Transcript generated automatically by AI and may contain errors.
Chapter 1: What is 'Don't Press Play' about?
Today's episode is presented by Corporate Retreat, in theaters May 22nd via Western Film Services and Passage Pictures. Described as a gory mix of the menu and saw, Corporate Retreat centers around a group of young executives whose luxury team-building trip descends into a bloody fight for survival against a vengeful retreat leader played by the inimitable Alan Ruck.
At the center of this horror comedy is an eclectic cast that also includes Odea Rush, Sasha Lane, Ashton Sanders, Zion Moreno, Kirby Johnson, and Rosanna Arquette. Aaron Fisher directs from a script he co-wrote with Carrie Lee Romeo with special makeup effects handled by Candyman and Scream 4 maestro Gary G. Tonecliffe.
You'll laugh, you'll cringe, you'll cover your eyes when Corporate Retreat hits theaters May 22nd. Get tickets now. No.
This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling, and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.
Okay, everyone, you just about packed up? We gotta head out soon.
Yes, we almost.
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Chapter 2: What themes are explored in 'The Last Log on the Fire'?
And did everyone have a good time this year?
Yeah, I suppose.
And did I try to kill any of you? No. So, do you think that maybe there's something you all want to say to me? Seriously? No one's going to apologize for thinking the worst of me? Again? This was by far the smoothest running camp we've ever done.
John, you get that we have to prepare ourselves for the worst, right?
No.
Come on, so you're telling me that if you were in our shoes, that you wouldn't be a little nervous?
Oh, you mean if I didn't have to be the one to set up an entire camp, plan schedules, travel, supplies, and literally everything else that we need to get through a month here? If I didn't have to worry about anything other than relaxing and telling some scary stories? I'm not the one who told each of you to bring along extra baggage, am I?
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Chapter 3: What happens during the camping trip in 'Don't Press Play'?
What? It was a metaphor. Let's just get everything packed up and head out. And I hope, I hope that this will go a long way to prove to you all that nothing weird is going on here. And I don't have any weird ulterior motives with any of you. Can we stop and get some grilled oysters on the way?
Ooh, and beignets?
Heck yeah!
Some beignets, oh my god.
We'll see if there's time. Hello? Hey, where'd everyone go? Hello? Did everyone leave already?
Ow!
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Chapter 4: How does the protagonist's discovery of the tape machine impact the story?
Owen? Of course it's me. You know, you could have asked that before shooting me in the arm with a dart.
Oh man, I am so sorry about that.
That's fine. I'm just glad it wasn't my neck. Now what were you yelling about? I was just... Wait, how are you still awake? Yeah, I'm pretty much immune to this stuff by now. And sleep. Haven't slept in a while, but I'm sure I'll be fine. What were you saying? Wait, where is everyone? That's actually exactly what I was saying.
Chapter 5: What eerie events unfold after pressing play on the tape?
Oh, do you think a predator got them? Like from the movie, Not a Politician.
They're called Yautja? And no. Not if they have any sense of self-preservation. What about Swamp Thing? He's a good guy. Man Thing? Too busy guarding the nexus of all realities. Listen, I think we need to stop going any deeper into nerddom and just assume that they all left without saying goodbye.
Rude.
Tell me about it.
He wouldn't bury a time capsule? That feels a little off-brand. Should we tell a story?
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Chapter 6: What is the significance of the last log on the fire in the second story?
Might as well. Looks like Rideshare won't be here for a while. What you got? Well, I thought there'd be more people here, but... I was thinking that I'd tell you... Don't press play. I walk into the rustic cabin where I'm spending the week. The door is slightly ajar. I grab a knife from my pack and explore the space, wishing to find myself alone.
I find an antique tape machine seemingly lifted from a spy thriller. A loop is about to close. Way out in the Jersey pines, sandy soil covers ancient knowledge and shifts aside as new growth reaches into the here and now. Out there, something rustles beneath the leaf litter with every step you take. Roots, bones, folklore, and perhaps they're all one and the same.
The mycelium network, the wood-wide web, is far older than civilization. The entire forest knows. Refuse lies on the forest floor as modern people wander by and discard their things out of disregard for the ecosystem.
Chapter 7: How does the uncle's encounter with the mysterious figure unfold?
Or maybe they've been dropped in terror as fight-or-flight systems kick in when confronted with a sudden change in noise levels. Woodland critters going silent so as not to attract the attention of something dangerous. Wind through the branches melting into moans of sorrow. Footsteps following far too closely. The whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of, well, I don't know.
The pine barrens are a living time slip. where the blurred lines between magic and technology register as analog noise. Even the premier scientific minds of Princeton University have ventured into the depths of these woods to travel time and space, to collapse parallel dimensions and traverse between worlds. Maybe they've done it. Something has.
I've heard suffering and fear in the Pine Barrens, but not from the forest itself. Well, I have heard gunshots and strange cries, but those had a definite localized sound profile, likely the real life sounds of hunting in the woods. What I mean is that I've tuned in to sounds of unnatural horror through radios and telephones. It only happens out by Mount Misery, but I think I found the source.
The first time I heard it, I was camping with the guys.
Chapter 8: What chilling conclusion does the story lead to regarding the fire's last log?
We had entered the forest by way of a not quite developed road at the end of a housing development on Mount Misery Road. The paved path slowly got rougher, faded to gravel, then to a grungy dirt path. The houses along the road were pretty nice, but they too became more rudimentary as the road reached into wilderness out of civilization.
A clearing stood on the right-hand side, where a lone oak that we dubbed the Tree of Knowledge stood sentinel over a cranberry bog and the overgrown footpaths that lay beyond. We kept driving past the tree and away from the homes and blacktop, deeper into the pine barrens.
The dirt road was sandy, with some ruts worn into it from other adventurers who explored the woods in their pickup trucks and ATVs. On this particular trek, our chariot of choice was a 1977 Plymouth Volare, not ideal for off-roading, but it was slightly more accommodating than my 72 Duster.
We had gone deep enough into the woods that there was no light to speak of since there were no street lamps. The moon was out, but not high enough to illuminate the path. We slowed to a crawl, turned the headlights out, and drove by flashlight held out of the shotgun window. I had gotten out and laid down on the trunk, eyes to the stars that shone brilliant in the pitch dark sky.
Eventually, we spotted a path along the side of the dirt road that looked like we could pull in just enough to obscure the car. We backed in and unloaded our meager gear that would suffice for one night. A two-man dome tent, a five-dollar tube tent strung up on some laundry line, a few bags of snacks, some stogies, and a boombox.
We didn't dare risk a fire since we didn't have a fire ring or a portable stove, so munchies would have to suffice. We didn't even bring any alcohol since we were fresh out of high school and had no means to procure any. Just dumbass teenagers and a night away from family obligations. We turned on some tunes and washed down our cheap cigars with Doritos and gallon jugs of orange drink.
The tape of Black Sunday by Cypress Hill was simultaneously hyping us up and chilling us out. When we heard the sounds that changed the vibe from guys night out to maybe we should leave. The cassette seemed to glitch, then warp and slow down. A weird hiss and crackle popped in, as if someone had recorded over the studio-produced album with a tape recorder.
The noises sounded like wind at first, then the moaning of the breeze turned into groaning of someone in pain. We heard footsteps running through the woods, but not in real life, not in the woods around us. The running was coming from the radio. It sounded like a documentary of a person running away from something terrifying in the woods.
The fear was contagious as the guys and I stared at the boombox with jaws open, stealing glances at one another, wordlessly asking each other, Did you just hear that? Even more suddenly than it appeared, the frightening sounds stopped and Cypress Hill popped back out of the speakers. We turned the radio off.
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