wonder that the fellow on the grating below, after reading this orgy of horror, had suddenly gone mad with fright. Little wonder that the picture engraved on his dead mind was a picture of a corpse standing in the doorway of room 4167.

I glanced at that doorway and laughed. There was no doubt about it. It was that awful description in MS's untempered language that made me dread my surroundings, not the loneliness and silence of the corridors about me. Now, as I stared at the room, the closed door, the shadows on the wall, I couldn't repress a grin. But the grin was not long in duration.

A six-hour-long siege awaited me before I could hear the sound of human voice again. Six hours of silence and gloom. I did not relish it. Thank God the fellow before me had the foresight enough to leave his book of fantasy for my amusement. I turned to the beginning of the story. A lovely beginning it was, outlining in some detail how a certain Jack Fulton, English adventurer, had suddenly found himself imprisoned by a mysterious black gang of monks or something. of the sorts in a forgotten cell at the monastery of el torro the cell according to the passages before me was located in the

empty haunted pits below the stone floors of the structure a lovely setting and the brave fulton had been secured firmly to a huge metal ring set in the farther wall opposite the entrance when i read the description twice at the end of it i couldn't help but lift my head to stare at my own surroundings except for the location of the cell I might have been in that very same setting the same darkness same silence same loneliness

peculiar similarity and then Fulton lay quietly without attempt to struggle in the dark the stillness of the vaults became unbearable terrifying not a suggestion of sound

except the scraping of unseen rats or I dropped the book with a start. From the opposite end of the room in which I sat came a half inaudible, scuffling noise, the sound of hidden rodents scrambling through the great pile of boxes. Imagination. I'm not sure. At that moment I would have sworn that the sound was a definite one that I'd heard it distinctly. Now as I recount this tale of horror, I'm not so sure.

But I am sure of this. there was no smile on my lips as I picked up that book again with trembling fingers and continued. The sound died into silence. For an eternity the prisoner lay rigid, staring at the open door of itself. The opening was black, deserted, like the mouth of a deep tunnel leading to hell. And then, suddenly, from the gloom beyond that opening, came an almost noiseless, padded footfall. Well, this time there was no doubt of it. The book fell from my fingers, dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Yet even through the sound of the book falling, I heard that fearful sound, the shuffle of a living foot. I sat motionless, staring with bloodless face at the door of room 4167. And as I stared, the sound came again, and again. The slow tread of dragging foot. footsteps, approaching along the black corridor outside. I got to my feet like an automaton, swaying heavily. Every drop of courage ebbed from my soul as I stood there, one hand clutching the table,

waiting, and then, with an effort, I moved forward. My hand was outstretched to a grasp the wooden handle of the door, and I did not have the courage, like a cowed beast I crept back to my place and slumped down on the stool my eyes still transfixed in a mute stare of terror I waited

for more than half an hour I waited motionless not a sound stirred in the passage beyond that closed barrier not a suggestion of any living presence came to me then leaning back against the wall with a harsh laugh

I wiped away the cold moisture that had trickled over my forehead into my eye. It was another five minutes before I picked up that book again. You may call me a fool for continuing it, but I tell you even a story of horror is more comfort than a room of grotesque shadows and silence. Even a printed page is better than grim reality.

And so, I read on. The story was one of suspense, madness. For the next two pages I read a cunning description of the prisoner's mental reaction. Strangely enough, it conformed precisely with my own. Fulton's head had fallen to his chest. The script read, for an endless while he did not stir, did not dare to lift his eyes, and then, after more than an hour of silent agony and suspense,

the boy's head came up mechanically, came up and suddenly jerked rigid. A horrible scream burst from his dry lips as he stared, stared like a dead man, at the black entrance to his cell. There standing without motion in the opening stood a shrouded figure of death, empty eyes glaring with awful hate, boring into his own. Great arms, bony and rotten, extended toward him. Decayed flesh. I read no more.

Even as I lunch to my feet with that mad book still gripped in my hands, I heard the door of my room grind open. I screamed, screamed in utter horror at the thing I saw there. Dead? Good God, I do not know. It was a corpse, a dead human body standing before me like some propped-up thing from the grave. A face half-eaten away, terrible in its leering grin, twisted mouth with only suggestion of lips, curled back over broken teeth.

Hair, writhing, distorted, like a mass of moving bloody coils, and its arms, ghastly, white, bloodless, were extended toward me with open clutching hands. It was alive, alive. Even while I stood there, crouching against the wall, it stepped forward toward me. I saw a heavy shudder pass over it, and the sound of its scraping feet burned its weight. into my soul and then with its second step the fearful thing stumbled to its knees the white gleaming arms thrown into streaks of living fire by the light of my lamp flung violently upwards twisted toward the ceiling i saw the grin changed her expression of agony of torment and then the thing crashed upon me dead with a great cry of fear i stumbled to the door. I groped out of that room of horror, stumbled along the corridor. I had no

light. I'd left it behind on the table to throw a circle of white glare over the decade, a living dead intruder who had driven me mad. I returned down those winding routes to the lower floor was a nightmare of fear. I remember that I stumbled, that I plunged through the darkness like a man gone mad. I had no thought of caution, no thought of anything except it escape. And then the lower door and the alley of gloom. I reached the grating, flung myself upon it, and pressed my face against the bars in a futile effort of escape. The same as the fear-tortured man who would come before me. I felt strong hands lifting me up, a dash of cool air and then the refreshing patter of falling rain. It was the afternoon of the following day, December 6th,

when MS sat across the table from me in my own study. I'd made a rather hesitant attempt to tell him, without dramatics and without dwelling on my own lack of courage, of the events of the previous nights. You deserved it, Dale, he said quietly. You were a medical man, nothing more, and yet you mock the beliefs of a scientist as great as dame. I wonder, do you still mock the professor's beliefs?

that he can bring a dead man to life i smiled a bit doubtfully i'll tell you something dale said ms deliberately he was leaning across the table staring at me the professor made only one mistake in his great experiment he did not wait long enough for the effect of his strange asses to work he acknowledged failure too soon and got rid of the body he paused then when the professor stored his patient to weigh down. He said quietly. He started in room 4170 at the Great Warehouse. If you're acquainted with the place, you'll know that room 4170 is directly across the corridor from 4167. Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM casino

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The House on Halstead Street by Nonna 488. The house on Halstead Street always unnerved me. Now I think about it, the word doesn't do justice. Everyone in town found the house frightening. That was a good reason too. I know better than most. I grew up in the house next door. I first noticed the house next door when I was six. Until then I'd never paid attention. When you're that young, your parents have a fence built to keep you from seeing it. You tend not to notice. Then a storm blew the fence down. My parents were still saving to replace it since money was tight. They were glad everyone was safe.

That day I knew my parents didn't want me to go past where the fence used to be. Let's be honest. Was there any real reason for that? Oh, it might have been taller. Taller grass is itchy, even through longer pants. But what could be in the grass anyway? When I stepped into the grass, I saw a red ball and immediately smiled. I thought I'd lost it, as Mo and Dad told me. I always said I must have accidentally left it at McDonald's or Burger King. That got me thinking.

My parents were lying about that. What else were they lying about? I looked like a glorious spot to play. I walked through the grass even further. I giggled when I saw a raspberry bush. Who would have thought that was the case? I wasn't about to pass up the chance to eat some of my favourite berries. I sat down with my ball and started picking.

Out of nowhere, someone grabbed me. Harriet, my mother shrieked. Almost reflexively, I screamed. She lifted me up and didn't put me down until I faced her. Then she gripped my head and forced me to look at her. What do you think you're doing? Do you know what could have happened? I started crying.

I was only eating raspberries. Look, I found my ball. Mom snatched it from me and threw it several yards away. She picked me up and dragged me back home. Once inside, she locked the door and ordered me to my room. I didn't even get to use the bathroom. You will stay in your room until I come get you. Did you hear me?

If I hear your bedroom door squeaked before then, you'll go to bed without dinner, understood. I stood there shaking like a leaf, then nodded. Mom slammed the door and ran down the hallway, leaving me to cry on my bed. When I stopped, I got up and looked out my window. I didn't understand what was happening. All I'd done was wander onto the property next door.

The movement of a tree branch called my eye. It was only then that I realized a building was behind it. When I realized it was there, I stared at it. But how did I not noticed it? I spotted the rusted over vehicles in the overgrown back lots, the ones that, even at that age, I knew would never drive again. I jumped when a gust of wind whistled loudly through the house across from me.

My window was closed and I could still hear it. I could have sworn I heard my name too. Before I knew it, my bedroom door opened. I turned around to find Mom. She wasn't breathing so heavily anymore, but her eyes still looked tight. Come Harriet. Let's talk. Mommy?

Why is that house there? I asked. She saw the outline of the building behind the curtain. When she realized I could see it if I peeked behind it, she went pale. She leapt to her feet and dragged me to my bed. You are not to go anywhere near that building, young lady. You hear me. But why not?

Do you hear me? I agreed because I wasn't getting any answers. And the next day the fence was back up and my mother moved my room. room. I didn't keep the tears from stinging my eyes. I might have been a child, but children aren't stupid. I tried to ask him mum about the house in the next few days. She refused to say anything, even pretending she didn't hear me. I'd have to wait for Dad to return from his business trip. Dad could give me answers once he got home. He always listened better. Dad and I sat in the living room while Mom went to the grocery store. I sat there telling Dad everything about what had happened.

Did you hear any strange noises coming from the house next door? Dad asked. Like what? The wind whistling around in it? Dad went pale. The wind whistling. Yeah, I was in my room looking at it when the wind picked up. I heard it clear as day, Dad.

He rushed to his phone. He called Mom. Then he told me something that made no sense. That day there was no wind. almost entirely still what did he mean there wasn't any wind that day and I heard it

but then he showed me the weather report and they confirmed there was no wind as I got to thinking he was right I didn't feel any wind when I was at that raspberry bullet he jumped when we heard the wind whistling as if through a long abandoned house

we look back at the local weather report there was no wind that day either Two weeks later, I celebrated my seventh birthday. As lovely days you can expect from a child's birthday party. My parents even hired a bouncy castle for us kids. And then, a woman appeared. I was the first to see her walking up a driveway. I didn't see a matching car,

which reminded me of the financial advisor my parents sometimes visited. Mom, who's that? Well, I asked. as soon as I pointed her out, Mom went pale. Harriet, go inside, she ordered. I don't know why nobody made the other children go inside, but I didn't argue.

The conversation outside was already getting heated. You children started crying because of how loud it got. I'd her back outside. You can't keep her from me, the woman yelled. Get off my property, now. You didn't catch the air. as dad pulled me from the window. I remember someone calling the police.

By the time they arrived, however, a woman had vanished. When people realized she'd vanished, they looked around. My best friend's father had called the police and he'd only called them a few minutes before. She couldn't have gotten away that quickly, not with so many witnesses.

Neither of my parents ever figured out how that took place. Not sure what first clued them in about her, but it wasn't the last time I'd see her, And the next time I encountered the woman, I was ten years old. But then I'd forgotten about her. This time she tried getting into my school by claiming she was my aunt. When the principal called me to the office, I looked at my teacher, confused. My aunt lived in Seattle.

When I asked why my parents hadn't told me she was visiting, I made them call my mother. He confirmed my aunt wasn't in town, prompting school officials to call the police. I returned to class but not fast enough to see the woman. woman having a tantrum. The mother later said she disappeared again before the police arrived. I remembered the house on Halsted Street, too. But then I realised what was happening.

These two children had vanished after visiting it. I still remember the one mother sobbing in her husband's arms as reporters asked her questions. She wasn't prepared for them to bombard her with so many. They wouldn't let up. My parents didn't like it when I watched the news with them. No, they didn't stop me. Whenever they sought to hide from me what had happened in the world,

and this was no different. I squirmed when I saw just how many questions all those journalists threw at the surviving parents. As I watched the news with them, however, I noticed something. Dad, isn't that the woman who was at my birthday party? I pointed her out, and they gasped. The more I passed that house,

more I felt like it was staring at me with eyes of hunger. that's how the front two windows looked, caved in porch reminding me of a man. By then I understood why mum told me not to go near the house on Halstead Street. When I was 12, the next child to disappear was a three-year-old autistic boy named Nathaniel. Now that I think about it, it makes sense that he vanished like that. I mean, I'm autistic myself, but I'm very much high-functioning. People had known me for years and was stunned when I disclosed it.

Nathaniel, however, was severe. He wouldn't make eye contact, never responded to his name, but violent when someone told him not. I never thought a three-year-old could make people wonder if his father was beating his mother. You learned something new every day. I talked to the parents while they were moving in. They knew their previous town's police well.

In that respect, I couldn't help but have sympathy. There was a lot Nathaniel put them through. They moved into town, because they needed to be closer to his therapist. My heart sank when I saw Nathaniel see the house on Halsted Street. He didn't just see it. He was staring at it.

Throughout the time his parents were moving them into the house, he didn't budge. Now his parents didn't notice sooner, I still don't understand. I think they were just glad he was quiet. But then, after the movers placed the last of their furniture inside their new house, the boy's mother came to fetch him. She picked him up.

As soon as she did, the boy shrieked. He screamed so loudly I didn't know how he didn't pass out. He cried harder as she dragged him inside the house and closed the door. The boy's air-pacing screams continued. My parents joined me in watching. At one point, the boy kicked a window. What the fuck is going on? Hey, not in front of our daughter, dad scolded.

My boy still stands, honey. Sounds like someone's beating him. Suddenly, police cars arrived. Someone caught the police and they'd have to force the door open. They did the boy bolted right out the door. Nobody could react before he ran across the street to the abandoned building. The car even had to halt. Within seconds, the boy had reached the front yard.

Finally, the police caught up with him and picked him up. All the while, he kept screaming. My parents and I saw his face. God, he was redder than... catch-up. I hope those cops do their jobs and warn the parents. Dad muttered. There's no way that's ending well. Eventually Nathaniel stopped, but that didn't mean it was over. It was the first time the boy bolted from his parents to the house on Halstead Street. The boy did it seven more times after moving in. He didn't always make it across the street. His parents built the fence around

their yard higher, but he got up and over it. Once he got caught in it, he cut. He got caught in it, He cut himself. Never someone grabbed him. He screamed and cried. It surprised me. No one called CPS. Six weeks later, the inevitable came. The boy's mother was bathing

and he got away from the nanny. They called the police, but it was too late. Nathaniel would run to the house and vanish. This time nobody mentioned it. When I asked Nathaniel's parents about their son, they all looked to me like I was crazy. My parents and I couldn't figure out why Yet the parents insisted they didn't know what we were talking about

claiming I was the first autistic person they'd met Didn't help that the media never mentioned his disappearance While with dad had a few hushed conversations And finally stopped Mom pulled me aside Her face pale and unblinking That was all it took to realize she was serious And I was about to get answers

"'They're the reason I don't let you go near that house, Harriet. "'Now that you're 12, I think you're old enough to know why.' "'Well, that was an understatement, but I said nothing. "'Instead, I just sat there listening. "'The abandoned house had always been there as far as anyone knew. "'Even Mom did, and she grew up in the same town as me, although not on the same streets. "'It had been abandoned since at least the 1930s, "'but further back nobody knew when it was built.

That explains those old cars, I mutters. Mom nodded. That didn't keep people from trying to renovate it. First attempt at renovation we know about happened in 1946. That didn't end well. Nobody knows what drove them out, but they never revealed what they experienced. All anyone knows is that they skipped town and left the bank to repossess it. They didn't even make it to the three-month anniversary before abandoning it.

And the next verified owners came along in 1915. Those owners abandoned it only three weeks later, with the bank repossessing it and selling it three months further on, only for the same thing to occur again. Did anyone ever tell them there are easy ways to ruin your finances? Mom laughed at my half-hearted joke. It makes you wonder right, Mom acknowledged. That proved to be another thing. Many people who tried renovating it died soon after. their children after had to pay off the remaining debt.

Anyone tell what they experienced? Some were happy to do so, but not all of them. By this point, mum started squirming. She fidgeted throughout the entire accounting, but I noticed it picking up. I said nothing, though, just kept listening. The pattern of buying the house and it had been driven out a few weeks later

for the bank to reposset it continue throughout the years. There was a slowdown in the 1970s, through to the 90s. All three families in the 90s to buy it sold their stories so they could recoup some of their losses. Then came the last family to live there. Well, the history didn't put them off. That was part of the appeal.

Only they knew they'd leave like everyone else. They lasted the longest, though. Unlike the others, they kept up payments on the house. They couldn't afford to abandon it. What did they see? Mom stiffened, almost not wanting to recall. A person appeared in their house. I thought they recognized this person, and after digging they realized who it was.

Mom slid me a photograph. It was black and white, but I still recognized the person as the woman who showed up at my birthday party that day. I refused to pick up the photo because of that. The story doesn't end there. Strange because the woman hadn't aged, and that woman hadn't been the only one they saw. Now that was only the first person, and the other owners soon followed. Soon after that, they fled the house. And with that, Mum stopped, giving me a pointed look. When the realization set in, my mouth went dry. She was talking about herself and dad. They were the last

to buy the house on Halsted Street. I decided against asking any further. From the look on mom's face, she didn't want to recall what happened there. I felt terrible for about having pressed her for details when I was younger. As the years passed, more people disappeared. The media claimed they'd skipped town. I knew they didn't, as mum, private detective, found their death certificates at some point. Still bizarre how many people endured so much because of this one house. I saw that woman who first bought the house around town every so often too.

Whenever I saw her, I looked away and went about my business as if I didn't. hadn't seen her. I didn't even react when I heard the distant tantrum. I no doubt knew she was throwing. Three years after I completed graduate school, mum died in a six-car pile-up with an oil tanker. She died on impact, so she didn't suffer when the tanker exploded. My husband, Eli, joined Dad and me to sort through everything. But her estate was massive, which Dad and I had seen coming. Grandpa was already a widower when I was born. and he'd left everything to mom, dad and my two aunts. When mum died, she left everything to dad and me.

The estate still needed to be administered through the probate courts, which would take a while. All we could do was sort through some of the contents of the house. Oh, it was bittersweet, not just for Dad and me. Eli and my mother liked each other. I have no clue what he saw in me to make him think I was worth it, but evidently I'd done some. something right. Dad, Eli, and I were sorting through some things in the attic one day. Much of it was dusty and reeked of mildew, but most belonged to Mom. Or the attic needed to be emptied anyway. We got everything out and dusted off,

and after taking a few moments to stop coughing, we started sorting through it. Much of it was interesting. Dad was too eager to tell us the stories. He told us about when he and Mom almost slammed into a moose on their honeymoon in Newfoundland many times, but we didn't care. He didn't even care when he told us again about going on vacation, Bridezilla, and her wedding almost setting the hotel on fire. Stories like that are for a lifetime. But then we got to a box labelled old house.

They opened it up and immediately cough. I didn't expect so much dust and not saying something, given everything we'd already sorted through. Hadn't Eli did so too. After a few moments, we finally got past it and looked through the context. As soon as I saw the first photo, I paused. Well, that was Mom for sure and Dad next to her. They looked a lot younger.

Then I saw the background. We were standing in front of the house on Halstead Street. Conversation that day between Mom and me flooded back. Dad took the photo from me. I jumped, not realizing he noticed me staring at the picture. Gee, I never wanted to tell you about that. She didn't want to tell you we still own it. Eli and I stared at him for a moment.

Why not? Harriet already told me about the property's history. The trauma of the experience frightened her too badly. Took everything she had to tell her we once lived there. Eli and I stared at him, hoping he'd tell us what they'd experienced. But he said nothing. Read some of the diary entries in that box. that'll give you an idea

will they tell us why you and mum never gave it up dad nodded and then he walked out of the dining room Eli and I looked at each other and sat down we took everything out of the box and spotted the journals we opened up the oldest and read and the first entries were what we were expecting Eli himself made a living flipping houses It was a good living even whenever we thought about the 2007-2008 housing crisis.

I still remember how well the first house sold after the Great Recession, Eli muttered. I know all too well the emotions running through their minds. They probably had more hopes, too. From the looks of it, this was before then. Eli chuckled, and we kept reading. Things changed when the entries reached June. What the stuff? But, Eli muttered, face in the mirror.

We glanced at each other. Not just any face, I noticed as I sorted through Mom's old research paper. It sounds like someone who once owned it in the past. It turned out I was right. Mom's research proved it. What we saw in the journal made little sense. Man, Mom saw in that mirror, was alive at the time. We started to form a timeline in our heads then.

The man she'd talked to had given her his business card. It was right there in the box with his face on it. Events in the house became more and more disturbing. From random fires and moving objects to sudden psychic powers and voices coming through the walls. The walls told them things, even telling them when they'd get pregnant, I don't think my parents wanted anyone else to endure what they did. I don't think that's such a good thing for them, Eli replied. Look at this.

I recognised a photo right away. It was a photo of me on my seventh birthday. Right before that woman showed up, and she appeared in it. Even from a distance, the skull face was apparent. As the realization set in, my skin tingled. What did she intend with me that day at my birthday party? A loud bang made us jump. Get out, Dad roared.

Honey? A woman's voice implored. Stomach lurched into my mouth. It looked like the same happened to Eli. That was Mom's voice. Three more gunshots went off, causing me and Eli to rush into the foyer.

Mom was lying on the floor, blood pooling underneath her. Dad stood at the other end. We all stared at the body. The hall's so silent, I could have heard a pin drop. All the while the skin seemed to get thinner and thinner. We saw the bones, even parts of the skull. And then the body and the blood vanished.

And with that, the foyer returned to normal. The only signs that anything had happened were the bullet holes in the door frame. I looked at Dad. What just happened? I demanded it. He got out for some air before speaking. How far did you get into the journals? We just finished the first one, Eli replied. Dad took a breath and sighed. Maybe I should tell you what happened next. It's better coming from me anyway. Dad motioned for Eli and me to follow him. We all sat at the dining room table.

The contents of that box was still at the other end. Dad grabbed the two remaining journals before sitting down. All the while he was arching his neck, sweat oozing down his forehead. It was like he records something. He wasn't keen on remembering. Eli and I watched his dad flip through the two small notebooks, and it took a while for anyone to say anything. How were you able to see the faces, Dad? I already checked Mom's research.

I'm pretty sure that was someone who once owned this house. That's the same conclusion I came to. He sighed. Put the two journals down and then looked at us. We'd been in that house next door for six months when we found out your mother was pregnant with you. That's obvious from the journal you just. just read. What happened after that? Eli asked. Stayed in the house for three more months after that. And the events of that time take up the rest of those notebooks. That was when the walls

started talking to us. Eli and I stared at him, not even knowing what to say. He kept talking. I didn't realize it was the walls talking at first. By then, we were pretty badly sleep-deprived and falling asleep at weird times. We thought we were hallucinating. Hallucinations, I muttered. Like what? The walls talking? That was just one example.

We dismissed it, of course. Everyone knows walls can't talk. By then the renovation cost was taking its toll on both of us. But, well, they weren't. Mom's father stopped by one day. Mom, dad and grandpa all knew my parents were struggling. But when he ran from the house on Halstead Street, after hearing an announcement that his wife would die in two days.

Nobody could deny what was happening. Sure enough, your grandmother died two days later from a heart attack. The wool gave Mom and Dad enough time to pay off their debts and move into the house next door where I grew up. They refused to sell it, but whatever was in that house wasn't happy. That was the first time they heard the whistling around the house next door. He could have sworn they heard a woman and child wailing when they first heard it. Wind picked up. We checked the weather reports. There was no wind that day.

As soon as he said that, my mouth went dry. It's just like when I heard it whistling around that day when I was six. Your mother set foot back onto that property of her own accord only once after that. Dad said, it was just before you were born. She ran out of the building and she heard the voice of a young boy. He said, you are. Oh, my. She stopped dead in her tracks as she ran out of the house.

She saw the same woman that arrived to see me that day. The autistic boy who vanished was next to the woman. They stood there, their eyes boring into her. Mom balded. She didn't stop until she returned home and slammed the door behind her and locked it. She didn't stand out for a while. I wanted to face what she'd seen. Then a pounding on the door made it shake, making Mom jump.

Give her to us. A pair of voices boomed. It seemed to have come from all sides and was loud enough to make her ears ring. For a moment she didn't move. Then it happened again. Give her to us. The door rattled as they chanted. Mom glanced at the table drawer in the front hole where she and dad kept a pistol.

Grab the gun aunt. After making sure it was loaded, she yanked the door open. As expected, the woman and the child stood there. Their eyes glowing metallic black. The sound of their demands pulsed through mum's skull so severely, she thought it would explode. She already felt nausea and starbursts were going off. So she raised the gun, pulled the trigger.

As soon as the bullets went through their bodies, the chanting stopped. The bodies clasped their skulls cracking from the impact on the porch. After that, she called me and told me what had happened. if you were born she swore you would never enter that house yourself I nodded grimly remembering the day she'd grab me off the lawn we all jumped and we heard the sudden sound of the wind whistling

Ever heard of us picked up for a moment and then it finally died down we glanced at each other and none of us needed to say a word to realize what needed to happen the next day we called the local town hall asking how to declare the house on House's Street an attractive nuisance.

Took a few hoops, but we got it done. Throughout the process, town administrators were smiling. It's about time, one of them said. Surprised, it didn't happen sooner. Well, that was the understatement of the century.

When we got approval from the town board, Dad Eli and I cracked open a bottle of champagne. We even drank cocktails while watching the building torn down. We talked to the people hired to tear it down afterwards, They told us they could have sworn they heard children screaming and wailing. They pressed on, thinking it was their imagination. Dad sold the land he once stood on to the town. And he sought my child at home, and we moved away to another part of the state.

Ilan I have three children there. He still flips houses, but has also become a real estate agent. It sold several luxury homes, which was a relief because it meant a solid income. I'm a financial advisor. I still don't know how we got this lucky with how the economy is. Sometimes I wonder if something happened long ago to make this all the cake. My gut tells me this will happen again. Eli came home recently, his face pale.

As soon as I saw him, I stood up and made eye contact. I didn't even need to ask. What just happened? He muttered as he clasped in the chair beside me, stared at him. He looked at me. I don't know what's wrong with. This house I just sold.

There's no history anyone could find. I could have sworn I heard the wind whistling around it. There weren't any children, but I could have sworn I heard a child giggling in this house. Wendigo's are mythical creatures from Native American folk rule, often associated with cannibalism in the cold harsh winter months. However, since Wendigo's are not real. There are no concrete statistics about them. They are often described as tall, thin, and skeletal.

with a glowing eyes and a fierce hunger for human flesh. In some legends, Wendigos are said to possess supernatural strength and speed, making them difficult to escape from. Despite being mythical, the legend of the Wendigo has had a significant impact on popular culture in many books, movies and video games featuring these terrifying creatures as antagonists. What if there's something worse than the Wendigo? That's the question poised in tonight's story.

We found a dead Wendigo on my grandpa's property By A.K. Colored them. Those involved in dealing with cryptids, if any of you are reading this, why do you do it? Other than the money, of course, I feel a lot of you do it for the rush. The adrenaline. Where's the line drawn? Where does exhilaration evolve into panic?

Don't get me wrong, a little risk taking his food for the soul. So many factors can go wrong in any sense. situation. In particular, what do you do when you find the corpse of a cryptic you were hunting, eviscerated and dismembered? And the abrupt realization hits you that there's a bigger fish. My grandpa wasn't quite on the level of monster hunting. But boy, he was one crazy mother fun. Once he hunted a grizzly using nothing but a crossbow, wet mud and leaves, and his wit. He's had its head mounted above his forest house fireplace ever since. I can't say how far back his love for the wilderness is rooted.

I knew he grew tired of the city long before retiring from his job as a metropolitan engineer. Since then he's lived out in an old house, in the northwestern reaches of the Olympic National Forest, about 40 miles from the park itself in Washington State. I can only imagine how lonely it must have been, living out there by himself, but he never seemed any the worse for it. In recent years, I've been good friends with the guy, I met in college, Martin.

You could see the same fire in his eyes as my grandpa's when it came to the outdoors, always pestering me to come along with him on a camping trip, going fishing, hunting, you name it. It was a no-brainer bringing him along for a visit to my grandpa's. Honestly, I feared they might get along too well. Martin would never return with me. In the end, it didn't matter

because both of us been ingrained with a morbid aversion to the woods since that day. Martin was particularly eager this time, practically vibrating in the passenger side of my Jeep. Last trip, Grandpa promised he'd show him the ropes of skinning and pelts. Martin often went on about how he'd feel sitting in front of a roaring fireplace with a great deerskin rug laid out beneath it. My motivation was simply to check up on my grandpa.

He hadn't been responding to my attempts at contacted him for the last week, so naturally I was a bit worried. We ran into a problem early, driving up the long dirt road to my grandparents. Rounding a corner, I slammed on the brakes, seeing a slew of fallen trees lying across the road. Damn, what happened here? Martin exclaimed. There haven't been any storms recently, right? I sat with my hands ten and two on the steering wheel. What's for words?

No, it's pretty clear weather around these parts since March. Weird. shutting the engine off, I hopped out of the jeep. The only sounds with the leaves flittering in the mid-spring breeze. Nature's white noise. We're a little over two miles away from the house, an easily walkable distance. My grandpa had enough equipment that we didn't need to bring much of our own, so our bags were light.

I had my phone, a flashlight, water, spare clothes, and my utility watch strapped around my wrist. My plan was to get up to Grandpa's and come back down in his truck to chop up the fallen logs with a chainsaw. We thought it would be more fun to go through the woods alongside the track. A long dirt road means only boredom after all. We scrambled down the left side slope and began our trek, keeping an eye on the road to follow its route.

Only a few minutes later, the smell hit us. Putrid carrion. It was nothing unexpected. Animals in the forest die all the time. Even so, that hardwired part of my brain was repulsed at the moment. the smell. Shit, something's festering out here, I said. I didn't imagine how it would smell in the sun.

Martin let out a small wretch, but agreed. The trench only grew stronger as we went on. It was at its peak when I almost tripped over a sharp object on the ground. Thought it to be a cluster of branches at first, but the notion quickly dissolved upon seeing their pale, ceramic reflection. The decapitated Stagg's head. lay right in front of us. It was wrong, I mean,

when the teeth were too long and the bone of its face was exposed. Well, even with the odor, I could tell it was fresh on the viscous black blood that seeped from its neck and mouth. Martin spoke up. Oh, damn, that's freaky. You think a bear did this? Well, I mean, it's only black bears, you're right.

I doubt they could pull off something like this. Cougar, maybe, I don't know, Never seen one straight up decapitate a stag like this, though. My eyes were drawn to a trail of blood, forming a jagged streak ahead of us on the ground. My gaze followed it until it terminated at the stag's grisly mess of a body. Well, it looked quadrupedal from a distance, but to we move closer, I found myself sorely incorrect. The body was that of a monster, large in stature but bony and gorn.

Long razor-sharp claws lying spayed across the ground like kitchen knives, all covered in patches of dark, wizened fur. Is it bad? Martin called out, approaching from behind to get a good look. When he saw it, he went still and quiet, as I had. There was no statement that could do the sight justice. I'd heard the old tales of the horrors lurking deep inside the forest, but never experienced them face to face. It was still, laying dead as a fallen leaves beneath it.

It looked crushed and broken, littered with what seemed to be wide and deep puncture wounds. Martin managed to speak up. Is... Is that... But before he could say any more, a sudden snap broke the tension. The snap of a twig, no, a branch. My spine shot straight upright. Against my better judgment, I feel.

found my head gradually swiveling in the direction the noise had come from. When I caught a vast, hulking shape in my peripheral, I whipped around to face whatever was there. I saw something just for a moment. Enormous, long limbs draped and shaggy hair, the colour of pine bar. But as quickly as I turned, the image vanished. Nising dread threatened to pry my lips apart into a screen. I looked far and wide, but nothing.

was there. Gal? What is it? Wait, the cougar isn't still here, is it? Martin whispered. No, it's nothing. Let's keep going. We can talk about it later with my grandpa,

but the cat could still be loitering about somewhere. It's best we don't stay in the same place for too long. Before of departing, I snapped a few pictures of the mangled corpse on my phone, zooming in on the head without backtracking to get a better angle. Something told me that turning back, however briefly, would make a terrible mistake. We went on with urgent pace, pretending to ignore the heavy movements between the trees nearby. Large animals will inevitably give away their movements.

They snap twigs, but not entire branches. Even so, the movements sounded anything but clumsy. No, they sounded calculated, those of a stalking predator. As hard as I tried to filter them out, I caught myself glancing to the sides and behind very often. I don't know whether I was hoping to see something or nothing. Still, the woods around us were empty, other than ourselves. If there's a mountain lion around here, we should go up onto the road for a bit.

It'll be easier to bolt if we need to. I agreed, we veered off to the right, climbing up the roadside slope. Deep down, I knew that whatever was out there, it wasn't, big cats. We only told ourselves that, skating the subject of monsters now made very real to us. The forest fell silent as we walked along the road. That was far from being comforting, though. The woods are quiet, predators are about. It's a well-known idea in the community of wilderness and fugitives. What did ease my mind to a degree was the sight of a herd of deer standing in the trap. They caught their heads to look at us, but didn't seem all too disturbed by a

our presence. At the same time, feeling of being exposed, vulnerable, grew as hard as a lump in my gut. They started to move on as we got closer, wandering off the road and into the woods. One of the deer stayed in place, though. It wasn't frozen, no, but constricted, twitched and whimpered as it started to rise off of the ground, as if weightless. So quickly, his screams were cut up. off as its limbs were snapped and crushed and deep wounds erupted over its body, and then, like it had been there the whole time. It stood. It was a nightmare, huge, unimaginably so, rivaling two elements stacked up. He was hunched over, resting on impossibly long and thick forelimbs, ending in spindly, sloth-like claws. The body was long, too, ending in a pair

of shorter legs, knees inverted with feet supported by spur-like claws. like appendages. The lulling head that sat atop an arched neck looked like some bizarre cross between a horse and a crocodile. Hollow pits in place of eyes, the torn skin around its mouth revealing horribly uneven and misshapen teeth

that jutted out at irregular angles. Fading sunlight glinted off of the long gashes covering its sides and heads. The dead creature from earlier had definitely put up a fight, but it could never have been enough. As we stood, stunned, it reciprocated our stare, the only real movements being the sets of rib-like appendages undulating on its underside, rendering the deer into a torn sack of flesh and bone fragment. Poor animals seemed to wither before our eyes as the sharp ribs falls deeper into his body, like a juice-box having the last drops sucked out of it.

In that moment, we were part of the herd, paralysed. Some had already run off, but others were as statues in the presence of this beast. Another smell hit us then. Different from the stretch of decay like earlier, but equally as sickening. Like moist earth, sulphur, methane and dead fish. Its source was clear as wisps of gas from the beast's mouth became thick, billowing fumes, rising into the evening scar. The tension was broken with the deer's mutilated husk thudding to the ground.

The remaining deer took flight, scampering off into the trees, and in response the beast snapped its head in their direction. Something was wrong with its head, flopping around clumsily as it turned. I took a step back as it led out a deep guttural rattle, before bounding off after the herd, its matted hair swinging violently. It splintered a tree as it went, but was totally unfazed by the impact. We waited until its thundering gallops faded into the quickly darkening nights, before saying anything. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? What was that thing? Martin spotted, tears welling up in his eyes. I don't know, man, but we have to get to the house before Sunday. I have a feeling out chances at escaping it or little to none in the dark. Are you crazy? We have to go back. I want to get as far away from these places, but...

What about my grandpa? We can't just leave him here with that thing. Martin didn't look over to me, but wasted no time disagreeing, starting his jog up the road. We were already over halfway to my grandpa's house, and even if we wanted to escape, it would be a menial task for the creatures to smash the jeep off road. The sultry light in the distance looked like the gates of heaven. It radiated safety. But I knew we couldn't continue out in the open, completely exposed. I looked down to my utility watch, making a mental note of the direction of the house.

north-north-east, before grabbing Martin by the arm and leading him off the left side of the road. Part two. Nature's cruel irony manifested in the steepening terrain and a thickening brush. The house's light quickly faded, leaving us with only our bearings to navigate. I thought we might have gone off track for a terrifying moment, but I saw the column of smoke above the distant tree canopy that could only be from my grandpa's chimney. Come on, this way. As we neared, no light became apparent. Maybe he'd already gone to bed.

I can only guess with his lack of communication. We came up onto the lip of a hill, sloping down towards a flat clearing. But there was no house. There, the pillar of smoke, there was no source. It began in mid-air from nothing. As we stopped to look,

the point where the smoke came from jerked around in the air. when I picked up on the organic stench, it clicked in my mind. Just like before, there it was, looking directly at us, the thick fumes spewing from its mouth. But I noticed something else this time. Now that the moon hung in the sky, its light glinted off of something beneath the creature's head. Six black orbs, shiny like obsidian,

threw on either side of its neck. They darted about, independent of each other. and I knew immediately what they were. I, what kind of abomination was this? Those were its eyes, and it ate the deer with that structure resembling a ribcage, and that must mean it had a false head. A distraction, defense mechanism may be. It made sense now this head flocked around limply with the beast's unnatural movement.

I blinked in quick succession, and then looked down at my watch. Due east. we'd been misled circled around us to lie in wait one motion I grabbed onto Martin's shoulder and pulled him in the direction we were meant to be heading in a wild sprint for survival the beast erupted into movement

ribs rippling as it led out another rumbling trail Martin looked over to me confused Hey dude what are you doing There's nothing that Shut up Just run as fast as fast is freaking possible. Now,

don't stop for anything. Our pounding feet were matched by heavy thumps and allowed cracks of trees being smashed. I dared not steal a glance behind, fearing that even the slightest break in pace would mean death. There! I struggled to see what Martin was talking about, until the yellow light became visible between the tree trunks.

We were only a few hundred yards away, but I was surprised the creature hadn't already caught up to him. even the trees in its way stood no chance at impeding it and it had almost caught up I could feel the air pressure from its massive body charging through the trees behind

close enough that at any moment I might feel its claws cleave my body into pieces saving grace coming up from our left was a dense patch of old oak trees I swerved towards them leaping through the spaces between trunks

just large enough for us to get through I hit the ground, rolling sideways. It wasn't even time to be dazed, as an immense slam sounded from where we'd just been. I scrambled backwards, looking to see a great arm slinking through the gap. It was thick, but not as thick as the oaks. The claws tapped about, searching blindly for our frail bodies. Oh, I shouted, and the both of us got to our feet and bolted towards the light. As we ran, the sounds grew distant.

Was it stunned, or did it still think we were behind those trees? I didn't care. All that mattered was being inside and not out. The gravel clattered against the front of the house as we skid it to a stone. I rapped on the door, devolving into pounding when they went unheard. On what was probably the twentieth knot, my fist met only air, and I stumbled in through the now-open doorway. I looked up to meet my grandpa's gaze. His eyes were wild.

He didn't look like himself. He glanced behind me at Martin and then behind him. Whatever he saw out there, his pupils contracted in response. Hurry boys, get inside, he whispered shouting. He filed in and he went to bolt the door, but hesitated. His hand fell limply. No use. It was right. If the beast wanted to pay a visit, it would do so regardless of our home security.

We followed him quietly to an uncovered floor hatch. What's this, Mr. Barnett? Martin asked, regarding the hatch. Ah, oh, this here is my old wine cell. Martin went to ask further before being interrupted. Get down the ladder first, son. You can shoot your questions once we're safe. He pulled on a handle, opening the hatch, to reveal a sturdy wooden lulling. ladder that led into a dim space beneath.

One by one, we clambered down its dusty rungs, meeting the coal, concrete floor at the bottom. Grandpa was last, tugging a heavy rug over the open hatch, before closing and securing it. Take it, you've seen the thing right. Jesus, Grandad, we barely got away, I gasped, still out of breath from our escape.

Unscathed? Yeah, mostly, other than some scratches. "'Good!' He walked over to an upturned crate and plop down onto it. Martin and I looked between each other, then back at him. "'Ah, well,' Martin said, "'you seem to know what we're dealing with, so what the hell is it?' Grandpa gave Martin a scowl of disapproval, quickly relenting into understanding.

"'I'd scrutinize you on your manners, boy, but now we ain't the time.' He released a tired gasp, letting his head drop down before inhaling sharply and looking back up at us. I've seen it only once before, and my varsity use. I had some Danish friends on my course who said I should come visit them over there, go and do some backpacking in their home country. Beautiful landscapes over in Denmark, really. Peaks rising out the trees, you know. Before he could lose himself in a daydream, I cleared my throat to bring him back to reality.

Oh yeah, right So we were Pretty deep in the woods when it happened We'd all gotten paranoid Because we thought something was far Something big, elk maybe We never saw nothing Only heard it

Oh god One of the girls in front of me Started to Lovitate I don't know She was just rising up off the ground Grip by something Whatever it was made a mess of her

Crunched her up like a meatball being squeezed. I saw it then. Her bones wrapped around her, stabbing in deep. You're never going to forget the sight of that. It's like a stain on my mind. We saw the same thing, Martin piped up. Only it was a deer.

It looked like it sucked everything out of it when it was done. Yeah, I can't say I know how it works. You can only see it if you know something's there. If it's there. Anyway, you ran as fast as we could. could back down the trail. We seemed to lose it. The whole time there was this rancid stink, though, eggy, earthy. We wound up back in the town we started from, went straight to the police station and reported it. Apparently all they found was a little chunk of meat, piece of thigh,

or something like that. One of the other guys told me about the tale later on. Brought up the smoke we saw rising out of the forests when we were back in the town. Old Danish legend went the people. through history seeing smoke columns in the woods. Most went to check it out, never returned. They said it would move around, like how a fire would spread, like we was wandering to and from. Damn, it's a horrible story, Grandpa, I said.

It doesn't help us figure out what it is, though. We already know the stuff you just told it. Well, he replied. I'm sure it's got many names, seeing how it can just pop up where it likes. but I only heard it called the Scorston Deer. It means chimney beast, if I'm remembering right. Well, it makes sense.

I thought we were seeing the smoke from your chimney, but it led us right to him. Well, Grandpa sighed. This house ain't even got a chimney. Martin looked over to me, scoffing, then back over to Grandpa. So, lures people in like that? Sure, but I don't think it means to.

I'm going to take a gander and say it started up with the fumes after it ate that deer. Yeah, I replied. Whatever that thing is, it ain't from here. Ain't from anywhere on this planet, I think. Eat something and starts giving off smoke. Waste product from digesting, I guess. So, shit gas? Martin chuckled.

This was able to find a way to lighten the mood in dire situations, even if just a little. I looked up with the monochrome ceiling above us, mulling over what Grandpa had just said. I remember how this whole thing had started, pulled out my phone to bring up my photos. Maybe we found this I have to start on our way up to yours on foot. I have an inkling, but... Do you know what this is?

Grandpa squinted at the screen, then took it from my hand. He scroll to the right. That's only the head, I said. His silent focus was only punctured by the dull taps of his finger on the screen. And recognition lit up in his eyes, his head bobbing up and down. Well, I'll be damned. When to go, right, I asked. Oh yeah, I gotta say, never seen one around these parts before.

Then again, I was never looking for one. I doubt you needed, but that is a reminder for what this beast is capable of. I put my phone back in my pockets, sighing and letting my chin drop into my hands. In any other situation, I'd be shocked to find out such a creature was real, but not now. This is all great, Mr. Barnett, Martin said with quivering uncertainty. But it doesn't help us. What are we going to do? I mean, what can we do?

I don't know. Well, I have a stupid idea, but it's just grasping at strong. Anything over sitting here and waiting to die. Martin breathed, staring off into space. Anything. Grandpa looked up toward the basement window. The only source of natural light in the room. What little of it remained.

Well, I was checking my traps out east from here, about six, 700 yards into the woods. Only when I got there, there was this smudge. Don't know what to call it. That's the best I can describe what it looked like. It was like, looking into it, I couldn't register what I was looking at. looking at, but my eyes after a while. I never seen nothing like it. It was after that I started

seeing the Scorston, dear. So, uh, he trailed off like he was struggling to find the words to say. So what? I pressed, leading forward in anticipation. Again, this is guesswork, but I think that's where it came from. I threw a rock into it when I was there, but ain't here it hit the ground. like you went someplace else. I think we could just lead it back there. Just get it to go back in. Wait, hold on, I interrupted. Shouldn't we call someone?

Police, the damn army. What do you think will happen to the cops when they come out here, huh? What's a chief and a rookie and one police car going to be able to put up against it? Good luck convincing the U.S. military to send out Marines. You'd be lucky if they thought it was a joke. I shut my mouth, swallowing my next words, allowing Grandpa to continue with his proposition. Either the beast leaves or we die.

I'm not even going to talk about trying to drive away. You've seen what it does to the trees. Our stealth might work, but it's better than that than we are, big as it is. And I don't want to risk either you is losing your life. His last remarks sent a chill down my spine. He said nothing explicitly, but I'd already begun to understand what he meant. Randat Yeah

Don't worry about me, Chama I got something But you gotta listen closely Both of you Part 3 Martin and I set out full attention on him I wanted to hear his plan But I really hoped

It was going to go a different way From what I was thinking How I want to make this clear Before anything else I'm going alone And you boys need to sit tired And do as I say My heart dropped

plunging into the stone cold sea of despair. You crazy. No, I have to go with you. Grandpa cut me off, shushing me. As I say, he commanded. I knew he was right, but in the face of loss of my thoughts wrestled against the idea. Okay, now I'm going to call you, and I'm away's off, all right.

You have to pick up and stay on the call with me. As Vado, you keep your attention on my voice. I need a both of you to be brave for the next part. I need you to make as much noise as you can. Martin's eyes bulged in fear. Won't that just get us killed? I haven't finished. It's only up until I call you.

When I do, you shut up and you hide in the darkest corner of this cellar, okay? I was heaving for breath now, cold beads of sweat budding on my forehead. But I close my eyes and still myself. Yeah, okay. Good. Once we're connected, I'll start. We were silenced by a single muffled thump from overhead, so forceful that the ceiling spewed cement dust down on us.

Then another thump, and another, and another. I fell off my perch in shock when a booming crash sounded from above, chased by the clattering of rubble. Steady thuds grew nearer, louder, so the only sound was that of the floorboards, groaning under immense weight. I looked over to Grandpa, who looked over to me, and whipped a finger to his lips.

I nodded, then slowly turned toward the basement hatch. The beast was trying its best to move silently. A stifled whimper escaped my lungs, so they saw the hatch buckle. A loud bang shook the house's foundations then. Then, nothing. In the silence, I could make out the beast's ticking growl. It was toying with us, trying to catch us out, make us think we'd been foiled, but we'd burst out in a panic and tried to flee.

Its intelligence terrified me so much more than its grotesque appearance. Tried this bait a few more times before huffing angry. The heavy creeks grew distant until we could no longer hear it, aside from the single crash of a fallen tree somewhere outside. I stood up, eager to set this plan into motion, only to be dragged back down by a firm grip on my arms. My eyes fell to meet my grandpa's, looking at me with a wide-eyed scowl.

Sit down, he hissed. Not yet. Ah, the bastard. Probably waiting at the tree-line, watching for us to come out. Three ever sacked in silence, ears attuned for even the slightest noise to indicate its present.

After an excruciating wait, Grandpa rose to his feet and crept over to the ladder. He scaled it, wincing at the creek of a rung, then pushed open the hatch ever so slowly. The rug that had been above was tattered, torn fragments slipping down into the now-open space. He peered out from side to side, checking rigorously that we were safe. As he pressed his hand upward, what sounded like a broken tile was disturbed, clattering to the floor above us. "'Rampar froze in place, visibly tensing. "'Heavy step, full over the gutter or rattle, I pray to God I wouldn't hear,

"'forced Grandpa into action. "'He pushed himself off of the ladder, tucking and roll into the floor, "'right before the hatch was slammed by immense force, "'cracking it and warping the hinges. "'Rampar shot to his feet, adrenaline far outpacing his old age. "'He glanced around wildly at the floor. before looking up at us with newfound determination. Oh, shit, damn it.

Change your plans. Martin, distracted. Make some noise. Gal, give me a leg up to the window. Martin's jaw fell open and his breathing quickened. Fuck, he yelled, pressing his fingers into his temples. But to his credit, he turned toward the hatch and started up a racket straight after. Go and get it, you fucker.

You ugly sack of shit. While Martin was busy cussing out the chimney beast, Grandpa and I hurried over to the window. I braced myself in a kneel, fingers locked together forming a foothole, where he planted a foot. One, two, three. I heaved him up, holding my posture

while he unlatched and swung the window open. My body was already tired from running away. Grandpa was heavier than he looked. Still I hauled him up further until he was out, past the waist. He pulled himself out into the hazy night. I kept my focus on him as he turned around, refusing the urge to look as I heard claws cleaving away ravenously. All right, I'll be calling in a minute, he panted. When I do, tell Martin to zip. I love you, bud. You too, Grandad. My words latched onto him, fueling a forgotten instinct that slammed his

heels into the forest floor and sent him sprinting into the trees, fading until he was merged with the dark itself. I was grounded again when Martin let out a shriek. I turned to see him backpedaling from those spindly claws extending through the jagged hole that was once the lad. A thick trail of blood smeared from him as he shuffled back, the same crimson that slicked one of the titanic claws. It got me.

Oh, God, it hurts, cried, flipping over and resorting to a belly crows. crawl towards me. I rushed over and dragged him as far away as I could, but he flopped to the floor in shock when I released my grip. His calf was a mess of exposed, glistening flesh and bone, sliced through like warm butter. The mouth hung half open, but without a sound, so I rushed to build a cacophony in his place. As booming as I tried to make myself sound, I devolved into whimpering shouts. The beast's arm had reached almost halfway across the room, yet still it slivered further and further through the broken hatch, claws ticking around in search of our flesh.

Backed up into the furthest corner alongside Martin, the monstrous hand grew closer. Slowly, agonizingly so. I only became aware of the incoming call from the vibration in my jacket pocket. It felt as if, somehow, safety lay in the act of answering my grandpa's call. My hands shot into my pocket and yanked the phone out, fumbling with the touchscreen and picking up. Grandad, it's so close. It's about to get us. Do something, please. I wailed into my phone. Instead of a reply, allow crack rang out through the night, and then the phone. The beast's arm lurched backwards, freezing for a moment, before it tore out of the basement, peppering the floor with wood fragments.

As simple a sound as it was, I recognised it. He's black hole. He'd taken it with him. I don't know when he'd picked it up. I may have had it on him the entire time. Out of the window I saw the hulking silhouette barrel into the trees at speeds rivaling my jeep in fear. I jumped when her grandpa abruptly began shouting over the car. call. The words were indiscernible, blending in with the scuffled sounds of movement.

Took the moment to take off my jackets. Then my t-shirt, which I pulled tightly around Martin's upper calf as a tourniquet. "'A, gal,' Grandpa said over the phone, sounding hollow and tinny. "'Make sure you keep up your aerobics. You're sure shit don't get easier with the ears.' I let out a half-hearted chuckle. Yeah, I will. I want to go hiking through these woods with you, camping. It's fiving off of their hounds. No, you do. Oh, God, I do too. He said stifling a sob. You're going to have to stay strong for your mar, okay? Ain't no chance I'm getting out this time. But you, yeah, you two are. I broke down then, thick watery streams lining my cheeks.

I'm going to miss you. so so much granddad ah but we had some good times amazing times no I sure as hell did well this is a pretty badass way to go out right non-familiar comfort swelled up inside me almost breaking through the tears

yeah I'm here this much no idea what I'll find through there I could hear the thundering beast across the call as it gained on him. His clicks and rattles, too. I'm going in. Promise me one thing, though. Anything, Grandad. You'd be a good kid. Make my daughter proud. That's all. A bizarre noise came from the phone speaker then, something akin to the sound of a stone sliding across a frozen light, followed by a splash that seemed to kill all noise. That dead silence was broken

when a shuddering voice spoke again through the phone. What the... Where are you? I yelled. Pleading for any small morsel of information he could provide. I don't know. It's... I'm in a pipe, I think. Some kind of glass tube. I can see everything outside.

It's all there, all at once. There's more of these tubes. So many more. They're branching and split in by... The connection got progressively weaker as he talked, jittering and buzzing in my ears. I'm heading down this tube now and there. The central one, but it's huge, enormous.

Holy shit, no, I don't think it's the central one. But in the distance, so many, what hell is this place? My exhausted brain couldn't fathom a single thing to say. I just listened, almost as confused as he was. Streams off, threw some of them in the earth. He was cut off by a tremendous splash. The sound quality at this point made it sound more like a roar. I could only hear his whimpers until that hissing trill crawled its way under my skin once more.

Melded with the audio glitches. Then I heard something never could have expected. Even after seeing what I'd seen, sounded as if the creature was stuttering, clearing its throat before... Exalted be there. It's flow shows the path. It spoke. The unearthly nightmare beast had spoken. Words were jarring,

like it was repeating after someone teaching it how to talk, broken by animalistic clicks and hissing. Grandpa screamed, that the call lost connection completely, and it drew out as a high sine wave tone. My hand acted of its own accord and loosened its grip, sending the phone clattering to the floor. At the time I crouched down to grab it,

only my home screen greeted me as I pressed the home button. Paul, fail. I looked down to Martin. He was out cold by breathing. The bleeding had died down, but he needed urgent treatment. Even so, I fell to the floor, back slouched up against the cold, concrete wall. He decided to wait it out until sunrise.

A sir and grandpa's plan had worked, but just the slightest uncertainty helped me in place. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off. My limbs ached, my head-thumbed. I fought against my eyelids, but they fell as if dragged down by anchors. All light vanished, I faded into sleep. Part four. I woke to heat on my face in a red, orange blur. I opened my eyes grimacing at the rays of sunlight that poured through the destroyed basement hat,

directly onto my face. Any notions of a simple nightmare were shattered. Martin? I rolled over on my side, seeing him laying a few feet away. My God, he was still breathing. The blood coating the skin of his left leg was dry and crusted, but a small amount of it still seeped from his mangled limb. I chose to let him rest while I turned to the broken ladder,

hauling myself up what remained of its rungs, and out into the house, or what remained of it at least. utter devastation. I do not exaggerate when I say almost the entire front portion of the house was gone. Wooden beams jutted out from piles of rubble and dust, but all was still. Unlike the day prior, birdsong weaved throughout the woods and into the ruins. I recall learning about how forest animals would go quiet when a predator is nearby,

but I've been too on edge to notice until their sounds had returned. Still, subtle chills wormed their way up my spine. I felt safe, but I also felt safe with Grandpa in the basement, until the attack. No smoke plume from anywhere across the tree line, and no stench defiled my nose. But, well, I couldn't shake it. I spent some time scrabbling around in the back half of the house that still stood. Quicker than expected, I found the keys to Grandpa's truck, in the corner of the kitchen counter. I practically leapt down into the old wine cellar, then slowed my pace,

gently shaking Martin until he stirred. He was groggy and confused. Don't worry, man, I'm going to get you whole. I wrapped his left arm over my shoulder, supporting him to the ladder. It was tough getting him out, but we did, and we hobbled through the ruins to the truck. Driving faster than truly necessary, I swerved, slamming on the brakes, when the fallen tree trunks came into view almost out of nowhere. The jolt shook Martin, and he came to attention from the pain in his leg. I apologise for it, but wasted no more time in getting out and helping Martin down from his seat. The stench of death was stronger in the air, the Wendigo corpse festering nearby.

It brought me back to the night before, the raw terror, spawning within me that grew intense over the short walk between the truck and my Jeep. I was exposed now, naked. We made it across the trees and into my Jeep quickly, even with Martin's injury. Still, without any warning signs of the beast, my heart was drumming so hard I could see my chest pulse. After a messy three-point turn, the wheels slipped, kicking up dust before we shot away down the track. We drove until reaching the small police station, where I flew out of the Jeep and burst through its double doors. Perhaps a rash action in retrospect, but my mind was elsewhere.

Before anything else, I had them call an ambulance for my friend, followed by reporting a severe animal attack. When I was asked what had attacked us, I spat out, Cougar. The officer grunted, and I laid out the facts. Grandpa was gone, dragged away by our assailant. An ambulance arrived soon thereafter to pick up Martin. EMTs were visibly surprised by the laceration, but attended to him nonetheless. He had lost a fair bit of blood, but they quickly got him in stable condition at the nearest hospital,

where he stayed for the next week. The search party banded together to look for Grandpa, but they found nothing, of course. I was questioned about the state of his house, but I think the trauma welling up in my eyes was the best defence I could have had. No scorch marks on the rubble to indicate explosives. nothing. Well, it's been a few years since all this happened. I've made it through the stages of grief in one piece. I'd like to say Grandpa lives on in my memory, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate to say. I can still remember him, our conversations days out, the smell of his

fireplace and all that, but, well, no matter how hard I try, I can't remember what he looked like. That's to say there's only an imperceptible smudge where he wants. once was in any pictures I still have. I don't know where he ended up. Some massive network of tubes. I get the distinct impression that his grave lies elsewhere, in another place separate from this world. I'm eternally grateful for his sacrifice.

Yeah, but I can't help but think that it was only our lives that were saved from the Scorsden River. Are there more of them? Or is it somehow able to relocate itself? Only my grandpa would have answers, but, well, yeah. Just in case. You find yourself out in the wilderness, and you see a steady plume of smoke rising from the trees,

perhaps even smell the organic stench of digestion. It'd be best to call off the occasion entirely. Once it's on to you, well, I only hope you're as lucky as we were on the day my grandpa died. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast.

That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.