Two Chilling Creepy Stories (Revisited)

Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. As requested, since I was going to take a short break and ask you what you would like to hear this week. The top two stories that made it to this combined episode were A Voice in the Woods and The Doll Maker, so they will play back to back in this extended episode helpe you enjoy them. My name is Edwin and here's a scary story. There was a documentary film made not too long ago about the guilt that one feels when you win the lottery or to be the only one to survive a terrible accident. Why me? And That's what I've been asking myself ever since. It was winter time and my friends wanted to go out to snowboard some of the areas that they close off when the storms roll in and suddenly driving in those roads becomes impossible. My friends take advantage of that, so they wanted to go snowboard there. Nobody was allowed to, though my friend Mike used to say that it was because of some conspiracy that's trying to lure everyone into resorts and ski areas, the ones where you have to pay, but I know otherwise. The places we were on were private property and if you know anything of the people that own such big spaces of land that doesn't have anything but trees without their leaves and strange dirt trails that lead to nowhere. Well, you know that they don't like visitors. Two other friends were with us that day, Isabelle and a friend from college named Pete, who had just gotten out for winter break. All they wanted to do was get out of town. It had been Pete's idea to stay out at his uncle's cabin about two hours away from the place where Mike went to snowboard, which we would be able to get there comfortably if we left before it got dark. But like with most of the plans we would come up with all the time, this one flopped. But it wasn't any of our faults. I didn't even like to snowboard, honestly, had brought one board along because of Mike, but I'd just looked dumb trying to go downhill and getting stuck somewhere near the top for no reason. Then I would get sweaty and then cold, and all I wanted to do was to get to the car and go home. This time it was no different. I hung out around the car while the rest climbed up the hill with their boards. Then they would reach the bottom and make their climb back up. Pete and Mike were trying to pressure me into bringing the car down to the base to pick them back up, but I had no way of knowing where to go. Plus there were no roads down there, only these thin animal trails that had long disappeared beneath the snow. They agreed that they would not go very far down, and without agreement to make the climb up to the car. While I waited for them, they climbed up the hill. The strange silence of the snow was enough to make their voices disappear within seconds of them walking away. Suddenly, the sounds of snow scraping against their boots blended with the sound of the light winds that were coming from over the mountain, and then there was nothing. I walked around the car and stepped into the passenger seat of it, quickly reaching for the glove box where I had kept the book I had been meaning to finish. I pulled the seat back, stretched out and open up the book to chapter fourteen. The story had been about a man who was on a mission to hide his family's fortune from criminals. Not the funnest thing in the world, but a great way to pass the time. Reading was not something I could do with my friends around, because of all their questions, laughter, and their urge to keep interrupting me. But there was something off about that late afternoon, I could tell as soon as they left. The silence around me, with nothing but the trees that played dead along the side of the road with other leaves creating this sea of wood and spikes as far as the eye could see, was enough to scare Isabel, the most logical and bravest of the group. Maybe it was the many books I had read, unlike this one about criminals, but about the ones with the murderers, or the tales of recorded exorcisms from just a few hundred years ago. The images they made in my head all involved these leafless trees, hundreds of them, creating their own dark world for me to visit with every page. To think that in just a little over an hour, the darkness within those trees would spread and surround the car where I sat comfortably, the sunlight becoming deeper orange with every passing minute was unsettling. In parts. Sure, I blamed the books, but it was through them that I learned of the cultures out of the northern and central parts of the United States, of the hidden lakes beneath the mountains, and of creatures I had only been documented one time, only to later lose their classification due to lack of records out in the wild. The world was a strange place, and I knew almost all about it through those books. Sometimes I thought it was the same reason why I stayed as close to civilization as p When there wasn't a parking lot around, I would sit at a bench or stand by a street lamp, anything that would remind me that humans live there too. The car was the closest thing to that, although there in the middle of the snowed and road, surrounded by dead trees, that's not what I would have picked. Swoosh. I heard Mike yelling as he crossed the road with the snowboard quickly from about twenty feet away. From behind the car, I saw Isabelle speed past the road as well, a bit slower than Mike, and then Pete's was close behind. The sounds they made were there for only an instant, and once again I was alone, or so I thought. There was a scratching sound from the right side of the car by my window. As I think back on it, I cannot remember if I had imagined this thing or if it had been real. But this shape, I don't know how else to describe it, had sped from the left side of the car to the right. It seemed to follow my friends as it disappeared between the trees, snowboarding down the hill. But yes, it must have been something. Otherwise there would be nothing else to blame. And if murder books have taught me anything, it's that blame serves a purpose that can ironically end a mystery and bring a strange sense of peace to our minds. I was holding the book in front of me completely still, although the lines of the words along the page were just to blur. My eyes tried to scan the mirrors around me, all without moving my head. Just wait, I told myself, Wait until they come back. Bears are not supposed to be around at this time of the year. They're hibernating, right. But wait, the person the thing I had seen, walked by on two feet very quickly and took giant leaps. It was becoming clear in my mind, just as it fought with itself to tell me that I had just imagined the whole thing. But then, out of nowhere, I heard my name, Jason, Jason, Jason, it was Isabelle. I set the book down and looked out toward the back of the car. Jason. Isabelle must have been standing very close in order for me to hear her that clearly. I looked around the car, but I could see nobody there. I put on my gloves and zipped up the jacket just a little bit more. As I reached for the door handle, the shadows were long at this hour. The shade of the mountain was covering everything, and only those golden beams in the distance. Patterns with the dark silhouettes of the trees were visible. Just as I was opening the door, Isabel's voice went from light and airy to deep and guttural. I heard the sounds of the tree scraping against something as it rushed toward me. Immediately I shut the door and locked it. I looked around toward the trees, and I could see a long shadow of a figure hiding behind one of the trees, peeking. Its head was around one of the tree trunks to look at me. I could do nothing my body would just not move. I was frozen in that car and try to remain completely still. And as they stared at the trunk of that tree, as the whole area started going dark, sometimes almost losing the tree among the many of them that were there, I could not look away. I needed to make sure that once that thing moved, I would confirm it for myself that what I had seen was real, that it was hiding. But it just kept getting darker until I could see nothing around the car anymore. All I could do was wait for everyone to come back inflicked on the reading light by the rear room mirror in the car. It was getting cold inside, and still there were no signs of my friends. My mind to wander away. I thought of the many dark and snowy forests I had read about through the hundreds of books that sat on my shelf, The one where a cursed father took his family out on a picnic and hung everybody, including their young daughter. It had been an episode of clarity for him. He said, his family was the devil, split in three. When it came his turn to end his life, he suddenly realized what he had done. The stories of unknown creatures that live in the caves and holes in the ground, those that come out and search for food humans. Those were the things that scared me the most, but also the old witches that live among the trees and do their collecting at night. Who took my friends? I looked around at the back seat for an extra jacket. When I found a flashlight, I was able to reach it with my left arm and turn it on. I shined away from the car and toward the dark trees just a few feet away from my window. What if my friends had gotten lost out there? With so many trees, it would be extremely easy to lose your bearings and head in a direction you should avoid private properties. I remember having this conversation with them many times. They always dismissed it. Those owners don't miss around. But as a beam of light jumped from tree to tree, something caught my eye. Someone I think it was Isabelle was approaching from the trees, walking unnaturally toward me. Her legs twitched and her arms dragged much lower than I had remembered. Her dark hair was now covering half of her face as she looked right at me. I reached for the door and immediately heard something that I can only describe as a windy scream, something that came from the woods, Jason. I heard Isabelle say, didn't seem to come from her direction. She was not wearing her yellow jacket this time, and it was freezing out there. She kept walking toward me, and it didn't take long for me to realize that it was not her or someone else, some trap, someone wearing a mask, or a mannequin of some kind. It would be a figment of my own imagination. I could only move the flashlight along with Isabelle as she stepped backward toward the trees and then collapsed completely to the ground, merging with it, disappearing in the darkness. I heard another scratching sound, this time from up the hill. The name that kept being mentioned, Jason, My name sounded cracked now, and there was a mix between Mike's and Pete's voices. Even a casual reader would know about the voices in the woods. These stories are something we've all heard, right, Jason. There had been so many stories about these, starting with the case of Emily Fairfield, the same woman who had claimed to have survived one of the most bizarre situations while out in the woods of the northern part of the United States. I must have been in high school when I first read about it, and had been a part of Native American studies and our final projects, although the teacher did not end up approving the topic because it was too quote supernatural in nature. I love the title of that supernatural in nature, and yes it was exactly what it was. Emily Fairfield was said to have survived a whendigo attack while out in the woods one evening, claiming to have been saved by her silver necklace. They say that these creatures have a strange power for lack of a better word, and that was that they could mimic voices of people that you know in order to lure you into the woods. It could be the voice of your mom, of a sister, or of a person in need of help, anything to get you out there in the dark. Emily had been out with her sisters on a camping trip when the other two decided to go and look for wood for the camp fire. Emily, sitting by the tent, suddenly heard one of her sisters calling for help, so she jumped up and looked around. Even the description of this entity, this large figure covered in fur with horns and standing on two feet, was staring at her from the side of one of the trees. At first she thought it was a joke, but the thing rushed toward her and then rushed away to the other side. The stench of the thing's body lingered even after she lost sight of it. But as she sat alone, she began to worry and walked toward to where the sisters said they would be, And when she found them, they had been hiding at the base of one of the tree trunks, describing what they had seen and begging to leave the campground immediately. As they ran back to over the camp site, they could hear from out in the woods, their names being called in the voice of their father. He was asking for help, calling each one by name. They made a bag, packed up, and left. The entire account was documented in a pamphlet type of book, a fairly short read, although of course terrifying. I had also read the account from a deer hunter, a man that only went by the name Burns, who refused to go back out into the woods after his terrifying experience with another one of those creatures. His experience was one of curiosity and quite believable because of the many witnesses accounts he provided, although it was also the way that his whole identity was tied up to those dark forests, as a man who would rise up three hours before the sun rise to go out into the wilderness to hunt someone who was known for his hunting rifle collections and the jerky he would make, and then him suddenly turning everything around and refusing to step foot back into any type of wooded area. The stories were there, had read them myself, and it was with a strange sense of pride that I knew that I would stay alive because of them and their warnings. A bit extreme, I remember thinking, but by quickly remembering back at what I had just seen and heard, my paranoia started making sense. My cell phone read five point forty one pm, although the place was as dark as it could be, basically nighttime that early, and even though I didn't want to panic, I knew that my friends should have made it back up the hill by this time. When you're out in nature, the clocks don't mean as much as a sunrise and sunset. They knew that all three of them were into hiking and winter sports. They were the type of people that would spend all day out at the lake, the crazies that would take surfing lessons during the trips to the beach, and the ones that would look up prices for swimming with sharks. But I sat there in the deafening silence for an hour and then two. There were no signs of them. I knew that if I moved the car and they showed up, it would become more dangerous for them, especially since we had no way to communicate with the weak cell phone signal up there. I told myself that I would wait for just one hour, and then I would climb up to one of the clearings where I would have better signal, and then call for help. Then I would come back and wait in the car, and I would be ready to make my way out if I really had to. Everything was set in my mind. I looked toward the back seat. The jacket and boots I had refused to use were still there, neatly folded by my water bottle. I turned off the reading light in the car, and suddenly the outside became slightly more visible, silhouettes all around the car growing from the snow on the ground. But that was it. I refused to move, and I slowed down my breathing to listen for anyone approaching, any sounds of boots against the snow, of branches breaking, or someone yelling my name. Despite the plan I had made inside my head, I still had that gut wrenching feeling was wrong, and I just sat there with that sinking feeling, combined with fleeting hopes that all three of them would come walking up from behind the car, that I would be startled for a bit and then be relieved that they had made it back. I thought of the jokes we would make there were knowing laughter as they would tell me everything I had missed and that I absolutely had to go with them next time. But another hour passed and they didn't come back. I put the boots and jacket on, and I checked my phone, and I made sure to have the keys before stepping out of the car. I was expecting to sink more into the snow, but it didn't. The light wind against my face would have felt much nicer under any other circumstance. The image of the clear night and stars came back only in the memories I had of that night. The scenario I have played in my head over and over, remembering certain things that I hadn't noticed that same night, and then trying to convince myself that it never happened. Of impossible reasons of why I lost my friends. I knew where to go. Mike had told me that there was only one clearing at the top of the hill, just about a ten minute hike up. I could see the signal bars on my phone going up to two, and with that, without making it to the top, just about half way, I dialed nine one one. The call was a bit spotty, but the dispatcher understood everything and told me to stay on the line for as long as I could. They got my details, and they got my friend's information, and then they asked me to describe my surroundings. Once they had everything and confirmed that I was not in any danger of myself, we ended the call and I was told to wait. I called Isabel and it went straight to voicemail. I called Mike and his phone didn't even ring, but when I called Pete it rang. I called him again and again, but there was no answer. My hands now shaking, unaware if it was because of the colder of pure fear, I dialed one last time and it started ringing, then it stopped. I could hear wind, Pete, I asked, Pete, where are you again? Just the howling wind, and then the call cut off. I called again, and it rang and rang, but no one answered. I was standing there in the middle of these dark woods by myself, staring at something my mind could not differentiate between darkness and silhouettes, completely lost in thought, wondering what could have possibly happened to them? And it's the same feeling when I think about it today. I started to make my way back down to over the car, rushing to get back there before emergency services arrived. But just as I was about to get to the empty, snow covered road where the car was, I heard my name, Jason, Jason. But the voice wasn't one of my friend's voices. It was mine, Jason, can you help me? It was me, Jason. I refused to look in any other direction but that door handle, and I sprinted toward the car. I had left it unlocked. Fortunately, I hopped into the driver's side and locked the door. I started it, and through those headlights I saw it, the creature I had only made up in my mind through the words in the books. I had read an animal looking figure standing on two legs. A tall beast burnt skin exposed its head, glowing against the headlights like a skull, just about fifteen feet in front of my windshield. It opened its mouth and let out a deep scream. I had nowhere to go. Then suddenly it sprinted down the hill with giant leaps between the trees and disappeared in the darkness. And then there were headlights behind me. What happened next becomes a blur every time police officers, search and rescue teams, and the long nights speaking with my friend's parents about everything. Mike's body was found with a broken neck at the base of the hill, not far from where I had been parked that night. It was labeled as an accident, but p and Isabel went missing, and for days the search continued. Hikers and skiers also helped with the searching, but eventually the search parties started giving up and they haven't been found even to this day. I had been the only witness, the only one that came back, and with that comes a lot of questions about what I saw. They assume the figure I saw had been a bear, and my part of the investigation concluded. Since then, several groups have tried to get in touch as it built a database of sightings of these creatures, creatures that are said to make others disappear out in the wilderness. But we still don't have any answers. Just be careful out there, and if you hear a voice in. The woods, run. Dansville is a very small town near the coast where my aunt and uncle live, now mostly a spot for people driving through with their families or lost tourists for one of the waterfalls that showed up in an older issue of National Geographic at one point. But perhaps better than the waterfalls, this town's claim to fame is actually about the town next to it. It was an old, abandoned place that got left behind after some of the larger cities incorporated and this one refused to join the road network. Then it became where people used to go film movies and then leave behind the sets alone to rot. A very niche group of movie fans would track the place down for pictures of forgotten films. Now, I know this story is going to sound odd, but I do ask you to remain respectful of the old man who existed since his life and struggle has to be worth something, even after the many years since his passing. I was in high school back when I first heard of his story and wanting to be a big shot journalist. At one point I wanted to explore it. I had already done stories on the mailman's retirement and the future of libraries once the Internet came in, but some of the most interesting ones were of the missing lambs and the strange lights that Missus Hill would see from the side of her house late at night. With pictures and everything, I was able to get a headline image on the actual town newspaper, and then later it was picked up by the county. The answer to the lights was just gas, at least that's what the scientist said. But this story, this one was different. A man nameless at this time, still lived in the town where everyone had left. He would get groceries delivered once a week by car, where he would make a list of materials he needed to make repairs on his home. And although the poor man was getting older, nobody seemed to want to take care of him. He had no family, no friends, and he didn't seem to want to talk to anybody. Yet he was an important person and pretty well known. That's what I wanted my story to be about. So I got a right from the man at the grocery warehouse one day, and perhaps too hopeful, I also packed a tent, a sleeping bag, and a large bottle of water. Also carried two cans of raviolis in my school bag. I wanted to be able to spend the weekend there. I wanted to meet with this man, get his story and publish it. Maybe he would finally get out of that town, perhaps just get some help. Everyone around the school knew part of the story of the man in the haunted town, yet nobody could describe where he lived. That would be the first I met up with the kind man, with the truck already loaded with all sorts of prepackaged foods, soaps, and chunks of spare wood pieces bags that looked like pillows. They were stuffed at the top of whatever light material was inside. I thought he was joking when he said to meet him at five in the morning. We drove through Dansville and into the edge, the one laid by the last hill before. Everything became flat and grassy, with the greenery slowly getting larger until it turned to trunks and then trees that surrounded the small two way road, and it seemed like it too was vanishing as it transformed into dirt and then gravel. Jim at that point rolled up his window and asked me to lock my door up ahead the broken down sign of Frinton, the letters now being able to be read thanks to the parts of the sign that faded first, the grass growing through the asphalts now as we passed by, the buildings still intact, perhaps a broken window here and there, but I still felt nervous about going through the intersection without looking both ways, even though I wasn't driving. Jim, the driver who worked at the warehouse, had tried to make conversation with me early on, but we ran out of things to talk about, or simply dived into the moment of going to a place lost in time. We kept going through the main street, eaten into another patch of trees, where the buildings houses now were more spread. Apart by the large oak tree was a corner house slightly larger than the others. The area surrounding it had no grass growing into the sidewalks or the streets. I knew we had arrived. There's no phone here, kid, Jim said, as he stopped the car. You saw how we got here, right, that's the way back. He then said that if I got past the wooded area, a car surely would see me and I could hitch a ride. And even though he was trying to be helpful, I couldn't stop thinking about that one word he said, if if I got past the wooded area, I would be okay. I tried to forget about it as I helped them unload the bags and boxes to the porch of the old wooden house. Once we were finished, he knocked on the door three times hard and shot me one of those looks that asked if I was sure about what I was doing. Then he suddenly got back to the truck and drove away, his arm sticking out the window. It took about two minutes when I finally heard steps coming up to the door. I clearly remember being so nervous, even more nervous than when I interviewed the mayor or when they picked up the body of Tracy's mom from the edge of the river and I was there to write a story on it. The old man opened the spring door and looked at me, asking if I was all right, and how he could help me. I told him that I was a writer and that I wanted to do a story on him with all of the confidence I had. His entire demeanor changed right then the story He said on me. Why in Heaven's name would you want to do that? He asked with a chuckle. He then invited me in. His house was neatly decorated, although the stacks of newspapers on the center and dinner tables were out of place, he seemed to have things in order generally, Ben, he said, Ben gritsmore as he stretched out his hand for a handshake, before wiping off foot looked like sawdust from his hands and trying again. I introduced myself and asked if I could help him bring in the stuff. He took a deep breath, knowing it would be a lot of work, and then looked down, nodding while getting the energy to go outside and grab the bangs. He said he needed to finish up a few things in the back and that I could wait for him for a bit while he came back. For interrupting himself to ask where I would be staying or if I would be getting picked up. I pointed to my backpack, and he got the point saying that he had four rooms in the place that if I could shake off the dust on one of them, could stay there. I remember wholeheartedly believing that I would be staying on the porch of a random house with my tent and sleeping bag, thinking it would so somehow make a good story for the place itself. But I had never been camping, and I didn't know what I was doing, so I was really happy to have agreed to it. Besides, from all of the stories heard about the town, I was not sure I would actually want to see it alone in the darning, and so the man and I moved everything inside by the kitchen counter and he rushed back outside toward the backyard. Rumor said that this man Ben was a doll maker, and he would not make just any type of doll, but specialized replicas of children that had died. Some people said he started with the dolls for his own wife and daughter, while others said that the tale had a more sinister beginning, stories that dated way back to when the town had people in it who told and retold the story of the legend himself. The dollmaker of Frinton with no more people to tell his tale, it would end up being just me, the one who had to have the accurate account of a story and share it to keep it alive. And I remember sitting there watching as the sun went high up in the sky and then later came back down through the trees. In front of me. I could hear the scratching sounds of sanding material coming from the backyard with sudden breaks from the old man. I had already gone through a can of my food and a couple of SIPs of water by this point, with time flying by, as I thought of the questions I would ask Ben, and wondering how he would react to the rumors of him from the nearby towns I was young. If I could go back in time, I would have helped them get out, and I would have gotten out of there myself before nightfall. Part two of the Dull is coming up. Right after this stay with me, Ben came around the house and toward the porch just as the sun had set. He walked straight to a large barrel on the side of the porch, and with another bucket, he took out some of the water and rinsed off his hands. He smiled nervously as he looked around and said in a near whisper that we should go inside. As soon as we got in, he shut the door in the three locks before going around the windows and the side entrance to do the same thing. His house had electricity. At one point I could see the old television in lamps all over the place, but now he seemed to get around with oil lamps and candles, like a trip back in time. And I had my camera with me. But even back then, a piece of advice I heard from my teacher had been to watch out for photographing inside private spaces, so I held back the urge. The place smelled like dust, but was otherwise clean, and I watched as he opened up the bags we had brought him, and he made two sandwiches baloney and mayo that he got from a small packet on two slices of white bread. He quickly walked over to the chair next to mine and sat down, taking a big bite out of his food. That was my chance. I asked him about himself, his family, and everything was going well until I asked him why he lived alone in the town with no people. There are no people here, he said, but not alone, not alone. If the man was talking about his dolls keeping him company, I knew that this story would be too much for me, and that I would need to find another angle to it or be very cautious. With a person like that, one never knows what to expect. He changed the subject upon, probably realizing that I was uncomfortable with it. Everything. Then he told me about one of his sons who was helping support him with the deliveries, and that he would come by every once in a while to help out with projects here and there. He went on for a while about himself, and then talked about the things he would eat and how he gets his water, and then he mentioned how the town used to be, before pausing and then quickly changing the subject again. Mister Gritsmore, I asked, I'm here to do a story about you, as the last resident here in your life. What do you do all day? Oh? Well, I make dolls, he said. Everyone knows that they've been photographed, and I've told their stories hundreds of times throughout the years. He continued. It turns out this man had been making them for almost fifty years. Twenty or so of those years had been all by himself in the town. He pretty much watched it die, and anyone knew the story of Frinton, it would be him. But as it dug deeper into his knowledge of the town itself, I found more questions and answers. He said that it was a very old town, with certain areas dating back hundreds of years as one of the first settlements. He spoke of the major historic events and plagues and other difficulties of the people of the town. The place itself was a testament to the survival of human civilization. He continued, exaggerating sentences with his hands as he spoke. He spoke of the elections for mayor, the people who made it out of town for bigger things, who later returned to settle back in and live out their years. And then just like that, the smile went away from his face. Everything was good until it wasn't. He said, I. Need to first explain that this story was never written for school newspaper, and in fact, it never saw the light of day in anything. What I heard there was so bizarre and personal that I decided to keep it to myself as a form of tribute to Ben. But at the time I guess I had my doubts that maybe I just didn't want to damage my own reputation. Plus Ben cared for the town so much that he died with it, and who knows of the many secrets that would be at risk of being discovered because of uninvited guests looking for a thrill, completely ignoring the actual events, and just following a blind story written by a high school kid. Ben stood up and went over to the back of the house to a sort of second living room. He had back there to grab a crate. I could see the black hair coming out from the sides of it as he pulled out a doll with both hands, large about the size of an actual four or five year old child, and then set it on the floor. I was in awe of the thing and walked over to it to look at its face, glassy brown eyes that sparkled with the light of the oil lamps from the other room. Its cheek imperfect like that of a real human face blemishes on the skin along with its dead expression. The doll was wearing a blue dress poorly sewn together with white cloth around the neck. I looked over to Ben, who, instead of being proud to display his creation, looked tired and solemn, a look more appropriate for a funeral. He explained that the dolls are what he makes, going into details on materials like wood and wax and composite, natural hair and cloth from actual dresses. Days are spent sometimes on the faces and hands whenever he has a solid reference for them. But what surprised me the most was that each one was said to be complete, unique, and I mean sure. I thought he must have meant unique, as in he would not be able to accomplish the same level of detail on every single one, but he expanded on it. Each one had a name, a last name, and was of a certain age that was intrigued. If this really was the case, the people of my town and the surrounding places had a reason to start rumors about the guy and a strange obsession. I figured I would tell him about the rumors at that moment, and risking getting kicked out into the darkness of a dead town. I told him. I said that the people talked about him, and in not the most positive light, that he was a creep who liked to live by himself, and that he had mental problems that would not let him join a serious society. He looked at me and smiled, making sure that I was not going to say anything else before he started talking. Kid, you're not the first person to tell me that, you know. I looked at him, waiting for him to continue again. Another tip for my journalism teacher. I wish I would have said something though changed the subject, or I don't know, talked about his family again, but then he explained it. In the early times of the town, stories were collected of a particular family who was not welcomed by the rest of the townsfolk, and that through every generation, the plot of the land that they had would be seized or swapped for a larger piece, with the condition that it would be farther away from the center of town. The family would usually agree to the offer easily, it was hard to refuse more land. They were able to keep it civil for some time, until one of the family member's husband passed away and was left alone to fend for herself against a town that did not want her there. Eventually, though, peculiar events started happening around the town, like things with the clock tower being witnessed by several people to be moving backwards at the time when thousands of rats arrived and destroyed wooden columns and the entire bakery. The event labeled on a wall at the tiny library. He said that talked about the birds that stopped in place in the sky, or the time the large white owl stood on a branch on the center square for over two days straight. The townspeople had gathered around the church and at the courts to talk about what had been happening, before deciding to do nothing because the events were simply peculiar things. Suggestions that they were evil would seem too silly to go on the public records, and so they decided to leave it at that. Suspicions had already grown about Bertha the widow, being responsible for all of this, but nobody had any proof, and so she remained by herself at the edge of town. Eventually, the events escalated. Children were disappearing from the market, from the play areas, and some snatched in the middle of the night right from their beds. Siblings little kids would sometimes have to testify about the disappearances, saying that they saw a woman come in through the window and take their little brother or sister by the leg and then drag them straight out. All this time, I was looking at Ben's expression to see if he would suddenly smile or admit to be joking around, but he only kept getting more and more upset at his own memories. Eventually, family started leaving the town, everyone from the church people to the elected officials, and then hundreds of children over the years disappeared from Frinton and other nearby towns. Stories circulated about the widow searching for children to bring back to her house, but that part been assured was real, and he demanded for it to be added to my story. I looked at him writing the eye when he asked me if I believed him. My journalism teacher never taught me what to say in such a case, so I just said my truth that the story was hard to believe. It's important to mention that eventually I did find records of the disappearances. But what about the dolls? You may ask, who were they for and why did he spend so much time on them. Ben's enthusiasm for answering the questions went away right then, and even today, I consider the way I answered his question to be one of my biggest mistakes. He was still very polite when he answered the process of making his dolls out of photographs that were sent to him. Every detail had to be right for them to be taken. He explained everything from the shape to the weight and the color of the hair were spot on always, and I believed him. The doll he had made that evening was just so realistic. Before the conversation died out, I asked again, after building some report with him, why he did what he did. The man simply stared at the lamp about to die out, and then in silence, he took a deep breath and then said, more children will not go missing. When I think back on that conversation, I am not sure Ben knew if what he was doing would work, But there's a little left to say when you're sitting next to a sobbing old man. I was looking for an answer that was not there. Perhaps the guy only did what he was told, and had done so for so long that it was all he knew, getting better with every doll that he made. For no reason at all, there were no kids left in what remained in that town. Lest he meant kids from other places. Ben showed me the room where I would be staying and immediately walked over to the window and then pressed on the latch to make sure that it was closed. I heard him walk around the house to the other rooms to wiggle the doors and windows. The bed sheets were cold when I got into bed with my sleeping bag. It was sometime around three in the morning when I heard footsteps from the porch just around the corner from where my bedroom was. Everything was silent for a bit. The window had no curtains, and the blue light from the moon was shining straight to my face. When I turned toward it, I waited for another creek, the kind you expect to hear when you lift your foot from the floor. There was nothing, and that's when I saw the face of the doll, the same doll from earlier that day, right against the glass. It sank down towards the sill very slowly, until behind it I got to see the face of an old woman, and she smiled and then tapped on the glass and then signaled for me to open it. I pulled up the sleeping bag over my eyes and waited for her to go away, but all I could hear were the chuckles. After a few seconds, I heard the footsteps stood the porch, and then the grass and the gravel, and she walked away, making her way through the town once again. Are there any stories that you'd like me to revisit at some point? I mean that will be for some time in the future, but for now, we have another brand new story for you next week, so make sure you're following the show so I can tell it to you. Thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary, everyone, see it sooner.