Good Eggs

📅 Published on August 13, 2021

“Good Eggs”

Written by Kyle Harrison
Edited by Craig Groshek and Seth Paul
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 11 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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“Summer homes are for rich people, Allen.”

I’ve been known to spend money on things that I don’t need.

Sometimes it can be hard to determine which products are necessities and which are simply desires.

My wife Brittany is usually the one who keeps my head on straight, chiding me whenever there’s a large receipt on our credit card bill or switching the channel when a fancy new want comes on TV.

Suffice it to say that I may have some impulse control.  She says it stems from my upbringing.

Growing up, I basically was never without.

Now I’m not trying to say that my folks made me spoiled, but they also probably could have sat me down and explained how the real world works.

My parents had money, but they also insisted when I got married that I needed to learn to stand on my own two feet.

That’s why for the past six years of our marriage I took every extra shift, every holiday, and every swing shift that my job offered.  It was in my mind, savings for the dreams I wanted to achieve.

And that dream finally paid off a few months back when I was given a raise and got the chance to sign Brittany and me up for a sweepstakes.

“Nobody ever wins those things.  It’s just a scam.  You’re wasting your time,”  my wife told me.

But she changed her tune when that brochure came in the mail.  Instead of “what if,”  it became “when.”

“They have cottages all around the world!  Asia!  The Caribbean!  Even Europe!”  I told her excitedly as I won her over.

Now her eyes were starting to sparkle.  “Do you really think that we can go to Europe?”  she asked.

I showed her the options, asking her to choose which one she wanted to go to.  All I had to do was ask for the time off.

“How about Hungary?  I have always wanted to go there,”  Brittany asked excitedly.

“Sure.  Maybe in June?  July?  We could check with Steve and Rachel.  Make it the getaway we always wanted,”  I said.

“Let’s just make it you and me,”  she insisted with a smirk.  I liked when she was playful and flirty; it reminded me of our time dating.  Like we were kids again.

We agreed for the third week in June, and before long, we were actually packing our bags.  You never really think about how much stuff you take with you on a trip, but when you start staring at the luggage and it begins to pile up, you make decisions that you normally don’t have to.

Budget was limited, and we knew we could only carry one overhead bag, so the stuff we thought we needed started to become less and less.  It was a tough decision, figuring out what was a need and what was a want, but finally Brittany said it best.  “Whatever we don’t need, we can get when we get there,”  she said in exhaustion.

That seemed the wisest choice, so after the last few weeks passed, it was finally time to go.  Getting there seemed to happen so quickly, we hardly got the chance to even take in the scenery.  Admittedly we were so invested in getting there that we didn’t really focus on what was happening around us.

The cottage itself was amazing; it felt like we were stepping back into time.  Every part of the property was designed to resemble an antique, with cobblestone paths and perfectly blended wooden beams and stone mortar.  It was everything we ever hoped for and more.

“I could stay here forever,”  my wife said as we took in every part of the retreat.  It felt good to see her smile, and to know that the hard work I had put in was finally paying off.

The beautiful countryside and tranquil noises we heard on a daily basis were enough for anyone to get lost in a daydream.  But eventually, I decided not just to take it all in but to actively find ways to enjoy it.

So I sat up on the recliner and took out my laptop.  Then when I activated the system, I discovered I didn’t know what the WiFi password was.  It was the first time that I had done so, and I guess I was on autopilot assuming that we would be connected.

So I got up, carrying my laptop from place to place, trying to search for a signal.  But I wasn’t picking up a thing.

“What are you doing?”  Brittany asked as she stepped out of the shower and saw me standing there looking like a fool, waving my computer around like some type of divining stick.

“The Internet is down, but I can’t seem to pick up a signal,”  I admitted.

“I saw a breaker box in the basement; maybe it’s connected down there?”  she suggested as she started to blow dry her hair.

I nodded absently as I put my computer down and started toward the stairs.  The cottage was designed with three levels, almost like a jungle bungalow.  The main floor we stayed on was actually elevated above the facilities available for laundry, the hookups for the gas, and of course, my current problem, the Internet.

But I soon found out that the issue was greater than just a switch needing to be flipped.  There, skittering across the floor, was a mouse, (or perhaps a rat)  that had just been chewing on one of the wires.  My first thought was one of disgust and frustration.  This was supposed to be a private getaway, and now it was turning into a pitfall at every turn.  But I tried not to overreact and watched as the mouse pushed its little body through the floorboard to the crawl space below.

I went back upstairs to tell Brittany I was going to grab some supplies to get under the cottage.

“Why are you doing that?  Shouldn’t your boss be able to send someone out?”  she asked.

“It shouldn’t take more than five minutes,”  I assured her as I found a few tools in one of the pantries and made it to the door.

Just my luck, the rain started again as I got down on my knees to try and see a place where I could fit under the property.  My plan was simple: find the nest where the mice were hiding, and then buy some traps to rid of us the problem.  If we were going to be here for a while, I didn’t want these vermin to cause a bigger problem.

I never made it that far, though, because something else just as unique caught my attention.

I was waving the flashlight back and forth amid the crawl space, trying my best not to let any type of claustrophobia get the better of me, when I saw a tiny oval-shaped egg near the center of the house.

As I got closer, I realized that it appeared to be buried in a mound of dung, giving the entire segment of the house this weird rotten smell.  Curious, I began to push with my fingers and free the egg, puzzling over the fact that it appeared to be as hard as a rock and black as night.

Slowly I pushed my body back out of the hole and stood up, getting a better look at the small dark egg in the light.  It was about half the size of a normal hen’s and looked like it had been sitting under the house for ages.

“What’s that?”  I heard Brittany ask from the porch.

A crack of thunder surprised us as I ran up the steps to where she was standing, and I showed her the thing, remarking, “Found it under the house…what do you suppose it is?”

She took it and tried to get a better look but only shrugged.  “Maybe it’s a gem of some kind?”  She even tried to break it.  But nothing came of it.

We went inside, and I snatched up my phone to take a picture of it.  “I’m sure the locals might know; it could be worth something!”  I suggested.

She seemed to like that idea, so I grabbed my coat and we left toward the nearby village.  I forgot all about the Internet and about any other problems, my focus shifting entirely to our new discovery.

To my surprise, though, the people in the secluded Hungarian mountains didn’t seem very thrilled to talk with us.  I don’t know for sure if it was because of xenophobia or maybe because they just didn’t like Americans in general, but Britt and I were soon standing in the city square feeling completely lost as the locals seemed to run from us.

“Maybe they think it’s a bad omen?”  I suggested.

There was one, a man dressed as a priest, that seemed to want to approach us but hesitated.  Was he worried that his fellow villagers would shun him for even talking to us?

Wisely he gestured for us to follow him toward the courtyard nearby and whispered in a hushed tone, “Where did you find this?”

“Under a rental property.  We’re staying there for the week; my company owns it,”  I told him.

The priest said a little Hungarian prayer and made the sign of the Cross as he told us to dispose of it.

“What?  What are you talking about?”  Brittany asked.

“This is what is known as a lidèrc.  It is the seed of a demon!  You must destroy it immediately!”  he insisted.

My wife and I looked at each other with both fear and skepticism.  “Surely you aren’t superstitious, father?  It’s just an egg,”  I insisted.

The priest mumbled several more prayers as he refused to talk to us any further, and soon Britt and I found ourselves wandering back toward the trails that led to the isolated cottage.

As we did, she started to furiously search online for any information on the weird name the priest had given the egg.  Meanwhile, I held it close to my body, finding its surface curiously warm.

“Allen, listen to this!”  she squealed excitedly as she grabbed my arm.

“Ouch.  What is it?”  I asked.

“It’s an article on the egg.  ‘The lidérc is said to give its owner endless bounties, whatever your heart desires.  To whoever holds it, any wish can become reality.’  Do you think any of that could be true?”  she wondered as we made it up the steps.

“If so, that priest was trying to get his own paws on it.  What a scum bag!”  I realized as we looked at the dark egg again.

“It’s gotta be just an old wife’s tale,”  Brittany said with a nervous chuckle.

We didn’t say anything as we both just stood there in the den, staring at the egg and pondering over what to do about it.

“Well, clearly no one here wants it.  So why don’t we just take it home?”  I suggested.

Brittany’s eyes widened in surprise and glee.  Clearly, she was thinking the same thing.

“It would be okay, right?  I mean, it’s not like it’s really lucky.  It just looks so cool,”  she suggested.  We were in agreement without even so much as a second thought.  And the strange collectible seemed to shine a little brighter as a result.

* * * * * *

The rest of our week seemed to be boring in comparison.  Every day Brittany and I were imagining what we thought the bizarre egg might bring us.

It’s like we were waiting for it to hatch or something.  I know it probably sounds silly, but like I said before, neither of us had ever had a good life growing up.  This was our chance to really get a taste of that.

There was also a growing unease between us and the village.  We tried to enjoy the sights and sounds of the area, but after the discovery of the egg, they treated us differently.

“Maybe they are jealous,”  Brittany teased.  She liked to polish the strange object or hold it close.  It made it seem special when she suggested that others wanted our prize, and in time I accepted that idea.

But still, nothing indicated that the egg could cause anything special to happen.  And some of the information we found gave it a sinister connotation.  The connections to devil worship and succubuses were a little unnerving and made me reconsider what the priest warned.  But altogether, it just seemed like a knickknack.

And just when I was thinking I would finally give it up and toss the damn thing, it happened.  Near the end of our vacation.  The moment we had been waiting for.

We were sleeping, having enjoyed the last good time out and about stargazing, when there was a slamming noise on our door.

I jolted up, and Brittany grabbed my arm as I peered out the sheer curtains.

There were at least half a dozen villagers surrounding our cottage, some with what appeared to be weapons.  Suddenly this awkwardness had reached a boiling point.  They wanted us out.  As I grabbed my jacket, I went toward the door and tried to understand their broken English.

It was easy enough.

Lidérc Lidérc Lidérc

They wanted the egg.

Brittany was at my side, puzzling over what to do.

“Maybe we should just give it to them?”  she asked.

I looked at the trinket, holding it in my hand and feeling this strange coldness come from the egg.

“Give it up, or we will burn!”  another man shouted from the crowd.

Then it began to storm.  And I don’t mean like a summer rain; I’m talking about a monsoon.  The clouds opened up and created a downpour with lightning and hail.  The villagers started to scream and run for cover as it became so bad that they couldn’t see what was in front of them.

Then before I knew it, we were alone again, and Brittany held her hand over her mouth to try and hide a smile.

“Well, that was crazy…”  I commented, but she had a different viewpoint.

“It was the egg, don’t you see?  It protected us,”  she said.

I looked at the egg and shook my head, not sure I could believe something so crazy.  But after that, things took a turn for us.  The village treated us with kindness the next day as we left for the airport.  They even gave us gifts.  And at the airport?  We were bumped up to first-class without even a word.

And the good fortune got better from there.  I told my boss about the rats we were dealing with at the cottage, and he gave me a bonus check for the trouble.

“Sorry that you had to deal with that Allen, I hope that you didn’t have any other problems,”  he said.  I almost considered telling him about the egg, but I was quiet.  I was starting to hoard the egg as though it really was good luck.

Then we started to push our limits.  I bought lottery tickets.  Brittany would sometimes take out extra money, and our balance would stay the same.  Everything was going our way.

Honestly, I wasn’t thinking about what else the egg would do, because it was gradual.  You don’t realize that you stop talking to your partner; it just sort of happens.  You don’t realize that you’re working more hours.  Or keeping secrets from each other.

Suddenly, Brittany and I were jealous of each other.  Suddenly, we were greedy.

I remember one time I couldn’t find the egg and lashed out at her.  It got to the point where I was bruising her.  And then, in my frustration, I realized she never had it at all.  It had simply fallen behind the bed.

“Brittany, I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry,”  I said.  But instead of responding in fear or even anger, she responded with the same vicious desire to hold the egg.  It was never enough.  Suddenly we were fighting over it on a daily basis.  We would want our wish to be the one that was granted, and neither of us could see what was happening to our marriage…to our happiness.

Then one day, when she was at work, I went to check on the egg and I saw something that changed everything.  It wasn’t as shiny as before.  It was dull.  And my entire attitude changed.  I can’t explain it, but suddenly I was repulsed by this thing.  Why had we kept it for so long?  Had it actually caused us any of the good fortune that we had, or was it all our imagination?

I grabbed the stone in frustration and made for the den.  I was tired of being a slave to this thing.

Then suddenly, Brittany came in early from work.  Her eyes were full of rage and horror.

“What are you doing?  Are you crazy?”  she ran to grab it.

“It’s not worth it.  Don’t you see?  We’ve been at each other’s throats for weeks now.  And it’s gotten worse!  Look at your arm!  Look at my face!  This thing is making us animals!”  I told her.

“You can’t smash it.  We need it!  This is our life that you’re throwing away!”  she insisted.

“This stone isn’t what gave us happiness…we were happy before we found it.  Don’t you remember, babe?”  I asked desperately.  She couldn’t see it for the false idol that it was.

And just to prove my point, I raised the egg up and slammed it down to the floor.  But to my surprise, it didn’t shatter.  It bounced.  It pushed itself seemingly through the air toward my wife, and she clawed for it, eager to wrap her fingers around the stone.

“Brittany, stop!  It’s not worth it!”  I told her.  She wasn’t listening, though.  She was still grasping the egg like it could make everything better.

And maybe it could.  But I didn’t want a part of it anymore.

“Brittany,  listen to me.  It’s either that thing goes…or I do,”  I warned.

Her eyes shone with darkness again, and I knew her mind was made up.

“Go, then!  What need do I have for you when I have this?”  she shrieked.  Her eyes were rushing with tears.

“Listen to yourself!  This isn’t you!  It’s got you under some kind of spell!”  I insisted.

But she didn’t want to stop it.  She pulled away from me and ran.  I watched as she left me that night, with little more than the clothes on her back.  And suddenly, I felt an emptiness inside my soul.

It was as wide as a valley and probably deeper than the ocean.  But it wasn’t her that I was suddenly missing; it was the egg.  And I realized at last what it had taken from me.  I felt nothing.  I was nothing.

I held it together for a few more moments and tried my best to smile as I realized that I was OK with that.  I didn’t need anything.  And the emptiness was welcome here.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
Please wait...


🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Written by Kyle Harrison
Edited by Craig Groshek and Seth Paul
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Kyle Harrison


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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