Creepy America Collection 3

By Noah Hoffmann

"There's an America you never knew existed..."

A series of horror short-stories, "Creepy America" recounts the webshow of the same name. Filmed, edited, and published by friends Zoey and Liam, the two traveled from state to state trying to find the truth behind the strange happenings, local hauntings, and urban legends all across the continental United States. Told years later from the perspective of Liam, these tales describe the events that transpired on the show, from the evolving friendship of the two co-hosts to the vast conspiracy uncovered piece by piece as more and more secrets are revealed.

This collection contains the next five rounds of episodes, episodes 11 to 15, beginning with the strange case of Timothy Chapman's Mondays, and ending with the bizarre incident with the doppelgangers.

Contains the five previously published episodes:
Episode 11: Monday
Episode 12: Don't Fear the Reaper
Episode 13: The Backwards Man
Episode 14: Perfect Strangers
Episode 15: Mirror, Mirror

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noah Hoffmann
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005826703

Noah Hoffmann

A mild-mannered truck driver by day, I spend my nights writing mostly at an attempt to convince the last few shreds of sanity I have not to jump ship with the rest. When I'm not doing that, you can usually find me playing tabletop rpgs, raiding the "50 cents" section of bookstores, and generally committing similar acts to solidify my reputation as a "huge nerd." Otherwise, my time is spent caring for my loving and intelligent-deficit dog Slade and yelling at you for cutting me off in traffic.

Book preview

Creepy America:

Collection 3

Episodes 11-15

By Liam Foster  Noah Hoffmann

Published by Noah Hoffmann and distributed by Smashwords.

Copywrite 2020 by Noah Hoffmann

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please consider visiting nhcorner.com for more stories in this series as well as other series of short stories. And thank you for reading!

Other series by Noah Hoffmann:

The Adventures of Solaire

 fantasy adventure filled with magic, steampunk, and pirates.

Table of Contents

Episode 11: Monday

Episode 12: Don’t Fear the Reaper

Episode 13: The Backwards Man

Episode 14: Perfect Strangers

Episode 15: Mirror, Mirror

Creepy America

Episode 11

Monday

Jackson, Mississippi

My grandmother had a saying: a life well lived is a life with a lot of scars. She fully understood what that meant. Both of her parents died in the Holocaust. She almost did as well. And once all that was behind her, she had to uproot her life and move to America, knowing no one, having no one to turn to, struggling to make ends meet.

She did it, though. And she never got bitter. Never complained. I always remember her smiling, happy, joking, laughing. When I asked her how she could be so upbeat in the face of all that darkness, she’d say oh, those are just scars. I got them. Everyone does. But there’s a whole lot more of me than there are of them.

I never understood that. I still don’t. And I really don’t know what it says about me that I don’t have scars.

Scars are things that healed. They may hurt, but not as much as they once did. So I don’t have scars. I have wounds. I have things that still cut deep, that still pain me as much as they did when I first think about them: Sam and the Alone place, Thorn, Zed, The Terrible Trivia Test…

...Zoey....

And Timothy Chapman’s Mondays. That wound still bleeds as fresh as ever.

I was getting real  sick of the South.

To be fair, no matter how long I spent on the road, I never felt at home anywhere other than the Midwest. North Eastern cities are baffling labyrinths. The West Coast is simply strange. Plain States are big empties populated by winds, and the South West is more of the same.

But the South is just plain hostile. Outside of the king of venom that is New York City, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten less friendly welcomes than deep South rural towns. Their legendary hospitality only applies once you know somebody; if you don’t have that, you’re an outsider, plain and simple.

And remember, we had to interview these people. The idea for Faces of America was to pull from everywhere , deep  South included. But they refused to bite. Everyone was suspicious that we were with somebody, or spying on them, or trying to pull an elaborate con, so it was slammed  doors or chased off all around. We did manage to find a few outliers, including some amazingly sweet and generous individuals. And if you could get your foot in the door and convince others to introduce you around, man did the tune change. But it still wasn’t as much as we were hoping for.

During that time, we used Jackson as a sort of safe ground to retreat to. I wish I was joking, but after the sheriff of an extremely small town started to follow us around, we figured that heading out after we overstayed our welcome wasn’t such a bad idea, and the relative anonymity of a big city helped with that.

I still don’t get it, Zoey complained as she stabbed more hashbrowns. We were at Huddle House, which was located just outside the city and was slowly becoming our favorite place to eat. Aren’t there any places around here that won’t give us the ‘move along’ treatment?

I shrugged. Small towns are small towns, I guess. If they see a stranger, their first thought is ‘why’?

Hmph, she replied. Well they need to lighten up a little. Maybe let them know that the Civil War is over.

I choked on my coffee. "Jeez Zoe. Comments like that definitely  won’t help."

She slid a fork full of potatoes into her mouth and began to stab more. Well, I’m frustrated. We’ve only got five, maybe ten minutes of stuff to put in for this section when I was hoping for at least a half hour more. And I’m tired of being stared at like a bug in a microscope LIKE YOU ARE! she finished, violently pointing at the other side of the diner.

I followed her finger to a middle-aged white guy, somewhere between thirty and forty, with thinning black hair, glasses and a crumpled gray suit and tie. He was staring wide-eyed at the two of us, as if we were aliens from outer space.

He continued to stare for a good three seconds more, before awkwardly shifting his gaze back to the plate in front of him.

Zoey groaned. Please tell me we’re leaving soon.

I fished out the crumpled itinerary. Well, Alabama is next, then Georgia, then Florida…

Zoey perked up.

...then back to Mississippi.

She slumped her head on the table and extended her fork towards me. Do you think you can jab this into my ear so hard it kills me?

I gently took the fork and placed it next to my plate. I think somebody’s burnt out. I know we just got a new episode ready, but do you want to put ‘Faces’ on the backburner and work on the next ‘Creepy America’?

She looked up at me. I suppose that does sound better than suicide by silverware.  She sighed, stood up, stretched, and walked over to the front counter with me to pay the bill.

Do we have any leads? she asked as I exchanged cash.

Well, we did have that mirror, I replied. The Myrtles Plantation in Mississippi. It wasn’t too bad of a drive the last time I checked.

Hmm. As we walked out of the door, she glanced over her shoulder.

What is it?

That weird guy sure is causing a scene.

I turned and looked back. Inside of the diner, the crumpled businessman was rushing out, pushing past waitresses and leaving his food unpaid for.

Wonder what his problem is, I said.

Zoey shrugged. Maybe he just forgot the ‘dine’ part of ‘dine-and-dash.’

You don’t think we should follow up on it?

What’s there to follow up on? Nothing ever comes from the crazy ones.

Fair enough, I suppose.

We kept walking on in silence for a while, turning the corner to get to the parking lot, until Zoey suddenly stepped close to me. We’re being followed. Crazy guy.

I looked back. The man in the wrinkled suit rounded the corner in a hurry and stopped as soon as he saw me watching him, instead making a big show of observing the area around him.

Zoey jabbed me in the side. Don’t stare. Keep walking.

I picked up the pace again.

Who the hell is he? Zoey muttered.

Not Archangel, I answered. He sucks at this too much.

"That’s not assuring. Not professional  isn’t the same as not dangerous ."

So what do you want to do?

Turn down this next alley and hide. Zoey said in a harsh whisper. If he tries anything, we jump him.

My stomach turned a bit at that statement, but I turned down the darkened side street without saying anything. Once there, I flattened myself behind the wall of the right building while Zoey crouched behind the dumpster.

A minute later, the man bolted in, panting and out of breath. Where did… he wheezed. He spun around in a circle, then widened his eyes when he saw me.

You! he gasped.

Zoey leaped forward and tackled him, shoving both of them onto the ground. It was hardly a fair fight, seeing as how he was a winded forty-year-old and Zoey was still in her spry twenties, so it didn’t last very long. Once he was down, Zoey scrambled back to her feet and put a foot on his chest, keeping him there.

Why are you following us!? she demanded.

I’m sorry, I just thought maybe you knew something or were something because I’d never seen you before today… His words continued into more meaningless babble.

I raised an eyebrow. He’s really not making any sense.

Yeah, Zoey agreed, maybe we should call someone…

No! The man exclaimed. Please don’t I… He closed his eyes and swallowed. My name is Timothy Chapman. I’ve been living the same Monday for almost twenty years. Every day is the same date. Every day, the exact same things happen.

He opened his eyes and stared at us. Except you two. You two are different. I’ve never seen you before, so you have to be part of this. Please… he begged, please get me to Tuesday.

Timothy Chapman (please, just Tim he told us,) was staying at a Motel 6 outside of town. After pleading for a while, we agreed to meet him there and hear him out, but once we had entered the lobby, Zoey grabbed my arm and forced me to stay behind for a second.

What are we doing here? He’s obviously nuts! Zoey hissed. And the dangerous kind, too!

Maybe, maybe not, I said. "We’ve seen crazier things. Hell, we’ve done  crazier things."

But reliving the same day over and over?

It makes sense, given what we’ve seen.

Zoey stared at me in disbelief.

You remember what I was talking about at the Monolith? I asked. About secret pockets of space and time?

She thought for a second, then turned back to the hallway where Tim was waiting. So… what? You think he’s trapped in one of these secret pockets of time?

Exactly.

Zoey shook her head. Then why would we be any different?

I think… I stopped to choose my words. I think that maybe when we used that terminal, we de-syched ourselves from the normal time stream. Everyone else here may be trapped linearly, but we now exist outside of that linearity, even if we’re still going in the same direction.

Zoey groaned and rubbed her temples. Fine, I don’t get it, but… she looked back at me, tell me the truth Liam: do you actually believe this could happen?

I met her gaze. With what we’ve seen?  A thousand times yes.

She nodded. Fine. We’ll at least hear him out then.

Tim’s room was the normal fare for a motel: bed, bathroom, desk. It didn’t look like he had been living there long, though: the bed was still neat and made and a solitary, unopened suitcase sat next to it. He had to have just checked in, I figured, which was weird considering that he had rattled off the directions without any hesitation whatsoever.

Tim sat down on the bed and looked at us sheepishly. So, um, I guess you need to hear about what happened to me now, huh?

Zoey shot me a look of impatience.

I silently asked her to wait it out with my eyes.

She sighed. If you would. And, you don’t mind us recording this, do you?

No, not at all.

Zoey pointed at me and I started up the camcorder.

Tim cleared his throat. My name is Timothy Chapman. I’m 23…

Zoey and I glanced at each other.

...and every day, I live the exact same Monday.

What do you mean by ‘the exact same Monday’? Zoey asked.

I mean the exact same Monday, he insisted. February Seventeenth, 2016. The date never changes. I go to sleep, I wake up, it’s still the seventeenth. And every single day, the exact same things happen over and over and over again. Here, he jumped up and ran over to the window, let me show you.

We walked over to the window and watched.

"In twelve seconds, you’re going to see a tall woman with blonde hair walking a big white dog. In fifteen, a hispanic man with a reflective vest is going to come from the opposite direction."

I pointed the camera at the window and waited. Sure enough, a tall blonde woman showed up, walking a poodle. A moment later, a man with a neon yellow vest passed her.

Zoey cleared her throat. That’s not exactly…

We’re good, thank you! Tim interrupted.

We stared at him.

No housekeeping? a muffled voice asked from behind the room door.

No housekeeping, he yelled, then looked back at us.

And how do we know that this isn’t some elaborate prank? Zoey asked.

He sighed. Go outside and travel one block east, towards the gas station. On the corner, there’ll be a man with sunglasses arguing with a teenage kid standing next to a red ferrari that’s been rear-ended by a white station wagon. Go see, just, he looked down at his watch, please hurry. We’re running out of Monday.

Zoey and I glanced at each other, then silently walked out of the hotel and down the block he told us to. There, parked behind a stop sign, was a smashed cherry red ferrari, back end rammed into by an old, white station wagon. Standing next to it was an angry white guy alternating between screaming into a cell phone and screaming at a teenage boy, head in hands, sitting on the