Creepy - 261

Episode Date: June 3, 2024

Written by: Laurence Crumbie and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Bonus Episode: "Showersick"***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Showersick***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Whether these stories truly happened, or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents 261 Written by Lawrence Crumbie and narrated by Heather Thomas.

10-11-94 Dear Clara, It feels a bit odd to be writing this, especially as I hardly ever write anything by hand. Who does these days? It's also unlikely that you'll even read this before we next meet. But just in case you do, I hope everything is well and that Henry has recovered.

Did he ever find out what virus it was? Also, how was Angela doing at school? Feel free to reply via hologrix. The reason I'm writing this is that I've agreed to take part in a psychological experiment studying the effects of lighting alteration on basic cognitive and motor functions. Jargon aside, I'm being paid handsomely to live alone for two weeks in a comfortable house in which the lighting occasionally changes color. My only tasks are to complete basic logic and motor tests every evening.

Puzzles, threading needles, etc. plus to keep this handwritten diary addressed to someone I love. A bit bizarre, don't you think? They even made me complete a literary test as part of the application. Today was merely the introduction day. The program director, Dr. Hall, a kind, albeit stern young lady, explained the experiment to me and showed me around the house, which is modern, though lacking in decoration.

Mostly it's just plain white walls and a few generic, posters of cities like New York and Paris, etc. At least it has a decent library, so I've started reading Robert's sentence, yourself and no one else. I know it's one of your favorites, but I never got past the first part. Amazingly, there is also a turntable in the lounge. I thought you could only find those in museums. Have you ever used one?

It's actually quite good fun putting on the old records, which produced a song. which produce a surprisingly clean, crisp sound. But honestly, the whole rigamarole of turning them over and putting the needle in place is enough to drive even the most patient person mad. No wonder they are practically extinct. The only major downside is that the house has no screens of any sort, let alone an AR headset, as Dr. Hall said that any surplus lighting could interfere with their results. For the same reason, it has no windows.

Mind you, that's a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. I think that we'll do for today. I expect I shall have more to say tomorrow when the experiment really begins. Love, your dear sister. 11-11-94. Dear Clara This morning I awoke to find everything bathed in a beautiful golden glow. It was spectacular.

The first thing I did was to get up and open the curtains, completely forgetting they were just there for show. Memory of a goldfish, I know. This did dimmed the golden lighting a little, pun intended. But I still had a decent day. Mostly I read and worked out on the rowing machine in the basement gym. I also had a delicious dinner. Kish Lorraine plus a salad of rocket with a,

Gorgonzola, walnuts and green apple topped with an excellent honey dressing. To make things simple for me, all the ingredients for the entire fortnight are provided, and there is a recipe written out for every meal time, except breakfast, which is always musily. I'm already looking forward to tomorrow's meals. Otherwise, little to remark, as the logic and motor tasks are easy and dull. Love, your dear sister, 12, 1194. Dear Clara Day 3 was not as enjoyable.

The food was great, for lunch a quinoa salad with fresh whole-meal bread that they must have put in the larder while I was asleep. For dinner, a spicy pumpkin soup made with coconut milk. But unfortunately the whole house was cast in murky, purple light all day. It was too dark to read. I can barely even see the words I'm writing, so I mostly just worked out and danced to old records. Have a listen to the music they liked in the mid-1900s.

It's so strange. This was fun for a time, but I can only dance alone for so long, when no one is watching. Love, your dear sister. P.S. In case you're wondering, the logic and motor tests are all conducted under the same bright white light,

which turns on at 8 p.m. sharp to ensure a fair test. 13.11.94. Dear Clara, this is going to be my shortest entry, as the lighting today has been such a deep brown that I've barely been able to do anything at all. Just finding my way around the house has been a challenge. In short, I did the same things as yesterday. only less happily.

Making dinner was not easy either, even if they did choose a simple pasta recipe that I could make in near darkness. It's incredible the effect that two dark days have had on your mind. It makes you think the sun will never reappear. Still, I guess I knew such days would come. They have to, right?

I doubt I did so well in the evening tests. Love, your dear sister 1411-94 Dear Clara Things got a bit strange today The lighting, though brighter, was a constant sick green that made me feel queasy And I could swear some objects were in different places to where I left them.

I did have a couple glasses of wine last night, but nothing OTT. Also the first of. food was average. Nothing to compare with the previous days. But the greatest shock of all came from the bookshelf. Believe it or not, I found Carla Sings no life of its own in there. Do they not realize how offensive that piece of pop philosophy is to people like us? And was it there all along? Or did they slip it in last night? I feel like burning the thing, and only didn't because I was worried I might get kicked out of the experiment and lose my money.

However, I will have a word with Dr. Hall afterwards. I simply won't tolerate intolerance. Only plus of today was that I was able to resume reading, yourself, and no one else. I've nearly finished the second book now, and I know the final one is meant to be the best, can already see why it is considered a masterpiece. Hopefully the lighting tomorrow will allow me to continue. Love, your dear sister. 15.11.94.

Dear Clara, It's as if God, or Dr. Hall, read my prayer and deliberately ignored it. Worse even than the really dark days. The lighting today has flickered between a garish red and blindingly bright white every three seconds. If I knew this is what I was signing up for, I might have never agreed to take part. Worse still, there has been an incessant ringing all day.

I'm guessing it's an electrical fault to do with the lighting. I shouted at one of the cameras that there was a problem, and Dr. Hall made an announcement over the speaker that someone would come and fix it overnight. Otherwise, they might jeopardize the results of the experiment. I'm not quite sure what she means by that, But you know what these white coats are like. Managed to read a bit more today. But what with the constant lighting changes and the relentless ringing?

I soon got a splitting headache and couldn't continue. During the evening tasks, I could even feel my brain working more slowly and erratically. It goes without saying that the motor tests were in shambles. Oh well. Chances are tomorrow will be. better. Love, your dear sister, 16, 1194, dear Clara. As you can probably tell from my scraggly handwriting, things have taken a dramatic turn for the worse. They did not fix the ringing overnight. In fact, it's got louder. I can barely even

hear myself think. I've pleaded repeatedly for them to fix it, but I've got no response so far, not even an announcement from Dr. Hall. I asked to leave the experiment, as painful as it is to think I won't get the money. But I simply can't carry on. They made me sign a disclaimer and other paperwork at the beginning, of course. But who really reads all that? I'm not really sure where to start. The lighting is such a bright yellow. It's like staring into the sun. I've spent almost the whole day in bed, face buried in the pillow, and with bits of toilet paper plugged in my ears. You would not believe the migraine I've had. And no, there are no painkillers anywhere. I've checked. I'm writing this under the forgiving white test light, but any moment now this will be replaced by the

torturous solar one for around another hour. Then, thankfully, darkness will fall, and I might get some rest. Fingers crossed. Love. Your dear sister. 17.11.94. Dear Clara, This is turning out to be one of the worst experiences of my life.

I'll start chronologically. Last night, during which I barely slept because of my migraine, I heard a strange, rocking, creaking sound downstairs. At first, I thought it was someone entering to fix the ringing, which still has not stopped. But then there was a sudden bang and a woman's scream. I think my heart literally stopped. I sat up and waited for a long time, quivering.

Have you ever been afraid? Truly afraid. This was my first time, and I would never wish it on anyone. The whole world takes on a new, hyper-real dimension. Time stops, yet somehow passes quickly, too. You probably think I'm making no sense. Thankfully, I heard nothing else after that, so decided not to go down and investigate.

I never found out what exactly happened. Everything's a mess. When I finally did go down for breakfast, I found the larder barely stocked and the recipe book gone. All I've eaten today is a bowl of musli, two butter sandwiches and an apple. I asked the camera in the living room

where all the food went and what happened last night. According to Dr. Hall, Someone broke in and took it. But how? This house is nowhere near anywhere, if you can say that, and surely the team are monitoring its perimeter. I don't understand. Nor do I want to call Dr. Hall a liar.

But something about her answer just does not sit right. The lighting was a dusky blue today, I guess to reflect my mood. Too dark to read, and annoyingly the record player appears to have broken as well. So it was a musicless day. At least there was the rowing machine. Pray for me that I'll make it through this. Love.

Your dear sister. 1811.94. Dear Clara, I cannot believe how stupid I've been. The cognitive and motor tests are not what the... those cruel white coats are interested in. Once I've related everything that's happened today, you will see the truth of the matter. First off, there was that creaking noise again last night. And this time it really did sound like a person walking around. Then, would you believe it, they started ascending the stairs, one slow step after another. I could barely breathe for fear,

and can't really put it into words. But let's just say that when you confront true terror, it makes every other haunting experience pale into insignificance. Just imagine it. Footsteps getting closer and closer. The memory of screams the night before, and your body's shaking from fear and fatigue. Mind so disoriented that you're not sure whether it's real

or in your head. Worst of all, you don't know which is worse. When the person reached the landing, I was frozen, stiff, and shaking, drenched in icy sweat, and could hear them breathing on the other side of the door, rasping predatory breaths. I wanted to get up.

Could I defend myself or at least die standing? But my broken body simply could not muster the energy. With nothing else to do, I prayed the person would go away. Then, I prayed they would enter and end everything. I waited for what felt like hours, sick with fear. Thinking of it, I don't remember if there was any ringing during this ordeal. Maybe there was. But would I even have noticed?

I also wouldn't put it past them to have switched it off deliberately. Eventually, the person started descending the stairs. I let out a heavy sigh of relief, though my body never fully calmed down. It goes without saying that I did not get back to sleep. You are probably wondering whether I even went downstairs after that experience. Well, be proud of me, because I did. I don't know when, spent most of the day too scared to leave the bedroom, but eventually I decided I had to know. The only good thing I can say about today is that the lighting was okay, soft, light orange.

Guess they didn't make it too dark so I could clearly see what else they had done to me. They had taken away all the books, except for no life of its own. And the rowing machine was gone too. everything from which I could salvage some enjoyment, in other words. Fridge, freezer, and larder, completely empty, and nothing but two hard-boiled eggs for the day. Is this not all proof that I've been tricked into some sort of twisted experiment? How they are going to look me in the eyes once this is all over?

I don't know. May this serve as another exemplum of our plight. How many more do we need? I didn't bother doing the evening tests. Would have been conforming to their sick desires after those revelations. But writing this diary has been therapeutic. Maybe that's why they told me to do it. But your guess is as good as mine.

Tomorrow barely bears thinking. I cannot wait for all this to be over. And to see you as soon as possible. Love Your Dear Sister 1911-94 Clara Why I continue to keep this diary

I don't know Maybe it helps to write everything out Even though I am almost certain I will never see you again I have now gone three days With next to no sleep Nobody entered last night They must have realized I have cottoned on to them.

But they made up for this by simulating earthquakes and air raids. Sirens, the sound of bombs, etc. Every 15 minutes or so. Very strange. Even though I know these are fake, my body and mind still react with alarm every time. I could not rest, let alone sleep. Probably the purpose.

Yet who, I ask you, would do such a thing? We may live in a place where few people accept us, and even fewer respect us, but this is another level. Inhumane. I cannot. No, I don't want to believe that they will get away with this, though I'm not naive enough to think otherwise. Ignorance is bliss.

There was no lighting today. The entire place was pitch black. How terrible it must be to be blind, fumbling forever through darkness. Nor was there any food. And when I filled up a glass of water, it turned out to be sulfuric acid. At least I smelt it and didn't drink any. There are simply no words to describe my exhaustion. I can barely even stand, and at some point I must have passed out on the floor, woke up lying in a puddle of my own vomit.

Surprised my body could produce so much considering I've hardly eaten a thing lately. I have come to realize that fear of death is foolish. There is so much worse to be afraid of. Last thing worth mentioning is that there were no tasks this evening. When the test light came on, all I found in the table drawer where they keep the hologricks was a razor blade and some painkillers. No need to spell out the message, but obviously I did not slit my veins. I won't give in, even if I am trapped here at the will of some psychotic goddess.

Love, your dying sister. 2011 94. Clara. Initially today will sound like a relief and an improvement, but I think you soon will see its true purpose. Everything today was wrongly perfect. There was no ringing. The lighting was normal.

Yourself and no one else was in the bookshelf. There was delicious pre-made food. No acid for water. The rowing machine was back. etc. Sounds too good to be true, right? Well, did you ever hear about that strange tradition they had in the U.S. when capital punishment was still legal?

Last meal. That's what they called it, I think. Prisoners due to be executed that day, or maybe the night before, I'm not sure, could request their favorite meal. It was a sign of humanity. grant the condemned some small final joy before death. This must have been my last meal.

Or during test time, or decision time as I have come to think of it, there were once more no tests, only a syringe filled with thanaside. Do you know it? They call it the drug of fatal happiness. Allegedly, it's the most humane way to kill someone. They say, you die smiling. I seriously considered injecting it.

But eventually decided that would have been to go out according to their design and desire. And the last thing I want is to gratify them. The devil feeds on suffering and all that. Mind you, I don't know how much more of this I can take if I die during my sleep. Please know how much I love you. I know my impulsiveness sometimes caused friction between us, but I never intended to harm you. You're still the closest person I have to family.

You are family, in my eyes. See the dried tear drops on this page? That is how much you mean to me. Wish me luck tomorrow. Your dearest sister, 21. 11. 94. My beloved sister Clara. I am putting all my remaining energy into making this comprehensible. For this could be my final goodbye. First, though, let me tell you about the trauma they have put me through today. Last night was a nightmare. Actually, it was worse,

because nightmares are not real. I did not imagine they could think up worse than they already had, but it seems I underestimated their capacity for cruelty. I was fast asleep when I heard the roar of a chainsaw. Someone was cutting down my bedroom door. My whole body is trembling as I recall this, and tears of fear, something I had never experienced, are streaming down my cheeks.

I screamed as a little. never before. Screamed so loud, my throat hurt. I looked around for something to defend myself, but there was nothing. Then the door came down. I fled to the far corner and huddled there, face buried in my arms as I whimpered for mercy. I could not bear to look up, could not speak for fear. The sound of the chainsaw got louder, and the next thing I knew it was beside my ear, and I was urinated. myself. I tried to say something, but only sobs came out. I waited for them to end it, but to my horror, they just helped the saw there. I don't know how long this lasted, but eventually the person went away. Went away. Can you believe it? How cruel can one be? My body by this point

was a tsunami of fear, and it was ages before I could crawl back into bed. The rest of the night I awoke repeatedly to the sound of that dreaded chainsaw, but I cannot say whether it was coming from downstairs, or my own terrible imagination. Even though I knew my suffering would be less if I stayed in bed, I decided at long last to go downstairs. Why? I'm not sure exactly, though I have a suspicion.

Have you ever had that desire when life is bleak and everything is going downhill, to descend to rock bottom, to bring yourself down to that level, hit the bottom of the bottle just to see how bad life could get? I was there once, remember? And part of the reason I got there is I perceived some sort of twisted romanticism in reaching it, in precipitating utter self-destruction. I think it was a similar thing here. Having already suffered so much, I had to find out just how much worse it could get.

What other evils they had in store for me. This is what I found. Blood-red lighting. incessant ear-splitting ringing, no gym equipment, no turntable, a rotten, maggot-infested leg of meat hanging in the larder. The tap runs with a foul-smelling acid,

and there are cockroaches and rats running around the house. One bit me on the leg, something a lot more painful than you would think. I bet it was carrying something. some nasty disease. Worst of all is that the speakers have been playing the audiobook of no life of its own all day. I can now confirm that the saying sticks and stones will break my bones but words will

never hurt me is objectively wrong. Turns out humiliation is the most painful form of torture. Only the thought of you kept me going until decision time. when I could finally sit down and write. They've given me a noose today, and I am seriously contemplating using it. For a while I cannot bear the thought of giving in. This experience has taught me that

maybe there are times when it is better not to find out what tomorrow will bring. It's very difficult to describe my emotions. I guess part of me is in denial. If it weren't for the excruciating pain, hunger, dizziness, and thirst, I would think this is all some nightmare, some perverse prank. And other than self-pity, I'm furious at letting myself be tricked into this, especially for something as lowly as money.

Guess I'm trying to say that even though I know this is real, I'm still incredulous. Clara, if this ever reaches, you. Remember how much I love you. I never said it enough. One of the many regrets I have, especially now. I love you. It seems I was never destined for great things. Of course, I was never going to become a Robert Stanton or Elise Mary Harris. But nor did I deserve this. No one does. whenever my end comes, I will think of you. That will provide me with some comfort, at least.

I wish you all the happiness in the world, or as much as is possible for people like us. You don't know how much this is killing me, deciding whether to kill myself. I'm looking at the rope right now, but despite everything, I doubt I could do it. If you do somehow get your hands on this diary, please make my ordeal known to the whole wide world.

Now, pray for me, your dearest, loving sister. Beside the glass cabinet containing this diary is an interactive screen identical to those in the museum other rooms. It has four tabs, diary, photos, videos, criticism. Opening the last one brings up an excerpt from Elizabeth Michaels, her life and works. Undoubtedly, her most controversial piece, 261 challenges the definition of art and has divided society since its creation. Composed of literary and visual materials, it is, in Michael's own words, a cruelty project, that subjects C. Violet Peterson to numerous forms of psychological and physiological torture,

compelling her to commit suicide after 261 hours. Initial criticism was damning. The West Federate Herald dubbed it evidence of Michael's psychoticism, while 10-plus art stated it was not art, but a sick, inhumane publicity stunt. Notable is that 261 took place in the Trifederate, the only advanced economy country in which such an artwork could be carried out with impunity, as clones there in the late 22nd century

had even fewer rights than non-human animals. When asked if 261 was a piece of protest art, however, Michaels refused to comment, whatever her intention, Clones and the Tri-Federate gained full human rights just three years later in 2197. Boyer bonus episode. Creepy Presents. Shower is sick. He wasn't quite sure how to describe the smell.

It wasn't so rank as to warrant his full attention, but at the same time, it always persisted. It was like a mosquito in a way. Only annoying if you paid attention to it. And like any mosquito, Sam couldn't help but pay attention to it. The water steamed as it touched his skin, burning down his slicked back hair. It wasn't boiling water, but it may as well have been. Every study in the world could prove that hot showers were bad for you, but it didn't matter to him.

The shower was a place for reflection, after all. If Sam hadn't be alone with his thoughts, he'd rather be comfortable while doing so. Thankfully, I won't be along much longer, Sam thought to himself. He smiled as he pictured her face in his head, short, cute, and willing to spend the night. Just what he wanted out of a first date. I wouldn't really call it a date, per se. For a date, we'd be going somewhere. But she... what's her name again?

Erica. Erica's coming straight here, which means we get a little more fun than we would on a traditional date. Sam glanced to his right at the bottle of shampoo resting on the shelf. And it also means you got to get ready and stop hogging all the hot water hot shot. Sam moved to the faucet, but stopped. His nostrils flared as he picked up on the smell. He'd done well to push it out of his attention span so far, but it hit him full on in that moment.

He couldn't put his finger on it. He could smell it, that much was from. for sure, but it was distant somehow, faint, like someone a few doors down was decomposing, a strong odor, but one that hadn't quite reached him just yet. I bet something died in the walls, a mouse or something. Though you'd think something like that would be a bit harder to smell from the shower, Sam looked around, not entirely sure what he was looking for in the first place. The shower was large. A vertical cubicle big enough for two to fit comfortably. A purchasing point, Sam, had picked up on keenly, but not so large as to fit any potential harbors of the stench.

Unless it's... Me? Sam stepped away from the showerhead for a moment, raised his arm, took a quick sniff. He nearly recoiled and disgust as a result. Yep, it's me. Damn, that I shampooed already. Guess another round won't hurt, especially for Erica's sake. He wasn't sure why exactly he was so concerned with impressing Erica. He would have his way with her. She would promise to keep in touch,

and they'd mutually move on to separate bodies. Such was the cycle that Sam kept himself in. It was the only normality he knew. He grabbed the shampoo, making sure to be much more thorough this time around. The foam foamed and bubbled on his skin, running down his arms and legs as it mixed with water on his way to the drain. He let himself soak for another few minutes, letting himself get lost in thought. Finally, he pulled back from under the shower head once more and went in for a final check on how he smelled. It had gotten worse.

Sam stared at the shampoo bottle, still open from use. He suddenly became very aware of how harsh the water pressure was. Each individual droplet of water seemed to strike him like a BB pellet, assaulting him in a painful barrage he couldn't get away from. It pelted his back, the hiss of the water steam blaring like a truck's horn. He covered his ears, silently pleading for it to stop. It wouldn't. All the while the smell seemed to rise.

It reeked not of body odor, but something stronger than that. It was suffocating, seemingly closing in all around him. The cubicle, lovingly selected to fit too, quickly felt that much smaller as Sam's senses went into overdrive. His chest rose and fell, the water beating down on him as he struggled to make sense of what was happening. You're okay, Sam. You're okay. It's all the steam from the shower. It's messing with your head. Yeah. That's it. Just got to get out of here. Regaining control of his body, Sam powered through the smell and the sensory overload, reaching through this steady downpour for the faucet.

He cranked it off and all at once, the cacophony of his mind fell silent. No more thundering water drops. no more claustrophobic shower. But still, that smell. Okay, whatever. I can deal with that later. For now, I just gotta clear my head. Got to...

Sam reached for the sliding shower door, then stopped. He stared down at his arm as the smell grew sharper. There was a small dark spot on his arm. It could have easily been mistaken for, a mole had a mole bend there when he entered the shower, Sam looked at the dark spot, then realized something. Whatever it was, it was spreading across the skin of his forearm. It was growing. Confused, Sam Ogled the dark spot, slowly raising a finger to poke it. The skin that had darkened felt soft to the touch. When he applied pressure to it, it seemed to almost give way.

He pressed and pressed, feeling his fingers sink ever deeper into the dark spot. Then? Something gave. The darkened skin began to break open. The skin not so much ripping, but more sagging as the pressure from his finger proved too much. Recoiling in horror, Sam quickly withdrew his finger from the wound, watching a glob of jet black viscera drip down his index finger. The dark spot. Now an open pit on his arm grew even still, his skin breaking and peeling away. The smell was now more pungent than ever before, the source of it having been exposed to open air. His hand shook his blood began to flow down his finger, which grew cold as he lost control of them.

The rot had corroded Sam's arm all the way to the bone, leaving his forearm hanging limply as he struggled to get his head sore. straight. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? He backed away from the door in shock. There was no pain, but that fact had little to remedy the situation. Sam lost his footing, slipping on leftover water from the hot shower.

He went sprawling to the ceramic floor, howling in pain as he felt a sharp pain in his leg. It fell under the rest of his body weight. jerking reflexively for a moment before going limp. Help! Sam shouted instinctively. Somebody help me! He gasped, doing his best to conserve his breath. Erica wouldn't be arriving for at least another hour.

Mustering all the strength in his remaining arm, Sam propped himself up just enough to get his leg out and examine it. The bone piercing through the skin was the only diagnosis he needed. Sam could hear his heart beating in his chest. His mind began to race, imagining all the worst-case scenarios as he scrambled for a solution. I'm going to die in here, and nobody will find me. Erica's going to have to cancel and it won't find me for weeks. Sam's hyperventilating was interrupted by an observation.

A sight so shocking it almost sent a jolt of focus into a scattered brain. His leg was moving. More so, it was moving away. The area around the break edge had gone black with rot, just as his arm had. Only this was... different. Instead of simply crumbling away, the black material was moving, writhing and squirming as if it were alive. As the corrosion began to separate Sam's leg from his knee, a set of sinewy black tent. The tendrils rested themselves free from the open wound.

They flailed about as Sam covered his mouth in horror, his eyes welling up with tears. The tendrils began to push against the pristine white floor, leaving behind a trail of the same black, tarish substance that coated Sam's arm wound. Pushing and pushing, they began to control where his rotting leg was going. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. Sam struggled to bring his brain to reason. This is a nightmare, Sam.

You're going to wake up, okay? You're going to wake up. Sam began to back away weakly, sliding what remained of his body towards the front of the cubicle as his bones creaked in agony. He raised his remaining arm, now slowly becoming prepared for its own dark spots, up the wall,

desperate for anything to help them. himself up. He found the faucet with his grip, and using what little strength he had, he pulled down on it hard. As the barrage of droplets fell once more, Sam noticed something. The smell had dissipated, if only slightly. No longer is rotten and odorous. It was as it had been when he first started showering, only a faint nuance that he could tune out if need be. He He stared down at his leg only to find that it had stopped. The tendrils were prone on the ground as the water beat down on them. Then slowly, they began to move.

It was about a hundredth of their previous speed, but the tendrils were adamant to move once more. Only this time the shower water was slowing their progression. It was slowing the rot. Some looked up his remaining arm. The dark spots were there, but they weren't growing or advancing in any way. Then, after a moment, he could make out a faint spread of one of the spots. As with the tendrils, however, it was infinitely slower now.

The cubicle began to fill with steam as Sam weighed his options. If I turn the water off, I'm a dead man. But I've got to get help somehow. Sam backed up against the wall, sinking to the ground as he watched the tendrils push away at his severed leg. They were still on the move, slowly but surely. His arm, his rotted arm, was completely dead. He was certain it would have fallen off by now, though he suspected that the water had something to do with its preservation.

If you could call it that, it hung loosely by a single strap of skin and muscle. dangling it aside as if to mock him. I'm not going to die here, Sam said out loud. There's a way out of this. Whatever this is, this water gives me time to think. So that's what I'm going to do. Do you hear me?

Sam shouted again to nobody. I'm going to figure out how to beat this. You won't kill me. I won't let you. Sam stopped, sucking in deep breaths as he began to calm down. I won't let you, he mumbled as he began to concoct his escape. The steam encircled him, the water bearing down heavier than before. He was safe in the water.

He was safe in the steam. He was safe in the shower. Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a bitch. And Waze wasn't much help either. I knocked, but you didn't answer, so I let myself in. You don't always keep your door unlocked, do you? No answer.

Erica frowned, setting down her handbag as she surveyed the lavish living room. It was much nicer than most apartments she'd seen, which gave her hope that her date wouldn't be a cheap hookup. Speaking of, where even is Sam anyway? She approached the kitchen area. peeked her head in the bedroom. Nothing. She pulled out her phone, hoping to shoot him a quick text.

As she plopped down on his sofa, she noticed something on a coffee table by her elbow. It was a note with a piece of tape stuck to it, as if it had been plucked from off a door or a wall or something like that. Curiosity overtaking her, she picked it up and began to read, doing her best to decipher the crude handwriting. Sam, last warning. Have your rent to me by seven or I'm shutting off your water, signed Bruce.

Erica pulled out her phone. It was 807. She stifled a chuckle. I bet Richie Rich here is down there complaining to his landlord right now. Poor guy. I hope I can make it up to him when he gets back. Erica put the note back on the coffee table, propping her feet up as she began to browse social media absent-mindedly.

Sam would be back soon, she was sure of it. And when he got back, she'd make him explain exactly why his apartment smelled so rancid. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing

or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production. team and the story's author.