Paul tapped the cassette player on the coffee table. “This is the tape 
from his machine. He wouldn't tell me what the message was, 
wanted me to tell him what he heard.” He grinned that one smile that 
people use around a camp fire in the gloom of night, and pressed 
play. We leaned in as smooth static started from the tape. After 
about twenty seconds, a strange gurgling noise started. It's hard to 
describe...similar to thick, sludgy water moving through a confined 


space, like a narrow pipe or drain. It was sloshing and bubbling, and 
very bizarre. This went on for about eight seconds, then there was a 
sudden gasping noise. A voice came on, and it was chilling. It 
sounded strained and half-full, like an exhausted runner trying to 
speak with a mouth full of water. It strained and gurgled a moment, 
then hissed out with the sound of chattering teeth “It's...cold...”. 


The sloshing returned for a few seconds, then the tape ended. | 
stared at Paul, asking “The hell was that?”. He smiled, saying that 
he'd asked the same thing. They'd listened to it three more times, 
just to be sure of what they were hearing. It wasn't the strangeness 
of the tape that had struck them so much, and had sent Bill and Paul 
hunting for alcohol at eight in the morning. It was the familiarity. Paul 
said then, and said now, that he will swear on God, his children and 
everything he holds dear, that the voice on that tape is his mother. 


They had been rather shaken, and Paul had driven home shortly 
after. After getting home, he'd gotten a phone call, which he'd picked 
up with no small amount of nervousness. It was from the funeral 
home. They'd called to inform him of a situation at the grave site. It 
seemed the rain had caused some flooding. His mother's plot, still 
soft from the digging, had turned to mud and partially washed away. 
Her casket, they assured him, was exceptionally waterproof, and 
that any issues including the replacement of the soil were to be 
handled by them free of charge. 


Paul thanked them, feeling numb, and asked if they were sure about 
the coffin. They said they were going to check for water damage, but 
that everything appeared to be unchanged. It was just some of the 
topsoil, the upper layers, nothing serious. He went through the rest 
of the conversation on auto pilot, hanging up as the funeral director 
apologized again for the inconvenience. Paul just sat, wondering 
how waterproof it really was in a coffin. About how it would feel to be 
trapped, slowly sinking in a tide of sludgy mud. About how a soul, 
perhaps not entirely divorced from the body yet, might react to that 
cold, clinging grime. About how it might even call for help. 


My daughter picked this moment to come bounding in, long on sugar 
and short on sleep. We left, Paul grinning at my obviously chilled 
expression, and the ride home was a bit quieter then normal. That 
night, all | could think about was the sound of that gurgling, that 


drowned voice hissing through clenched, clicking teeth. 


| haven't asked about the tape again, and it hasn't come up in 
conversation since. | love the paranormal, but honestly haven't 
experienced too much of it in my life. A few odd noises in the night, 
a UFO in the middle of the day, and one unidentified animal in the 
woods comprise the sum total of my experience. | can't say what 
that tape is. | can't even say if it's real or not. All | can say is that my 
interest in EVP has been drastically reduced. 


Daddy Long Legs 


It is, upon reflection, the legs that were the problem. 


Certainly, my eyesight hasn't been strong enough for a long time to 
distinguish those loathsome features. That disturbing thorax, jointed 
into those long legs, casting a greater shadow than they have any 
right to. Yes, it must be the legs. I'm almost certain. It's in the name 
after all-Daddy Long Legs. Such a peculiarly affectionate title for 
such a twisted creature. 


As a boy, when my eyes were stronger and my knowledge of the 
world less, | thought them demons. Nightmares come to drag me to 
some terrible shadowland. | would run, howling and shaking with 
fright, to beg my mother to take it away. It rather disgusted my 
father, a big bully of a man, whose definitions of manliness and 
fortitude were hard to reach for a grown man such as himself, let 
alone a young boy. He would sneak into my room at night, and 
release them, leaving me to wake up surrounded. 


I'm sorry, but | need you to keep still. Here. Let's try this. Let me 
know if you feel any tingling. 


In a sense, | suppose this shock treatment did have a positive effect. 
| first struck back at them on one of those hateful mornings, 
wrapping my hand in a sock to crush the life out of one crawling on 
my arm. Terrified of letting it touch my bare skin, | held it ata 
distance, watching those legs thrash in their death throes. | had 
fantasized about killing them before, but their unsettling speed 
always made such actions seem foolish and unlikely to succeed. An 
up close and personal action was unprecedented, and empowering. 


After that, it wasn't long before | began hunting them, extinguishing 
those vile souls one by one. A pogrom starting in my back yard and 
working out into the forests. The sock was exchanged for a pair of 
gloves, which worked well enough for a time. It was on one of these 
excursions that | noticed it first. One of the freshly slain was moving- 


its leg twitching erratically. With a growing horror, | wondered if it 
was coming back to life. | panicked, the image of my former victims 
pursuing me like some fearsome legion flooding my mind. | fled the 
woods, hiding in my room. It was then that | determined that the 
gloves were not enough, my brain rationalizing the fact that a 
stronger impact must be needed. My father's heavy yellow handled 
claw hammer served this purpose well. 


I'm afraid | will need you to pray quietly, in your head. You're rather 
distracting me. Quite rude. 


Soon my excursions began anew, and at this point, now a young 
man of eighteen, | began to see them lurking on people. Nausea 
struck me as | saw them crawling along the arm of a bus driver in 
the street, as he went about his pre-set path, unperturbed by the 
small forms scaling him with those long legs. My vision went grey, 
as | realized one day, that the pastor in front of me had a pair of tiny 
legs edging over his clerical collar. 


My mind boggled until it occurred to me that they must have realized 
I'd been hunting them and began to take precautionary measures. | 
had seen spectators, watching and muttering to themselves as | 
smashed carapace after carapace. At the time | thought them simply 
enjoying my good works, but in the light of this new revelation, | 
realized what they were. Sentries. An attempt to follow my patterns. 
Learn my strategies. Horrified. | fled home. 


It was late that night when a solution occurred. Slowly crawling 
forward in my mind, ponderous and inevitable. If they were truly 
being used by these arachnids, then they were worse than dead. | 
had already learned well. Dealt with their masters. | had to handle 
the servants. It would be mercy. Freeing them. Letting them onward 
to whatever reward awaited them. Burdened with new purpose, | 
went out that very night. 


You may be wondering why | am telling you all of this. You've seen 
me on the street, giving you a startled look. You see, though you 
may not know it...they have you too. Shhhhh. Shhhhhhh. Don't cry. 
It's not your fault. It's simply the facts. But you have no need to 
worry about my qualifications for the task of freeing you. It's been a 
long time since that bus driver. And I've since learned that a 


hammer will work just as well on a man as it does on monsters... 


Field Man 


When | was little - I, that is Crackles, not an unnamed creepypasta 
protagonist - | went on a lot of road trips with my dad and my 
brother, almost always to Idaho to visit family. We passed by a lot of 
fields. Sometimes they had wheat, others had corn, others were 
littered with bales of hay. On occasion we'd see herds of cows. But 
the fields that just looked like several empty acres of dirt often 
baffled me. Were they not being used anymore? Were they freshly 
planted, with no new plants visible yet? Did nobody own them? 


One summer, when | was eight years old, we were driving through 
lowa along Interstate 80. One of those empty dirt fields caught my 
attention, not because it was particularly fascinating, but because 
there was a man in a brown coat standing in it with his back to the 
road. As our car passed by, | noticed he was turning slowly so that 
he was always facing away from me. | watched him until the car 
dipped over a little hill and he - and his dirt field - disappeared. 


| asked Dad if he saw that. The ‘field man’. He didn't. My brother 
hadn't either, as he'd been asleep since Illinois. I'm not certain if it 
was real, a very vivid dream, or a half-remembered bit from a film 
seen many years ago. Memories of small children can easily lie. 


Sometimes, nearly ten years later, | find myself driving along 
Interstate 5 and looking out for the field man. 


Fire 


| am followed by fire. 


It sounds really, really weird, | know, but it’s true. Every house, every 
apartment I’ve ever lived in has burned to the ground. Even stranger 
—it’s predictable. If | lived somewhere for six years, six years after | 
move out it goes up in flames. It’s not exact, but it's close, usually 
accurate to within two or three months. 


It’s true. I’m not sure when | noticed the pattern for the first time, but 
it's always been there. When | was just a kid, right after | was born, 
my family lived in an old house behind my grandmother’s house. We 
were there until | was two, when we moved. | remember visiting my 
grandmother's at four, watching the smoldering embers of the little 
house and the curling smoke rising into the air. Old wiring from the 
50’s finally gave out. 


From the shack, we moved to a farm. We weren’t well off enough to 
own it or anything, but we did run it for the local doctor. The 
farmhouse wasn’t that big, and most of my childhood memories 
come from the cozy, family setting it engendered. Here, | remember 
Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays. | think of it whenever | think of 
“back home.” We lived there from when | was two until | was nine, 
when the doctor we worked for died. At fifteen, it burned, an old tree 
struck by lightning sparking off the blaze. 


The third house | lived in was the second to burn to the ground. We 
only lived there for around two years, so it happened when | was 
thirteen. It was an old house, a very old house. What | remember 
most was its shape. We called them “shotgun” houses, because you 
could fire a shotgun from one end and it would pass all the way 
through to the other. One room after another, all in a straight line, 
built as needed. It was, honestly, very old and dry. I’m not surprised 
that the heating stove in the front room sprung a leak on the tenants 
after us. 


Other than where I’m at now, the only place left is my parent’s 
current house. When they asked me why | was moving all my stuff 
stored in the basement out, | didn’t have the heart to tell them, so | 
made up some excuse about having my old books and stuff closer 
to college. | didn’t know what else to say. 


When | turned nineteen, | moved out of my parent’s house, and went 
to college. Before renting the house | live in now, | stayed in an 
apartment in the city. | shared it with a couple of assholes that 
seemed nice enough before | moved in. Everyone knows the type. 
Won't pay their bills on time. Eats whatever they can lay hands on. It 
got worse and worse until | made up my mind. When I'd finally had 
enough, | left. We were four months into a one year lease. Now I'm 
just keeping an eye on the news. Waiting for the sparks. A gas leak, 
a stray match... Sooner or later, they'll burn. 


They always burn. 


the room from outside, still ignoring Herbie. Each 
infected shambles as if movement is difficult, jerking in 
large steps or squirming in small ones. These infected all 
surround the table and each takes turns grabbing 
handfuls of the flesh substance left behind by Alpha, 
pressing it into whatever orifices on themselves that they 
can; some into mouths, some into the chest, some 
behind their backs, some under the arms. When all the 
plates are empty this group leaves. Herbie remains here 
for several more minutes before retracting its camera 
and leaving. 


Immediately after leaving the home Herbie collides with 
an object. Panning the camera around the obstruction 
appears to be Alpha whose facial tendrils are 
intermingling with another infected having similar 
mutations. The impact is ignored and the two infected 
part ways after several minutes. Herbie is then directed 
to explore more areas of the village. 


The remains of what appears to have been a store show 
signs of severe fire damage as well as activity inside the 
building, which Herbie moves to investigate. The door is 
slightly ajar, and with firm movements of Herbie it is 
pushed open. No notice is taken of this action or it is 
ignored. 


Inside the store are several infected persons, most of whom are 
standing around. However one is on the ground rolling back and 
forth over the space of approximately 0.3 meters (1 foot), and is 
ignored by the others. Herbie rolls under the divider separating the 
cashier area from the customer area and pans around behind the 
counter. The upper half of a person is protruding from a cellar door 
behind the counter, this person does not appear to be suffering from 
advanced infection and wears the garb of a Russian soldier. Herbie 
zooms the camera in to confirm identification and it is noticed the 
eyes of this person are in constant movement, often focusing on 
Herbie. The rest of the soldier does not move. 


Herbie is directed to leave this area and proceeds to the 
back room. In this storage area a large pile of bodies are 


Grease 


You never liked grease. 


Grease, sweat, body oil, that weird family "secret sauce" that your 
aunt swore by, all of it. It had this sticky, all-consuming quality to it. It 
was moist, but it wasn't a refreshing kind of wet. It clung to your skin 
and refused to let go. Its presence was suffocating. 


You avoided it at all costs. You showered three times a day. You 
washed your hands and face after every meal. You stayed inside, 
away from the beating sun and omnipresent moisture. You wormed 
away from every occasion that involved a greasy meal. You couldn't 
stand it. 


One day, you woke up in a bed that was... oozing. You were 
relieved when you realized you didn't soil yourself. You were 
horrified when you realized you were soaking in a bed of your own 
sweat. You scrambled for the shower. You ignored the spi/it splat 
noises your feet made as you rushed over. You turned the faucet, 
and let the refreshing water wash over you. 


It wasn't enough. The grease was still in every pore and every fold 
of your body. You grab the soap and start scrubbing. And scrubbing. 
And scrubbing. It's surprisingly easy. Skin gives way to fat, which 
gives way to bone. All the lard and cholesterol melts, slips between 
your fingers, and disappears down the drain in a soapy slurry. 


But it isn't enough. You don't stop, even as the shower floor gains a 
fresh coat of gunk. 


It's on you. It's on you and it's staining you and it’s in you and it is 
you and it won't come off. You start scraping, scraping, trying to get 
it off. You reach deep inside. First, it's like trying to peel bark off of a 
tree. Then, it feels like grating a block of wax. Finally, it starts 
melting under the torrent of shower water. Curdles of osseous 
matter drift down into the floor and into the flood. Every last bit of 


you disappears into the drain.