Creeper’s Glass Eye

Podcast of me reading the text of the night we fished at Creeper’s pond on Sound Author’s hosted by Dr. Kent for his Halloween special.

Recommended for parents and students who enjoy sitting around a roaring campfire and telling a scary story or two.

Text of The Day I Hit a Home Run at Great American Ball Park
Scene: Fishing at Creeper’s pond

Larry and Elephant Skin were serious fishermen; they had already hiked to the other side of the pond and were busy casting hunks of seasoned liver just beyond the edge of the lime green slurry.

Butch dug through the Barkers’ tackle boxes searching for additional fake bait when he stumbled across Larry’s midnight snack. He sniffed the cellophane and growled, “Mmm! Peanut butter.” He tore at the wrapper like a kid opening his first Christmas present, and his bite was so large he’d nearly split the sandwich in two. His ornery smile soured as he spit out, “Cucumbers! Who puts cucumber on a peanut butter sandwich?!”

Lucky bit in to Elephant Skin’s sandwich, “Nice,” he countered.

“Nice!” Butch hacked out. “What’s yours?”
“Peanut butter and green olives.”

“You’re sick,” Salty said, as he flipped out his line with a fat, juicy night crawler on it, just barely hiding the barb.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Lucky added.

“Shh!”

We dropped to the crusty bank, our hearts racing.

“What did you hear, Bill?” I asked, my breathing laboring.

“Nothing.” He said laughing. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”

Bill’s maneuver was cruel, considering it was the witching hour, but it did cut down on the loose chatter.

We began casting our lines into the water when something occurred to me: We were the hunters baiting our prey with creepy crawlers, and yet, we also felt like the hunted, with Creeper’s pond serving as our trap.

“Got one!”

We could hear Elephant Skin’s dragline screaming from the pull of the fish he had landed.

“I’m going over there with them,” I said.

“Why do you think we suggested Larry and Elephant Skin fish over there?” Butch asked.

“I dunno.” Then I thought about it. Really thought about it. Creeper’s first move would be from the back porch and the Barkers would be his first victims.

I plopped down next to Butch and cast out my line. Fishing this late at night wasn’t exactly relaxing. The ground was damp and seeped through my jeans clear to my underwear, and when I closed my eyes for what I thought was a split second, I thought I felt Creeper’s hot breath tickle the back of my neck.

Suddenly, Creeper’s security light shot on. “Who’s out there?! Oh, if it’s you kids again, I’m going to get you once and for all,” the old man called, a sense of satisfaction in his voice. He was laughing-—actually screeching-—at the thought of capturing us.

We dropped our poles in our mad dash for salvation, but the bright spotlight from his flashlight beam blinded us. We huddled together like a flock of chickens, believing we were safe if we all stuck together. It was Bill who was the first to come to his senses. “RUN!”

I took one step and slammed into Lucky. Elephant Skin reeled in his line at a furious pace, but it was no use. The fish was just too big. Creeper closed in on both Barkers. The final image I saw before turning and high-tailing it out of there was Larry on his knees cowering and the seven-foot Creeper swallowing him whole in his grasp.

“Save yourselves” were Larry’s final chilling words.