If You Ever Stop in Ashbrook, Don’t Ask About the Children
The Nevada heat rippled off the asphalt, distorting the long, empty road ahead. I wiped sweat from my brow and adjusted the camera strap around my neck, squinting at the horizon. No sign of the fox. No sign of anything, really. I should’ve been writing a real story—something that actually mattered. But instead, I was here, in the middle of nowhere, chasing a local legend about a rare albino desert kit fox that probably didn’t even exist. This is what my career had come to? I can imagine the lackluster headline already. “Kinley, local journalist takes photo of a white fox”. How exhilarating… I’m a small-town journalist. I’m barely scraping by. A handful of articles on local events, a few dry interviews with our mayor, and nothing that anyone outside my town would ever care about. There was no money in it. No future. If I had the funds, I’d have taken the risk and moved to the city by now, where stories actually happened. But I wasn’t just stuck here—I was needed here. My mother had been slipping away for the last seven years, and I was the only one left to take care of her. My only sibling, my half brother, was gone—buried under six feet of dirt after he took his own life in 2019. He never recovered after his five-year-old son Jackson died from some rare blood disorder. He tried all sorts of strange treatment options. Never divulged the details, but I know he tried every method possible. The doctors called it an anomaly. Just one of those things. I called it a goddamn nightmare. Rent was due next week. My savings were a joke. If I didn’t land something soon-anything-I was screwed. A viral photo of the elusive white fox wouldn’t change my life, but it might buy me a little more time. Then I saw her. A lone figure in the distance, walking straight down the middle of the road. No car. No supplies. Nothing but a slow, dragging gait and the sweltering heat pressing down on her shoulders. I frowned. The nearest town was thirty miles away. She shouldn’t have been here. As she neared, I got my first clear look at her—a woman in her seventies, maybe older. Her clothes were stained with dust and sweat, her arms thin and sinewy, her skin burnt and peeling like old parchment. Her hair clung to her forehead, dark with sweat, and something about her… felt wrong. My eyes landed on a faded panda tattoo on her arm. It was amateur work—the lines shaky, uneven. I grabbed my canteen and jogged toward her, holding it out. “Hey, take this. You need water.” She didn’t even flinch. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. She stared past me, through me, like I wasn’t even there. “Ma’am?” No reaction. Her breathing was off—a rattling, phlegmy sound that made my stomach tighten. I reached out carefully, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, seriously, let me take you to a hospital. Or at least, let me get you back home.” That’s when she stopped. Not gradually. Not naturally. Just… stopped. Like a malfunctioning doll that had suddenly lost power. The silence between us stretched. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths, her skin slick with sweat and dust. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward me. Her eyes locked onto mine, and I felt my stomach drop. They weren’t just tired. They were… vacant. Stretched wide in confusion, in fear, like she was just realizing she was here. And then she whispered it. “The kids…” A chill scraped down my spine. “There are no kids.” The words barely made it past her lips, as if she was afraid to say them. “Where are they?” Her voice trembled. Her breathing hitched. Her gaze flickered wildly, as if she were scanning the desert for something—as if she expected to see them. I swallowed hard. “What kids? I don’t-” Her body jerked forward as if something snapped inside her. She grabbed my wrist, her fingers like claws digging into my skin. “Where’s my baby?!” She was gasping now, panic gripping her entire body. Her legs shook beneath her, and suddenly she was fighting for air, like a fish thrown onto the shore. “THE KIDS.. THEY’RE GONE! ALL OF THEM!” Her voice splintered into raw hysteria. Her body convulsed, chest rising and falling too fast, her fingers tightening until my skin burned. “Ashbrook.” She wheezed out, eyes wild and unfocused. “There are no kids in Ashbrook. All of them… gone.” Then she collapsed. I barely caught her before she hit the ground. She was still breathing, but it was shallow-labored like something inside her was breaking. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I knew one thing: I had to get her help. I dragged her toward the Jeep, my heart slamming against my ribs. Ashbrook. A town I’d never stepped foot in. A town thirty miles further down this empty road. I raced for what felt like hours, but really was only twenty-odd minutes. A rundown sign finally catches my attention. “Welcome to Ashbrook!” It didn’t take long to find what looked to be a hospital. I whipped the Jeep into the parking lot, slammed it in park, and bolted for the front door. “Hello? Someone help, please!” A man in a white coat ran passed me and out the front door without even acknowledging my presence. I followed the dark-haired doctor as he rushed outside, pushing a wheelchair toward my Jeep. The elderly woman was slumped in the seat, her breaths short and shallow. I expected him to ask me questions—where I found her, what happened—but he didn’t. His face was unreadable. “You know her?” I asked. The doctor didn’t look up. “We all know Marley.” His voice was stiff, like he wasn’t supposed to say more. Inside, the hospital felt… off. It wasn’t the usual sterile, overlit nightmare of hospitals. The walls were a sickly beige, the waiting room nearly silent. A single nurse sat behind the counter, barely acknowledging me. The place was almost empty. No kids. No families. Just a handful of elderly patients, staring at the walls like they were waiting for something. I sat in the lobby for an hour before a nurse approached me. Her smile felt forced. “She’ll be fine,” she said. “You can leave now.” Something about it didn’t sit right. “Can I see her?” The nurse hesitated, then shook her head. “She’s resting.” Liar. I don’t know what it is, but the delivery from the nurse gave it all away. I stepped outside, the heat slamming into me like a wall. I needed air. I needed space. But most of all, I needed to get the hell out of that hospital. Something about the place—about the way they treated Marley like an afterthought, the way the nurse brushed me off—felt wrong. I leaned against the Jeep, rubbing my temples. I could just leave. Drive home. Pretend none of this happened. But the words wouldn’t leave me. “There are no kids in Ashbrook.” Marley wasn’t just confused. She was afraid. And now that I was here, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t wrong. I scanned the street in front of me. Ashbrook was small, unsettlingly quiet. A handful of businesses lined the street—nothing modern, nothing corporate. Just mom-and-pop shops that looked like they hadn’t been updated in decades. A thrift store, a butcher shop, a place called “Ashbrook Treasures” with sun-faded knickknacks in the window. It wasn’t what I expected. For a town with no children, no young families, Ashbrook was… alive. People milled about, moving between stores, chatting outside the diner. It was as if the town was perfectly content in its own isolated world. I grabbed my camera and notebook from the passenger seat. If there were no kids here, someone had to notice. Someone had to care. I decided to start small. The first shop I saw was an arts and crafts store—rundown, but still open. Maybe I could ease into it, chat up the owner, get a feel for the people here before pushing too hard. I pulled open the door, the small brass bell jingling overhead. The smell of dried wood, old paper, and something vaguely floral filled the air. Shelves of handmade trinkets lined the walls—woven baskets, carved figurines, hand-painted signs with phrases like “Bless This Home” and “Welcome, Friends.” No sign of a cashier. I hesitated, glancing around. “Hello? Are you open?” A few seconds passed before a woman emerged from a supply closet in the back, sporting a tie-dye shirt and pink shorts. She smiled easily, her movements quick and eager, like someone who wasn’t used to getting many customers. “Well howdy there! Not very often we get an outsider. Look around, everything is negotiable. Let me know if you need any help at all!” Her energy was a stark contrast to the cold, distant reception I got at the hospital. I returned her smile, slipping into journalist mode. If I wanted answers, I needed to blend in. Be friendly. Be honest. Be curious, but not suspicious. I ran my fingers over a small, hand-carved wooden owl sitting on the counter. “Actually, I’m a journalist. I wanted to talk to some locals to see if they had any interesting stories to share about life in Ashbrook.” The woman’s eyes flickered upward, as if considering something. “Well, there’s not much that goes on in this town,” she said finally. “Sometimes we get some drunkards who make fools of themselves for our entertainment, but that’s about as exciting as it gets around here.” I let out a short laugh. She was lying. I could feel it. I decided to shift gears. “You know, I came to town because an elderly woman collapsed in front of me about thirty miles out from Ashbrook. I hope she’s okay. Do you happen to know her? She was about my height, a bit thinner, had a panda tattoo on her arm.” The shift in her expression was immediate. A flicker of something—concern? Fear? Recognition?—crossed her face before she covered it with a quick, practiced smile. “Marley? Oh dear lord, that poor woman.” The shopkeeper wrung her hands together, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “She’s been having a rough go of it lately.” Something about the way she said it made my stomach knot. “What do you mean?” I asked. She hesitated, glancing at the front door like she was checking for someone. “She’s… just not well.” The same vague response I got at the hospital. “She said something strange before she passed out,” I pressed. “Kept talking about kids. Said there were no kids in Ashbrook.” The shopkeeper’s smile faltered. It was quick—just a flicker—but I caught it. The tightening of her lips. The way her fingers twitched against the counter. “She’s confused,” she said, too quickly. “Been saying strange things for a while now.” I pretended to scribble something in my notebook. “So what exactly happened to those kids again? Why’d they leave? I forget.” I was bluffing. I had absolutely no information other than what some crazy, exhausted lady said before she’d passed out. Her hands stilled against the countertop. “They never left. Just gotta pass their trials.” The words left her lips softly, like a reflex—something she’d said a thousand times before. My stomach twisted. “What trials?” The shopkeeper’s eyes snapped up. Like she just realized what she said. She forced another smile, too wide, too strained. “Oh, you know. Just an old saying. Anyway, like I said, pick anything you like! 40% discount for the outsider!” She turned and grabbed something from a nearby shelf—a handmade doll. It was disturbingly realistic. The fingers too small, the glass eyes too bright. A gift, the shopkeeper had said. It didn’t feel like one. “My son made this one a long time ago, but I’d like you to have it.” I turned it from side to side, bouncing its limbs as if I was appreciating the craftsmanship. There was a bit of some kind of.. dark sludge, seeping through the collar of the doll’s small shirt. Someone must’ve been playing with it outside recently. It sure smelled like it. I crinkled my nose and pulled back slightly to avoid the odor. I wiped the grime off the doll with my shirt sleeve, and shoved it into my bag, pushing away the unease curling in my stomach. As I was zipping it back up, I heard something that caught my attention. Across the street, a group of three men stood outside a small, government-looking building—something between a courthouse and a town hall. They spoke in low, hushed voices, heads close together. Their conversation was clipped, urgent. I waved goodbye to the shop keeper, hurriedly leaving to get a closer listen to the three men. I slowed my pace, pretending to check my camera settings as I passed by. “We’ll take ‘em down tonight.” “You sure they’re ready?” “Council already approved it. We go down after dark.” A sharp silence followed. I looked up. They were staring at me. All three of them—still, silent, their expressions blank. My pulse kicked up. I forced a casual smile, tapping my camera. “Cool old building,” I said, gesturing toward the town hall. “History buffs love this stuff.” They didn’t respond. Just kept watching. The moment stretched too long, like they were waiting to see if I’d keep talking. I cleared my throat and turned, walking away. But I wasn’t leaving. Not yet. I needed a break. Just for a moment. Something to ground me. It’d been a mentally exhausting day. The neon glow of a diner sign flickered ahead. Ashbrook Diner. Simple, welcoming. Inside, it was like stepping into a time capsule. Checkered floors, red leather booths, the faint sound of an old radio crackling in the corner. A handful of locals sat at the counter, their conversations quiet. A waitress—middle-aged, kind smile—approached me. “Haven’t seen you before, sweetheart. What can I get ya?” I wasn’t in the mood for anything extravagant. “Just a burger and fries. Medium well.” She hesitated for a second. Just a second. Then she smiled again. “Coming right up.” It arrived quickly. I was impressed. It’s like they had it ready to go before I’d even walked in. The smell was intoxicating—rich, perfectly seasoned, almost unreal. I took a bite. It was absolutely delicious. Better than any burger I’d ever had. The juices melted in my mouth, the meat soft and tender. I devoured half of it before I even realized swallowed the first bite. I finished my meal, thanked the waitress, and left. I felt full, satisfied. Almost… comforted. That feeling wouldn’t last. Hours passed. It was now nighttime. A full moon, not a cloud in the sky. It was beautiful. I wanted to take it all in and enjoy it, but I had work to do. The veil of night was draping the town in a heavy silence. The full moon cast long shadows across the cracked pavement, painting the town hall in streaks of silver and black. I stood across the street, partially hidden behind an old newspaper dispenser, watching. The building loomed in front of me, ordinary and unassuming. But I knew better. Something was off. I had seen the men walk by and disappear behind the building. I heard echoes of their hushed words play again in my head. “We’ll take ‘em down tonight.” I checked my surroundings. The streets were empty. No late-night wanderers, no passing cars. Even the diner, which had been warm and buzzing just hours ago, was dark. I moved quickly, crossing the street with light steps. My heart hammered against my ribs as I neared the side entrance of the town hall—a set of thick wooden doors, latched shut with a heavy padlock. Not the way in. I slipped around to the back of the building. And there they were. Large cellar doors. Steel. Old. Slightly ajar. I took a slow breath, steadying my nerves, and pulled the doors open. The hinges whined softly, echoing in the still night. A staircase spiraled downward, swallowed in darkness. The air changed immediately—dense and humid, thick with the scent of damp earth and something rotten. I hesitated. Then, I pulled out my phone’s flashlight, clicked it on, and stepped inside. The doors creaked shut behind me. The stone walls dripped with moisture as I crept deeper. The staircase ended in a long, low-ceilinged corridor, the air thick and still. Dim, flickering lights lined the walls, casting the space in a sickly yellow glow. Then I heard something that caught my attention. A low mechanical groan. The sound of something large moving up towards the ground floor. I pressed forward, heart in my throat. The hallway opened up into an enormous cavern, and what I saw was something I’d never have imagined, even in the worst horror movies I’d seen. It was like some sort of twisted underground factory. Dozens of sickly, grey-skinned children worked in eerie silence, their small, frail bodies covered in grime, their fingers raw and blackened. They had no color to their skin. They looked like corpses. Some worked at old, rusted machines, sculpting tools with their hands moving mechanically, like they had done this forever. Not tools made from steel. They were made of mud. Filth. The kind of grime you’d find at the bottom of a wet pile of trash in a landfill. Just thick enough to keep its sculpted form. Some kids packaged the filth with their fingers. pressing the dark, wet material into molds, wrapping it, placing it into various containers. Containers that were identical to ones I had seen in the town’s shop windows. Most disturbingly to me was the food. Children combining different piles of that black, disgusting goop together to make recognizable dishes. A sandwich dripping with putrid smelling slime. A container of mud-coated french fries. Some maggot filled material being crafted into the shape of eggs, where they were gently placed into a carton. I couldn’t help but gag. Others simply stared ahead, blankeyed, as if nothing existed beyond this place. My shock had kept me from noticing where that noise was coming from. A massive industrial lift groaned in the center of the cavern, crates of filth loaded onto its platform. Through the gap in the ceiling where the lift came down from, I saw them—townspeople waiting above, receiving the crates, stacking them into storage. Food. Tools. Clothing. Baby dolls not dissimilar from the “gift” I’d received earlier. Everything Ashbrook needed. Made from filth, by the children of filth. My stomach turned. I could see the varying levels of product progression on a table in the storage room above. Three different stacks of soda cans sitting on a table. The stack on the left still fully black, dripping goo. Freshly made, it seemed. The middle stack was still covered in grime, but I could make out faint letters taking form on it. The third and final stack looked to be normal Pepsi that you’d buy at the store. What was this? Before I could even process any of what I’d seen, the heavy slam of a door echoed through the cavern. I ducked behind a crate, heart racing. The councilmen entered, dragging a small body bag toward a slab of concrete. I clamped a hand over my mouth. Something moved inside the bag. A soft, muffled whimper. They unzipped it slowly. I caught a glimpse of a young, sickly child—his limbs frail, his face halfhidden by shadows. 5 or 6 years old, if I had to guess. He was still alive. I pressed my back harder against the crate, breath shallow, trying to steady myself. The councilmen were still talking, their voices bouncing off the cavern walls, echoing into the foul air. “He should be fine through the first phase, right?” “Maybe. They all get sick. You know that. It’s just the way Ashbrook is.” A sharp silence. Then, a sigh. The man continued. “As always, if he survives the trials, we’ll send him back up. He’ll be old enough to help around town. If not, he can join the rest of them. Now, can you go ahead and tell the doctor that he’s ready for his trials?” “Sure thing”, the other man in the shadows replied. “I don’t envy this kid at all. He’s either going to die, or he’ll wish he was dead every day for the next decade. I know I did.” A realization hit me like ice water down my spine. Every child in Ashbrook got sick. Not just the ones I was looking at now. Every single child. And the only way to survive was through this… Through this place, through the trials, whatever they may be. Through whatever horrors they put them through. If they made it to adulthood, they could go back. Live among the others. Like nothing ever happened. But if they failed— I swallowed thickly, my gaze darting back to the children at the stations, their rotting skin, their lifeless eyes, then back to the new child barely breathing in the body bag. They didn’t survive. They stayed here. Underground, in some limbo between life and death. Made to work and craft from filth that which the town needed. I clenched my eyes shut. After a few minutes (which felt like hours), silence finally returned. The men had left. I was wishing that when I opened my eyes, I’d be staring at the ceiling in my bedroom. Wishing that it was a dream. I hesitantly squinted through my eyelids. . My eyes surveyed the room. I didn’t see my ceiling fan. This was no dream. This was hell. I was at a loss. Panicked, I looked around me, trying to find some magic answer or solution. Instead, my sights landed on a familiar figure. My stomach dropped, and my heart skipped a beat. A small boy, working at one of the stations, his tiny fingers pressing dark material into a small box branded with an Ashbrook logo. He looked sickly and grey like the rest of them. There were wounds on his face and arms. They looked infected, like they hadn’t been treated for months. Pus was oozing from them, as well as his ears, eyes, and corners of his mouth. My throat closed and my eyes watered. Jackson. That’s Jackson, my nephew. That’s impossible. Jackson was dead. I’d been to his funeral. I know he was dead. Yet here he stood, defying all human logic and reasoning. Had my brother taken him here for a cure? Why would he be here? This boy was still five years old. Frozen in time. He turned his head, and his eyes met mine. Wide. Recognizing. “Jackson?” I whispered. His breath hitched. A flicker of something human returned to his face. Then, like something inside him snapped, he looked away and kept working. As if he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge my presence. Before I could process any of what was going on, the councilmen’s voices could be heard coming back down. They dragged yet another body forward. Not in a bag this time. I saw her face. Marley. She was dead—but wrong. Her skin sagged, splitting at the seams. Her panda tattoo hardly recognizable. Vile liquids were oozing from her mouth and eyes. Her body twitched, giving the illusion of life, but I knew better. Nobody could look like that and still be breathing. I watched as all the children turned their heads. Their eyes locked onto Marley. Slight smiles grew as they put down their work and limped right past me, straight to Marley. They reached down, tearing into her flesh, eating whatever was within reach of their small hands. The councilmen watched in disgust. “She slipped through the cracks, huh?” One man said, half laughing. The other man responded more seriously. “No she was born here. You’re too young to remember. Her parents took her out of town before her trials. She was sick, but they thought they could get her help somewhere else. We told them it didn’t work that way, but they left regardless.” “Why’d she ever come back?” The younger man asked with curiosity. “Well, she never did get better. She had a child at some point, but her sickness was passed on to that baby of hers. That poor thing didn’t make it more than a week. She swore we took the baby from her. Came looking for ‘em. She couldn’t come to terms with reality. Like I said, she was sick. She needed the trials.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed out. A high, sharp scream ripped through the air. I didn’t even realize it came from me. I ran. I ran straight to Jackson. I don’t know how. I had no control or feeling in my legs, yet they moved forward. I grabbed him, pulling him to his feet. “Come on. We’re leaving.” For a moment, he didn’t resist. He followed me through the cavern, up the rusted staircase, out of the cellar. And then— Jackson stumbled. He shuddered violently, his body twitching unnaturally. Filth and pus seeped from his pores, his skin melting like candle wax. No, no, no. I grabbed him and tried to pull him further. I needed to get him into the car, but his arms dissolved in my hands. his eyes met mine one last time. They were full of sorrow. Understanding. Then, he was gone. Nothing left but rot, pooling at my feet. I choked back tears. They could never leave. None of them could. The children were gone. I raced to my Jeep and scrambled to grab my keys. Through my shakes, I was barely able to put the keys in the ignition. I didn’t stop driving. Didn’t look back. Didn’t breathe until I was miles away. I locked myself in my apartment, and began writing everything down, trying to make sense of it. I still hadn’t fully processed what had just happened. Then, without a moment’s rest, a sharp, burning pain twisted through my stomach. My hands shook. I thought it could be the anxiety, the fear. But then I remembered. The burger. The perfectly seasoned, melt-in-your-mouth burger. I’d eaten filth. I retched into the sink, but it’s too late. Something inside me is rotting. Changing. I don’t know how much time I have left. I don’t know what will happen to me. But I know one thing. You can’t outrun the sickness. If you’re reading this, please — Please, do not go to Ashbrook. Do not eat their food. Do not ask about the children. Just stay home. Write that article about an albino fox. Whatever you do, just stay away from that town. Children of filth cannot be saved. Credit: KWritesHorror Reddit Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.