CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "Why I drowned my wife in the bathtub" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 3, 2021

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When we got married, my wife had no toes. I'm starting here because, with God as my witness, I have no idea how else to begin this. That's the thing. I don't even know what this is. Account, confession, obituary. I had to write something down. I've taken photos, but nobody would believe she wasn't born.

No, stop skipping ahead. Clarity, Benedict, clarity. Start at the beginning. When I married Emily, she had no toes. I married her because of her eccentricities, her stories and her tall tales. I'd always laughed them off, especially the one about how she'd lost the digits on her feet.

I'd always seen it as a fanciful way of explaining away a birth defect. It never bothered me, but Emily grew up in an orphanage, and of course, kids can be cruel. I'd always assumed the beach tells, was a way to keep old wounds closed. I realise now, that was naive. According to Emily, she had been walking the beach at Dovercourt,

a bleak and run-down shipping town on the UK's east coast. It was before her parents' accident, so she can't have been older than four. She'd been digging for shark teeth, when she found, about a foot below the pebbles and grey sand, a sea slug. This is where the tale took one of Emily's usual flights of,

fancy, because, you see, this wasn't just any sea slug. Throughout our marriage, she'd sworn on her parents' graves that the moist creature was the exact size, shape, texture, and color of a human tongue. She even defiantly refused the budge on her assertion that it moved and writhed in her hands exactly like one too. The Emilyism that made me write off the story as fiction for years was what it did after a few minutes of wriggling. According to the wife, I'd give anything to hold again. The tongue slug vanished in her hands, disappearing into thin air with no sound or commotion.

There, one moment, gone the next. You're probably wondering how this relates to her toes, though. Well, the tale of the tongue slug ends when a four-year-old Emily awoke the next morning to find they were missing. Her parents found the screaming toddler in a bed with severed toes and pools of blood nowhere to be found. The flesh of a feat simply ended, much to a parent and doctor's confusion and smooth, blamishless stumps, like the toes were never there at all. Of course, for years, I thought the joke was that they never had been.

Thinking about the fact that Emily wasn't joking at all still sends shivers down my spine. It started during the last COVID-19 lockdown. Just like Emily's parents, I was awoken by screaming sobs. Emily was on the floor She had fallen out of bed And I could see why straight away All I could do was sit up in bed And scream with her

Her calves were missing There was no gaping wound Or exposed bone from a grisly severing No No pools of blood or shredded tissue They were simply gone Emily's knees were now smooth Globes at the end of her thighs

I can feel them, I can feel them, I can feel them. I have never heard a person yell like that. Her voice cracked and broke like there was so much panic in lungs that her throat wasn't strong enough to contain it. I clambered down from the bed and sat behind her. I held Emily in my arms for about three, maybe four hours. I only found out I spent that long silently sobbing into her open hair later, though, when I crashed downstairs on the foal of the couch that afternoon.

When you love somebody and they're that terrified, time becomes irrelevant. Any mother sat at a bedside at a neonatal ICU will tell you this. I sat and rocked her across those hours, telling her to focus on my breathing, despite it being far from steady or calm. We got there, though, somehow. She was sobbing throughout me helping a dress. I tried to let her maintain a dignity, do as much for herself as she could. but I found myself overstepping almost every boundary she had at one point she actually told me to frick off

other actual word obviously I'd never heard her to swear before she couldn't explain what she meant when she said I can feel them until I carried it downstairs and sat her on the sofa we'd watch the documentary on phantom limb syndrome once is when amputees get itches they can't scratch on limbs that are no longer there Emily made it clear in a plain, a matter-of-fact tone, free of any panic or confusion, that as far as her body was concerned, nothing was out of place.

When she had woken up that morning, she thought she or I had wet the bed. From the shins down, all she could feel was warm liquid. The strangest part, the part that had shocked her so much she launched herself from the bed, was when she could feel her toes again. After I came round for my exhaustion nap, we had a long talk. I, begrudgingly accepted no doctors would be phoned. Emily made the final decision, of course. I begged her to let me take her to the hospital, but she refused point-blank.

Her argument was bulletproof. Legs don't just disappear. They just don't. The best-case scenario was the doctors couldn't do anything. The worst. Well, we'd both watched enough of the expires to know people experience an inexplicable limb vanishing don't spend long outside of military or government captivity.

The thought of Emily on a cold steel medical table being dissected by men in hazmat suits was enough to get me to forget seeking professional help. In the end, Emily did make one concession. I called Shane, a colleague, and the closest thing I had to a friend locally. I couldn't tell him the specifics over the phone for obvious reasons, but my Cajun has piqued his curiosity and he agreed to come over.

He didn't scream, which was relief. At first he laughed, then he smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Then, finally, once the colour had drained from his spray tan face, he sat down. Can I have a glass of water? He eventually managed to ask. I is not moving from the space where he knew his face. colleagues' wife's legs had been a few months ago at the Christmas party. Shane, I'd worked with him for years.

I should never have called him. He didn't deserve to die. People react to the unexplainable in different ways. Some panic, others stay calm and take action. Once we'd fully explained our mourning to him, shame had been the latter. That's why I had to kill him. Once, my absent-mindedness came in handy. If I hadn't left the hammer on the mantelpiece after putting up the new shelf three days ago,

it wouldn't have been within easy reach. If it wasn't within easy reach, Shane would have finished styling 999. If he had finished dialing 999, Emily would have been carted away to some test facility, and I would be alone. Frick that. I didn't choose the sharp end of the hammer on purpose, nor did I intentionally drive the wedge right into Shane's temple. I was acting too much an instinct to have planned that thoroughly.

The surge of adrenaline had streamlined my inner voice into a caveman grunt that simply meant hit, kill. I dropped the dripping tool the moment I realised what I'd just done. I fell to my knees and wept. Once again, a five-year-old lost in a supermarket. Emily wasn't sobbing or screaming or yelling or making any sounds of distress. She was laughing.

Sweet Mary of Bethlehem, Benedict Bostead, Who thought you had it in you? Then I was laughing too, still on my knees, face still wet with tears, but laughing all the same. Seems messed up now. My newly legless wife and I bent double, in near hysterics while an innocent estate agent leaked all over the floorboards.

Panicking wouldn't have helped, and the looming despair was so thick neither of us would find a way back if we ventured into it. Laughter was the only sensible option. Lucky Shane was a frick boy, whose family lived way up in Manchester, Emily mused as I wrapped his body in black bin liners. You only called, right? Didn't message? By the time they come looking for him, there'll be no way to trace it to us.

Just make sure you dump your phone. For all our qualities, Emily wasn't smart. For all my faults, many stem from not being the sharpest, knife on the rack. That's why I didn't question this now quite obviously ridiculous assertion that no police would come round asking. Even if I had been blessed with a bit more brains though, I was too lost in a barely suppressed panic to notice. That's also the reason I didn't fully register the second time I ever heard Emily not use the word Frick. Disposing of Shane was a pain in the backside. Emily couldn't help for obvious reasons. A person with no feet isn't much help

when dragging the body of a grown man into a back garden. She did sit by the kitchen window after I had the genius idea of repurposing my office chair and a broom handle into a makeshift wheelchair she could punt around on, and I was appreciative for the company as I went about my first art deed of the next few months. The conversation made digging and filling the hole much quicker.

Plus, I'd always felt planting flowers was a group activity. Petunias are better enjoyed with friends. The next week was strange, Emily did one or two Zoom meetings, but eventually signed off sick from a trendy marketing job. The team would cope without a lead, she'd inform to stammering underlings, laptop poised on her shinless thighs. It was on the morning of the next Saturday, exactly seven days from the calf incident,

that we took our next step on the descent into madness. I was once more awoken by hysterics from Emily's side of the bed. This time It wasn't crying though This time it was laughter The same kind of maniacal giggling She lit loose after I removed shame from the equation With my dad's old hammer

Still half asleep I rolled over to see what the joke was The second round of hysterics was from me And they very much were filled with sobs Screams and scrambling away from the woman Who shared my bed My wife had no legs.

Her hips ended as the same fleshy, perfect orbs, and now vanished knees had been, when we'd gone to sleep the night before. To my growing alarm, Emily wasn't at all perturbed by this. Hey, she managed to get out between excited giggles. I did say I wanted to lose weight. She was waving her hand through the air where her thighs had once been. My heart thumped in my chest.

What was happening to my wife, and why did she seem so... Happy about it? Still, the change meant I didn't have to carry around the house at least. Without the extra weight of her thighs, her arms, now strengthened by a week of office chairpunting, were more than capable of functioning as standing legs. She'd walked around the house and her palms, laughing softly to herself when she thought I couldn't hear. When I asked her once what was so funny, she simply rolled her eyes and said, Don't worry, it's nothing you've done.

Something's just tickling the back of my knees. Calm the frick down. I couldn't calm the frick down. Firstly, because she didn't say frick. And secondly, how was I supposed to be calm when my wife's legs had disappeared with no explanation? Look, Benny, it's okay. I can still feel them.

It's just phantom lind syndrome. Just like that show. It took an hour for her to explain properly. mainly because she'd break into more fits of laughter every few minutes. It took another two for me to properly calm down. There was no clear reason too. I knew my Emily, and I knew when she wasn't being honest. She didn't believe what she was telling me.

To her, this wasn't phantom limb syndrome. In her mind, wherever her legs had gone, they were still with her, still attached to a solid flesh and bone. After how the next few weeks played out, I'm not sure I'd argue with her on that if she'd just come out and said it. Not anymore. I spent until the following Wednesday morning

trying to make sense of it all. But then, the doorbell rang. I don't know why I let him in the house. When the 20-something Jehovah's witness asked to come in and speak about Jesus, I was too dazed and quietly terror-stricken to fully realize what I agreed to, when I said yes.

This time, the hammer strike was deliberate. He had been mid-salm when the mental wedge connected with the back of his skull. The O in the word hope prolonged and slurred as he crumpled into the motion, finishing the vall as a twitching heap on the floorboards I'd only just scrub the blood out of. The wet thought of the hammer collapsing the suburban missionary's head had been loud enough to bring Emily knuckling down the stairs. At least I wasn't weeping this time. She found me stood over the quiet calm,

cleaning the Jarvis Winters' blood of the blunt tool with a wet wipe. I was beyond terrified by my own actions by this point, you see. I'd fully dissociated, I think. I was lost somewhere behind my eyes, screaming impotently at reality to stop and reverse back to before I answer the door. The argument that followed was the worst

and definitely weirdest we'd ever had. She didn't want to talk to me through the window this time. I had to dig a second hole next to the Shane's flower bed in silence left alone while Emily sat by the upstairs window to keep an eye on the confused-looking religious door-knockers peering through the front windows all along the street.

I could hear her laughing as I dug. Angry cackles, which she made no attempt to hide. It was all her freaking detour, eh? All a distraction. Pointless prelude. I practically threw the bedroom door open. I'd come in for a glass of water when I heard the sound of a shrill ramblings coming from down the stairs.

The sounds of distress had shaken the kitchen ceiling. No, not distress. Distress was what I started feeling about halfway up the stairs. Emily shrieking shook the walls of the hallway. She was screaming about, I don't know what, laughing hysterically between every sentence. I'll be with you soon, I'll be with you soon. Tell the man in charge I'm coming.

When the doors slammed open, she shot upright on the windowsill perch, jumping out of her skin. She looked sheepishly at me, biting her lips to suppress the occasional giggle. Emily? I asked, my voice on shore. Sorry, she mumbled. I dozed off. Must have been having a bad dream. Again, I knew her well enough to know that she believed none of those words. I didn't have the time or courage to confront her, though. my sweaty palms had more petunas the plant

The next few weeks were a paranoid blur Well for me at least I don't think Emily was aware very much beyond the changes in a body After the Jehovah incident I decided it wasn't safe for me to take my attention away from her for too long So I too took some sick leave COVID-19 was a great cover-up It would have been hard to explain if we both were expected in an office

I spent my night to the window taking long vigils with the lights out, peering through the blinds and hoping nobody came to claim the guests sleeping under my petunias. The funny thing is, we think the children are safe. They're the worst of us all.

She knew the truth though. She wrote it down. They call them every year and when all said and done, the town's graveyard just gets fuller. The man in charge can't wait to meet me. He's very angry with you though. No, he's not happy with you.

you at all, Benny. It took me a few days to get used to the dark, unnerving things Emily would holler and giggle into the dark bedroom when I had to head out to use the loo, or start the next watch of the window. Trying to hold a stable conversation with her was pointless now, not that I didn't try. Um, are you hungry? Hungry? For Thethetherex, the eight-armed maggot prince is hungry. The people lost in the pocket dimension of the non-things are hungry. You've never been hungry, Benny.

You don't know what hungry is. Even the most basic questions eventually led to incomprehensible babbling. I learned to look past it. She ate the meals I gave her, after all. What did it matter if I couldn't present them without being paid and mind-curdling titters that made sleep impossible most nights? My legs, my feet, my tail. My legs, my feet, my tail.

My legs. My feet, my tail. My tail. The next change was too much for Emily, I think. What little sanity had remained was gone when I awoke on the morning of the next disappearance. The shoulders, breast and head, there were once my wife rattled the same words over and over again, her eyes rolling back in her hair, her expression terrified. She didn't even notice me pick her up and put her into the cupboard. The towel in the kitchen roll I wedged into the cracks of the old door did little to quiet the noise.

If we were the kind of couple that owned a bull gag, I would have used it, but the rolled-up pair of socks would have to do. It didn't seem like she minded as I shut the door, tears streaming down my face. It didn't seem like she was aware of anything but her legs, her feet, her tail. I try not to dwell on that last one too much, while I place seeds in fertilizer over the Shane and Jehovah Mounds. The petunias were wilting, and wilting flowers raised suspicion I told myself. Neighbours can be nosy. It was best to be careful. That sensible reasoning was why I hit Shane's mother with a hammer

when she turned around to shut the front door behind her. I, of course, had the hammer ready when I opened the door. I'm not an idiot. My aim was as good as ever. I was also relieved to have something to occupy my time. Upstairs, Emily had managed to dislodge the socks and tenderly planting fresh petunias on my new mound next to Shane's was a good distraction to occupy myself with for the rest of the day.

The police showed up two days later. Yesterday, so you have context. I had bigger problems by then, though. When I woke yesterday morning, the room was quiet. It took me a second to realize the gentle lull of birdsong wasn't a welcome event. The fact I could hear it when the hysterical shrieks and cackles came from the cupboard had stopped. I know what you're thinking. Surely that was a good thing.

Well, it would have been if the soft chuckles and whispers that replaced him weren't far, far worse. You know, I'm so glad I'm not like you, Benny. I'll get to munch, munch, munch and crunch, crunch, crunch, while I watch your skin melty melts and the stuff in your bowels boils into your burst. When the man in charge meets you, he's going to take your eyes, Benny. He's going to burn you for a thousand, thousand years, but you'll never die. That's what he wants with all of you, Benny. All you scumblings and filthy smalls and screaming squishes.

I'm going to eat them all, Benny. When I get there, I'm going to eat all of them. All the people. I'm going to eat you too, Benny. You're going to get there eventually with the rest of the underscum. And when you do, I'm going to eat you over and over and over. When your brains ooze out of your ear holes, because I've crunch, crunch, crunch down on your skull. Do you know what I'm going to do, Benny?

I'm going to eat you over and over and over. It took me five hours of listening to those sanity-breaking promises before I had the nerve to open the door. Emily's head sat on a cushion of Auburn hair at the back of the cupboard. A green eyes rolled back, bulging from the sockets. Her cheeks red as an open blister, brow coated in a thin layer of sweat that matched my own, and flecks of spittle exploding from her mouth as she whispered.

I'm ready and I'm going soon. I can't wait to meet the man in charge. He'll satisfy me more than you ever have, Benny. She wasn't laughing much anymore. She was panting softly, breaths from wherever her lungs had gone. Or whatever they now were, coming through fast and shallow. The disembodied head of my wife whispering pure nightmare fuel wasn't what made me collapse into the bedroom carpet and vomit though. No.

It was the voice she spoke with, which did that. The whispers reaching my head through unknown mental avenues outside my ears weren't Emily's. They weren't even human. The syllables came from a battery of voices, each at least an octave higher than the last. All except one. A single bass tone, almost too low to comprehend, that danced in and out of the cascade of degrading noise. The language, the mother tongue of Emily's screeching monologue as it rattled through my skull,

I did not recognize. It was no language of this earth. Yet, to my horror, I understood every word. Soon I'll be free, Benny. Soon I'll be free, and you'll see me again in three years, nine months, four days, seven hours, 42 minutes and 17 seconds. You'll see how much I munch, munch, and crunch, crunch, crunch. See who was really inside the filthy small you married. The rest happened on autopilot.

The subconscious, taunting whispers didn't stop when I picked up the gibbering head. They remained uninterrupted as I carried her into the bathroom and placed her gingerly on a towel I'd placed in the toilet seat. She continued her foul declarations for every minute it took for the ceramic tub to fill up with warm water. That's how I knew I still loved her. I made sure I wasn't too hot or too cold and even added some bubble bath

before I picked up her still whispering head and plunged it under the surface. Human beings can only survive with lungs full of water for a few minutes. Emily's lips did not stop moving until she'd been under there for at least two hours. I held her temples, tears falling non-stop from my eyes as they remained fixed to a bulging, rolling ones. That is, until they two disappeared. Before the final ten or so minutes, the rest of Emily's head dematerialized. A lady slipped face first into the bathwater.

the open eels of hair worming between my white knuckles vanished I yelled brushing aside the bubbles only one trace of Emily remained plump lips white teeth and a wagling tongue somehow set into a flat piece of skin

much shallow than the depth of the mouth it contained a mouth that was still moving I ran my fist into it in the end I grabbed that tongue and pulled as hard as I could anything to stop the whispers the water did nothing to dull A deep crimson bloomed underneath the bubbles. The heart biting at my wrist stopped.

I wrenched my arm out of the water, holding a single piece of flesh in my grasp. It was a tongue, a blood-soaked wriggling tongue. Unlike the rest of Emily, there was a wound where it had left the body. The horror of what I'd done slowly dawned on me. I sat alone on the cold tiles, my wife's limp and severed tongue in my hands. and howled. I stayed there, curled in a fetal position next to the tub following my wife's blood,

until the police started hammering at the door about 20 minutes ago. The tongue had gone limp, but hadn't vanished. The mouth has, though. Emily has gone, leaving me alone and frightened with the police about to break down the door and find me with a severed tongue of my missing wife and three bodies buried in my back garden. The thing is, after the first of the...

the last few months, prison doesn't seem that scary. That's why I was calm enough to write this all out. I knew I had to tell my side of the story. Let's be real, once that bathroom ram I can hear finally does its job, that's it for me. You'll be hearing about me on the news. The talking heads will tell you I'm a serial killer, a hardboarded psychopath, refusing to reveal the location of my wife's body. I'm going to tell them the truth, but they won't believe it. You know I know better though.

You now know, like I do. There isn't a body. You'll know, as they put me behind bars for life, that I'm only guilty of three of the four murders next to my name on Wikipedia. You'll know like I do, that I am a 25% innocent man. You'll also know the nagging truth that I think is going to keep me up for many nights to come. Emily had told me when I'd see her again. In three years, nine months,

four days, four hours, twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds, that when I saw her, I'd meet the man in charge. That's when, according to Emily, all of a maddening promises will be fulfilled. She could have just been taunting me, teasing me, trying to see just how blatant the untruths she could fill my head with before I snapped. I don't think that's the case, though. Besides, over the years I knew my wife before I drowned her in my bath, She told a lot of tall tails, starting with a particularly tall one about a missing toes.

I'm starting to think that maybe had tall tails. When so tall, after all.