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This is Creepy.

Our podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing Creepypastas and urban legends in the world.

Whether these stories truly happened, all of our simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents the Bad Days, Day 36, Away from Home, written by Charlie Davenport and submitted for consideration to CreepyPod at gmail.com.

It had been a hundred miles or more since you packed up everything you owned and simply left in the middle of the night.

You'd driven for hours. Long past the point where I let's threaten to pull themselves down and snap shut over your aching eyes. What you pushed on.

Every hour spent on the road meant more miles between you and everything that you really even behind.

Everything from the diners you sat through with nothing but angry silence, passing between your parents and the creek of your bedroom door in early morning hours.

You'd drove until there was just a thin sheen of view left in the tank in your spine screamed in protest, demanding that you get out of the car and stretch.

You debated for some time but when the gas station with its promise of 24 hour operation came into view, practicality took over.

Besides, you were two states away from where you started and that had to be far enough for a start.

As you stood out in the early October chill operating the pump and filling up as far as your meager savings would allow, your eyes drifted over to a stand of skeletal tree opposite the station.

And after you're right, there it was.

Its shingles graved from exposure, smeared green from the mold that neglected a loud doin' crotch.

The front porch that bowed in the middle from the weight of so many heavy winter snowfalls looked like a welcoming grin.

When the light inside, the one by the front hallway came on.

You knew, you knew that if you stood there a moment more you would see your grandfather step out onto those dilapidated steps and light his first marble of the evening.

You would see you and then, you'd be home.

...