The House on Edgemont & Hallow Birth
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I'm John Grylls from Creepy, and I listen to the Be Afraid Podcast Network. Now…
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.
Hey, y'all. I think it officially feels like autumn for me now. I know technically it doesn't start until next week, and I'm not sure what things are like wherever you all live, reside, or refuse to die. But we started to get that little chill in the air here. We're starting to see a few leaves changing colors. Obviously there are more and more Halloween decorations popping up on lawns. But it's more than that, isn't it? It just doesn't fall for me until I see social media explode with people complaining that their favorite football team let them down after just the first game of the season. Maybe it's just the calloused emotions of a lifelong Vikings fan. Maybe I'm just evil, and chocolate adults screaming over millionaires playing a game.
I don't know. So let's get to things I do know. Scary stories. First up, from writer D.H. Parrish and narrated by Owen McCune, Creepy Presents, The House on Edgemont.
The house on Edgemont Road always looked somewhat different. Not dramatically different, mind you, just enough to notice. In a neighborhood where it was often hard to distinguish one residence from another, no other house had the same bi-gabled roof and red shuttered windows. No other house possessed a walkway of slate slabs cutting a serpentine path through the lawn from the sidewalk to the small front porch. Indeed, no other house had an actual Edgemont address. The other two houses that flanked it on the north side of this short suburban street belonged to the respective cross streets, and the lots opposite were the fenced-off backyards of the homes that fronted yet a different road. In addition to the unique architectural features, the home bore a different color scheme, although that might be the wrong way to explain it, since beyond the red shutters it had the same Tudor-style whitewashed walls framed by dark timbers that characterized many others.
Rather, it was as if an unusual tint and brightness filter had been superimposed on the property, an almost technicolor effect that reminded one of a well-preserved postcard from a completely different era. That said, nothing about the house's location or layout suggested that it possessed a distinctive history. The first person I saw at the house was the little girl. It's not that I kept track of everyone and everything in the neighborhood, but I'd been walking Henry after I got home from work on pretty much the same circuit for the past year since I moved here after the divorce, and I'd never seen anyone there. So when the curly-headed cherubic toddler in a powder blue shift dress stood at the home's doorstep staring at me as Henry pulled me forward, it was noteworthy.
The girl's expression seemed neither amiable nor fearful, more curious. I offered a friendly wave, but she didn't reciprocate. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes locked with mine until I was about to pass the property line, one well demarcated by a row of closely planted, well-trimmed cypress trees. Then the door opened behind her, and she disappeared through it. When I got home, the neighbor I shared my duplex with, Joe, a retired widower who'd lived here at least 30 years, was sitting on his side of our porch drinking a can of beer while listening to the ball game on the radio. I asked him if he knew who lived at the Edgemont house, and he said he wasn't aware that anyone did, that had been vacant for some time.
When I told him I'd seen someone there, he said he'd look into it, see who bought it. I told him I didn't mean to set him a task, and he replied that it was no problem, that he'd had a bit too much free time now anyway, and, well, idle hands and all that.
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