Hello everyone, I hope that you're all doing well.

We're back again with another collection of stories that are perfect for a rainy day.

So let's settle in and drift further into Mr. Creep's mind.

Children on my street used to go missing.

I found them in the walls of my house.

Written by Quincy Lee.

The head in the wall was crusted and decayed, mummified in its plastic shroud, the withered face opened

mouthed in a scream, or maybe the jaw loosened as the muscles decayed. The plastic is what

held in the smell, though I do vaguely remember sometimes in odor permeating, especially during steamy summers.

I was always told the smell was garbage.

Alongside the head, other parts sat stored in plastic bins.

When I finally saw the corpse from the wall reassembled, it was hard to believe that anybody would do this to another human.

Harder still to imagine it was my own father who had committed such horrific acts.

Before I continue, a warning.

If you're triggered by any graphic descriptions, do not read further.

Mine is a harrowing account.

I grew up in a house surrounded by bodies, the bodies of childhood playmates and acquaintances.

When asked why he had done it, my father always gave the same answer.

As I recount the story now,

I picture him in that interview room, how he must have looked facing the police.

Victor Chen was a small nervous, almost delicate man. He must have been petrified. His eyes swollen shut and his lip bleeding.

His hands rubbing and rubbing,

...