At pod Shape Production. Welcome back to the Chills, the Spooky Story podcast. That's hard to believe, unless, of course, it happened to you. If you've got a story you want to share that might give us the chills, then send it in the Chills at podshape dot com. This story is from Ben. He emailed it in. He lives in Perth and it seems it happened to him a few years ago. Ben says he needed to leave the hustle and bustle of Perth, Western Australia and get out
of the city. He wanted a country break time to clear his head. It was late October. We've used an AI voice actor for Ben's email.
I found this old weatherboard cottage on a farm stay website, a quiet little place out in the bush. The photos made it look rustic but cozy, and the idea of being surrounded by nothing but gum trees and kangaroos sounded perfect. The cottage was ancient, probably built in the early nineteen hundreds. It had thick wooden beams, a tin roof and one
of those verandahs that wrapped around the entire house. The owner mentioned it had been part of a sheep station for generations, but these days it was mostly left vacant, rented out to people like me who wanted to get away from it all. It was a good couple of hours from Perth, with the nearest neighbor about five k's away. As soon as I got there, I knew it was the quiet I'd been craving. The first few days were uneventful,
just what I needed. I'd wake up early to the sound of magpies warbling and spend the day reading, wandering around the property, and soaking up the peacefulness. At night, the stars were incredible, the kind of sky you only see in the outback, far away from any light pollution. But on the fourth night, something changed. I woke up in the middle of the night for no reason at all. The room was pitch black save for a bit of
moonlight sneaking in through the old, threadbare curtains. As I lay there trying to get back to sleep, I heard something outside. At first I thought it was an animal, a kangaroo maybe, or a possum, But then I heard it again, footsteps, slow and heavy, moving across the verandah my heart started to race. I wasn't expecting anyone, and the place was so isolated it didn't make sense for anyone to just show up. I listened harder, straining to hear anything else, but the only sound was the footsteps
getting closer to the front door. They stopped for a moment, then moved down the side of the house, just outside my bedroom window. I couldn't see anything through the curtains, but I felt a cold draft slipping in, like the air had changed. I tried to brush it off as an overactive imagination. Maybe I was just hearing things. I told myself. The house was old, and the the bush plays tricks on your mind when you're alone. But the next night it happened again. This time I was wide
awake when I heard the footsteps. They started at the front door, slow and deliberate, making their way down the verandah, but this time they didn't stop. I heard the faintest scraping sound, like fingernails dragging across the wooden boards outside the window. It wasn't just footsteps now, there was something or someone outside, and they weren't just passing by. My stomach twisted into knots, but I stayed frozen in bed, too scared to move. I didn't want to turn on
the light or make a sound. Whatever was out there, I didn't want it to know I was awake. The scraping stopped after a few minutes, and the house fell silent again, But I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
Okay, So I have a few questions that I'd love to know from Ben. He can't answer them, so I'll ask you. The first is, who actually does that? Who decides to take a break from the city to go to a deserted farmer's cottage in the middle of nowhere? I mean, Ben, I don't mean to be rude, but have you seen shows like Wolf Creek?
What the bloody lu buck is doing out here? This is a national park. You can't can't be here, mate.
Judgment aside, what does Ben do? If you're thinking like I am, He packs the car, doesn't clean the place, and drives very fast to the nearest motel that has other people in it and was built after the early nineteen hundreds, Then you're wrong, Ben stays.
I woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented. The room was dark save for a sliver of moonlight. As I lay there, I noticed an odd noise, A faint tapping rhythmic coming from the kitchen. At first, I thought it was just something loose in the wind, maybe a branch knocking against the window. But as I listened, it became clear the sound wasn't outside, it was coming from within the house. I grabbed my phone for light and cautiously crept down the hall. The tapping continued, steady
and deliberate. When I reached the kitchen, I shone the light towards the sauce. There on the wooden table was an old, rusty teapot that I hadn't noticed before. It rocked slightly, it spout, tapping the edge of the table. I stared at it for a long moment, waiting for the movement to stop. Finally, after what felt like ages, it did. I couldn't explain it, but I convinced myself it was just the wind or some quirk of the old house. I went back to bed, but sleep didn't come easily.
Okay, so maybe that's the cue. Maybe now then just jumps in the car and leaves right Ben.
On the third night, things got worse.
Come on, Ben, what are you doing?
I was drifting off when I heard something again, but this time it was louder, the sound of footsteps, heavy and unmistakable, moving across the verandah, just outside the front door. My heart started racing, but I told myself it was probably a kangaroo or an emun. They sometimes wander onto properties curious and club. But then the footsteps stopped and I heard something else, low guttural breathing, like someone or something was standing right outside the door. I froze listening.
The breathing became more labored, as though it was right against the door, straining to get in. I didn't dare move. After a few minutes, the sound stopped and there was a heavy silence. I thought it was over, but then came the most unsettling part, a soft but distinct knock on the door, like someone was gently testing to see if i'd answer. I didn't move. I couldn't. The knocking came again, this time louder, more insistent, but I still
didn't respond. I stayed perfectly, still, holding my breath until the noise finally stopped and the house was silent again. It took a long time for me to fall asleep that night. The next morning, I packed up and left. I didn't bother cleaning the place up or leaving a note for the owner. I just wanted to get out of there. I didn't even look back as I drove down the long dirt road that led away from the property.
I couldn't shake the feeling that someone or something had been watching me that night.
If you've got a story that can give us the chills, then email us the Chills at podshape dot com. See you next time.