Creepy - A Box Full of Memories

Episode Date: September 5, 2022

Written by: Kyle Harrison and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Bonus episode: "My Wife's Sore Throat is Killing Me" written by: GenuinelyGrim***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the Bloody Disgusting Network. Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Joshua Willets, Renee Hawkins, R.J.L., Chuck, Anika Slaughter, Lexi, Tia Jolly, Stank the Wet Pudding, sugar-free, and Roger Pruitt. To see how you can support the podcast, Anger Rewarded with early commercial-free access, weekly bonus episodes, immediate access to over 600 Patreon-exclusive episodes, and more. please check out our donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. And just in case you don't follow us on social media or miss the announcement we posted on Friday,

creepy will be performing live in Chicago along with SCP archives and scary to sleep at the Music Box Theater on November 10th, 2022. That's right. Creepy Live for one night only. If things go well with ticket sales and the performance, who knows where we could end up next. But first things first, save the date. Chicago, November 10th at the Musicbox Theater. You can get your tickets now at musicboxeater.com or the link in the show notes.

There are also a limited number of VIP tickets that include reserve seating, a swag, bag, and priority signing at the post-event meet and greet. Don't wait. Get your tickets. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous. chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Box Full of Memories Written by Kyle Harrison, and narrated by Heather Thomas. There are moments in our life that hit us harder than a freight train. Psychologists would probably say that these events redefine who we are as people

and change the way we view the world. Religious people would likely say, it's all part of God's plan, and when we experience something that shakes us to our very core, that's a test of faith. I really don't know which category I fall into because when it happened to me, it certainly felt like an out-of-body experience.

Losing your parents is something that no one worries about until you start talking about nursing homes, but my two brothers and I weren't so lucky to have that opportunity. I still remember the moment I got a call from some nurse asking if I was the daughter of Wayne and Rhonda Applegate. Before I even heard the news, I knew something terrible had happened. happened. I think I froze for a few seconds, hoping the world would give me just a few minutes

to mentally prepare myself. Instead, the nurse was repeatedly asking if I was still there on the phone, and I found myself clenching the device as I numbly responded, yes. I'm sorry, she said. She choked out the words. My parents were gone. I didn't ask the why or how. I wasn't sure it. I wasn't sure mattered. I stopped whatever I was doing and got in my car, trying to make it to the hospital. The nurse had said they hadn't been able to pry their bodies from the car, but I didn't want to accept it until I saw it with my own eyes. The car crash was horrendous. Their small four-door sedan crushed by the impact of an oncoming vehicle on the passenger side. Mom's door was completely crushed in, leaving absolutely no chance that she could have survived.

The metal bent and broke into a V shape, showing bits of her bone and flesh fused now with the car as I got close, demanding to see their bodies. I needed to see the devastation, to be sure they were really gone. Those images will be scarred in my brain forever. The nightmares I experience now because of their terrified, lifeless eyes, the glass shards broken into Dad's face,

and the disturbing sight of Mom's skull bashed against the... thick glass. There was blood everywhere. The only solace I had was seeing that dad had tried fruitlessly to shield them both at the very last second. His arm was now completely shattered and torn into mom. Their final moments are terrifying and short embrace with each other. An officer on the scene asked me if I wanted to stay in touch for the follow-up questions and the case file they would be opening. But I just gave them my older brother Gabe's cell phone number instead. I Spent what little money I had on booze and hard drugs, wasting in my apartment for a few days, until my brother Stephen slammed his fist on my door.

A glance at my phone told me I'd missed at least 30 calls from him, and he thought something bad had occurred to me too. Can't go losing you, too, he told me. We aren't the sort that hug and cry, so I offered him a drink, and he sat and I asked a few questions about what Gabe had seen. How bad was it? He took a swig and told me it would definitely be a closed casket ceremony, and that just made me even more numb inside. The nurse had told me that it had been a hit and run, but it hadn't registered in my brain just how awful it could be.

That numbness began to boil over to rage once Stephen left, and reminded me to keep my phone on. I started dialing the police department and called back every five minutes until I got a chance to speak to the reporting officer, the one that had been unlucky enough to get there first and see the accident. He couldn't tell me much, just that they were doing a thorough investigation of the circumstances and trying to piece together if there were any witnesses.

Of course, at the intersection there weren't any traffic cameras, and the incident had happened during a fairly quiet time of day. It was like my parents were gone and no one really cared. That's how it felt anyway. I repeatedly told him that he needed to keep me in the loop should anything come up, but I wasn't exactly counting on it. Typically, things die down, unless family has money, and if it was one thing that we didn't have,

it was an inheritance of any kind. What little cash we had gave mom and dad a decent cremation, and our local pastor Mark Lyman said he could handle the services free of charge. I don't remember much about the funeral itself at all. I was either drunk or high. Gabe told me there was a lot of people in the community in attendance, even some that he didn't recognize. Makes me wonder if their attacker is here, I muttered.

The more I thought about it, the angrier it made me. I saw people exchanging stories at the reception afterwards. How could they laugh like nothing had happened? I grabbed one man, a co-worker from Dad's job, and started a pointless fight. Why wasn't he at work? Why didn't you call him in? I shouted aimlessly. A hand grabbed my shoulder and I swung toward the man behind me, toppling forward like a bobblehead doll.

A few moments later, I was dragged to a table by the man, who I soon recognized was one of my parents' neighbors, and he kept me calm while his wife distracted the crowd. Thomas and Anastasia Calhide, they seemed like a decent enough couple. He wanted to offer words of comfort, too, telling me that he had been through something similar with his first wife. If it hadn't been for my parents, he said, he would have never fully recovered. I learned that, thanks to my dad, he got himself back on the straight and narrow, and he got a degree as a local therapist, something I was sure that I would want to have.

have after the funeral was over. I didn't want to believe that someone actually cared again. I wanted to stay angry. If I don't, that means that I've moved on, and I couldn't just discard their legacy as if it meant nothing. I didn't expect Mr. Calhite to understand, but he claimed that he could help me if I wanted and offered a business card. I knew where to reach him should I decide that I was ready to heal.

It was a small act of kindness that made me realize at least a few people did care about what happened. But I wasn't out of the woods yet. I wasn't ready to heal. And time showed that. A few weeks passed and people moved on. That's the funny thing about a tragedy. If you aren't close to it, the only reminder is when you see those affected by it. But living inside one is a different story. I went back to work, back to life, but all of it was perfunctory. I found myself often just daydreaming through everything, to the point that my brother Stephen felt the need to stay with me. He didn't say it at the time, but the signs were there.

I was depressed and likely very suicidal, even if I didn't admit it to anyone, not even myself. So we took watch over each other, busying ourselves with getting the last of mom and dad's things in order. The first and most important being the house we grew up in, Stephen told me we would have to face those memories at some point. Better to rip it off like a band-aid, he said. Gabe rented a storage unit in a trailer and met us that weekend, and we started to clear out furniture.

It wasn't so difficult at first, but the emptier the house became, the more emotional I was. This isn't right. This is wrong. They should be here. They should have never left, I announced as I grabbed one of my mom's favorite coffee mugs

and smashed it on the ground. My brother scolded me as they struggled to hold their emotions in. Gabe swept up the debris from the mug, and Stephen reminded me that we couldn't afford to lose anything else. I realized I was being selfish, but I needed to vent. The whole world was passing us by, and no one cared about our grief anymore.

So I drowned myself in cleaning the house, almost every other day calling Gabe over to unlock it and going through their stuff. The items on the wall and their clothes were probably the hardest for me. As I placed them in small containers, it felt like I was saying goodbye over and over again. At one point I told him I needed to go outside and take a breather, using it as an excuse to vape. While I stood there staring blankly down the street, I saw a familiar face, Mr. Calhide. He was just a few yards down, outraking his lawn. As soon as he saw me, he waved, and I put my vape away to have a chat.

He asked me if I was cleaning out the house and admitted he had seen me a few times before. I managed to ask how I was supposed to handle all this grief rushing in again. It felt like I was drowning, I told him. Take each memory you have of them and make it precious. Hold on to the good, he said. That would make the time I had with them even more meaningful. I thanked him for the advice and went back inside, where I heard Gabe fumbling with old cardboard boxes in their master closet.

it. Near the back behind Dad's shoes and ties, there was a small one marked with permanent marker that said, memories, and all capital letters. I thought back to what Mr. Calhide had advised I do, and told Gabe I wanted to give it a look. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened up the box and took out the first photo. There were a few people in it I didn't recognize, friends of mom and dad, I guessed, and it looked like they were at a park having fun with their dog. The back of the photo was marked with a date and a word. Evidence. I frowned in confusion, putting the picture aside and looking at the others. There were more of the same couple, some taken at restaurants or at work.

Others looked like Dad had used his wide lens to get a view of their house. Near the bottom of the box, I realized that the pictures were becoming. more disturbing. Photographs of the woman undressing near her bedroom window, still images of the couple having sex. All of them were taken at angles that made me realize this was without consent. Mom and dad were spying on their friends, and they had taken it to an unhealthy level. Gabe turned to ask what I had found, and I immediately closed up the box, my face a bit red as I explained that it was dad's old porn magazines. That wasn't exactly a stretch of the truth, but I didn't want to tell him anything else until I figured out what this was all about.

As we finished up for the day, I took the box of weird photos home and chose one of the more decent ones to show Mr. Calhide. Maybe he knew them. Maybe he could give insight on how they were connected to my parents. I called him up the next day using the pretense that I wanted to do a short session to discuss the grieving process. I wasn't expecting him to pencil me in that same day, but I went anyway. We talked a bit about mom and dad, nothing too serious, and then he asked me how I was doing. It was then that I admitted my true intentions. I actually found out a secret about them that, I guess, has me a bit confused. I said as I showed him the photo. This one was of the couple at a store buying what looked like a new stroller. I hadn't paid much attention to it before,

but now it got me thinking that this couple had children of their own. Mr. Calhide looked at the picture and seemed surprised, so I asked, do you know them? He told me their names were John and Tammy, and that they were also at the funeral. I didn't remember them at all, but Thomas claimed they had been friends with my parents for quite some time. Or, as he put it, Dad had certainly talked about them a lot in the past few months. I checked the photos that evening, confirming the timeline and realizing that Dad had been tracking the mystery couple since November.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long after this that Stephen realized I was acting strange, and actually peeked into the box himself. Naturally, he had questions. and I told him what I knew. But he also felt frightened to suddenly learn something about our family that we didn't know before. It was disturbing, but my hope was that it was harmless. I need to know more about them, though, and I really don't think you should get involved, I told Stephen.

But he wasn't having it. He was insisting on going to meet them to the point that I didn't want to argue. So that Saturday we agreed to drive a. across town and meet this mystery couple and their family. I don't think we really had a plan. But I really wish we had thought things through before pulling up to John and Tammy's house, because the first thing I noticed was that their vehicle looked like it had been in a fender-bender at the front.

And my mind flashed back to the hit and run. Stephen grabbed my arm and pointed toward the house, reminding me to stay calm. We couldn't jump to conclusions, not till we learned more. when we saw a dog running towards us, barking and wagging its tail as we approached the front door, and I tried my best to get a good feel about what sort of people these were. Why did mom and dad feel the need to spy on such a seemingly normal couple? Were they hiding a big secret? Or was it possible that my parents weren't the people I thought I knew?

Stephen said he would do the talking, and with him being a successful car salesman, I figured it wouldn't hurt. John was at the door grabbing up the dog and inviting us in. They didn't seem to recognize us, but were friendly enough. Stephen told a more elaborate story about how our parents died than I cared to repeat, while the wife offered us something to drink. I couldn't tell for sure if either of them were acting strangely since I had just met them, but I kept my guard up as their dog went back and forth, sniffing us excitedly.

Then Stephen explained that by looking at an old school album they had, he found the picture I had shown Mr. Calhide. It was the safest of the bunch, and it told a good lie about how it was plausible that my parents might know them, maybe from a club or something. But the couple seemed confused. In fact, it almost made me feel that we had come to the wrong house. They had never met my parents,

and had only moved to the area recently. within the last year, so there was no way that our parents went to the same school as them. In other words, my brother's fancy talk had not fooled them. Let's get to the chase. Our mom and dad were probably spying on you for a few months now, up until the days before they died. Did you know about that? I spit out. The room was silent for a moment and John and Tammy laughed nervously. Much to my dismay, though, my hope to pin them to the crime never happened as Stephen got a call and announced we had to leave. It was something about Gabriel, an accident at his job, and we needed to rush to the hospital immediately.

I told him to go ahead, and I would just catch a cab home. I wasn't too worried about Gabe. Instead, I was focused on finding the truth about this mystery couple, and decided to wait until that evening to attempt breaking into their house. Their security system consisted of just the dog and a few amateur cameras. Nothing I couldn't handle. And I knew from looking about the house that the couple definitely had something to hide. Everything was too perfectly organized, as if they had anticipated us coming.

So I sat a few blocks away and vaped as I waited for evening to fall. Stephen called and texted a few times, but I ignored it. Gabe would be fine. Solving mom and dad's murder consumed me, and I was positive these weird people had something to do with it. Placing my phone on silent, I grabbed a small pocket knife in a flashlight and walked towards the house.

The entire place was dark now, and only the sound of crickets filled the air. My mind began to conjure up all sorts of nightmares that might lurk beneath, thinking that proving my parents' death was not just some fluke chance, that it had meaning and I would make sense of things. I crawled through the basement laundry window and stood in the tiny space, catching my breath as I told myself to keep calm and finish the job.

I didn't get far, though, before I found what I thought had to be what I was looking for, a safe of some kind, hidden away behind a pantry. Surely John and Tammy were keeping something in there, I thought to myself. I had only brought a few basic tools, nothing that could actually crack something like this, so instead I started to look around for a key of some kind. Each second that I was scrambling for clues felt like it took an eternity, even though I was sure that the homeowners were asleep.

The clock was ticking. I found an assortment of keys near a workbench and used them on the safe, but nothing worked. I was beginning to think that this was a horrible idea. And that became a reality when I saw lights flicker on and heard John tell me to stand up nice and slow with my hands in the air. I know what you did to my parents. I told him as I bravely stared at him across the dimly lit room.

Thankfully he didn't have a weapon, but I was still shaking anyway. This man was capable of killing. That much was clear. His face didn't show surprise, but instead morphed into an expression of guilt and then disapproval. I knew from the moment you came that you were trying to find closure,

he said as he entered the room and latched the door closed. I was now trapped in the room with the man that had killed my father. Or so I thought. But the mystery became deeper as John explained to me that he had not been the driver

the day my parents died. He told me that my parents had been blackmailing him and his wife for reasons that he didn't understand. And to prove it, he opened the safe and showed me the evidence that he kept of their correspondence. Hard copies of the photos

I had already seen. I thought you were no different than your parents, just a bunch of scum that wants to keep people like me and my wife from enjoy. life, John told me bitterly. What he was telling me didn't make sense. My parents weren't bad people.

Or so I thought. But the last 24 hours had forced me to re-examine my life. So how could I even be sure about that? Who was driving your car? Who killed them? And why? I demanded an answer. I wanted to be face to face with the

person responsible. I found myself trying not to have a panic attack, as John explained to me that the driver was actually Mr. Calhide, the same person that had told me to come here. I don't believe you, I stammered. But John told me that he didn't need me to, because he was certain that Calhide wasn't going to stop, simply because of my parents being dead. The bounty, he explained, was for the whole. family. Bounty? You mean like a hitman? I asked as I found my throat getting very dry.

Just as the words left my mouth, a bullet zipped past his skull, and John fell to the ground. It hit me in the shoulder. I darted to get cover and heard Calhied shout my name. My brother Gabe's accident, he yelled, was just the beginning of the end. He was paid good money by John and Tammy to take care of all of us and wouldn't stop until the job was done. I reached for some of John's tools the only weapons I had at my disposal and clenched the hammer hard in my hand as Mr. Calhide entered the basement. John was trying to find me even as I circled around and tried to get a good angle on both of them. I had little choice but to survive here and overpower Calhide. I couldn't believe how easily he had lured me here, likely guessing I would overreact and

attack the couple. Was I really that predictable? I hoped that the next move I made would prove I wasn't. I slammed the hammer against the back of his legs and heard Calhid scream as he fell to the floor. I had only a second to climb out of hiding and use the hammer again on his face and chest. He was still holding on to his semi-automatic and fired straight into my right ear as I slammed the weapon into his teeth and he lost his grip. John stood dumbly out of the way as Calhede lost consciousness and I gasped her breath.

I was bleeding hard and couldn't see straight but I had to keep my composure and get out of there alive. I clenched my teeth and grabbed Calhide's gun, an anger and wrath building inside me as I pointed it at John. He didn't even get a chance to plead for mercy. I took out Calhete next. And finally, Tammy, who was thankfully asleep in bed. But the chances of witnesses were too great.

Then I washed up and drove back to my apartment. When I got there, I showered again and called Stephen to check on Gabe. He was stable, but was demanding to know where I was. I'm home. I figured out what happened with mom and dad, I told them both. I was staring down at the box of photos they had saved to spy and their neighbors. It was the last bit of evidence that connected us to the couple at all. There would be no hard fingerprints at the scene,

and nobody would ever connect the crime back to us, I realized. Stephen didn't question my new calm demeanor, but I reassured him that our parents' legacy, would be safe now. I said this as I burned that box full of photos, a bunch of useless memories that told a different story about who they were. Horrible people that did horrible things and made other people retaliate. That wasn't the way I wanted to remember them.

Lucky for me, with the ashes the only part left, I could write a new memory for them. one that would redefine me as well. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. My wife's sore throat is killing me, written by genuinely grim. My wife Lauren and I had recently returned from our two-month holiday in South America.

We had a great time hiking and sightseeing to our heart's content. However, Laura has been complaining about a sore throat for the past. two weeks. At first I thought nothing of it. It was late October, and the northern winds often brought rain and smog upon the city. She'd never been the picture of health either, with frequent headaches and about to dry cough, although I often attributed those to her smoking habits. I told her not to worry about it. A sore throat generally resolved itself within a few days and wasn't uncommon this time of year. That soothed her for a while. But it wasn't long before she brought it up again. "'Henry, I'm sure there's something wrong,' she said as I was getting in bed.

"'The pain is getting worse.' I told her to stick out her tongue and examine her inflamed tonsils, but I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. I told her as much, but she insisted. "'Do you think it's because of the woman?' she whispered wide-eyed. Her question caught me off guard and took me several moments to realize what she meant. During our travels, we'd wandered off trail and came across a small grave site. No, the graveyard site isn't exactly the right term for it.

It was really about four crosses constructed from nothing but a couple of small sticks and a few stones surrounding each one. In fact, we didn't even notice them until my wife accidentally tripped over one and sent pieces flying through the dirt. I'd wanted to stop and fix it, but she insisted we leave it and keep going as it was already getting quite late, and she was afraid we wouldn't make it down the mountain by sundown. However, the sound of footsteps behind us had stopped us in our tracks. An elderly woman in a shawl had appeared from behind some trees and was slowly making her way towards where we were standing. We were on top of a mountain and there didn't seem to be any inhabitants around.

So the sight was honestly quite bizarre. I lifted my hand to greater, but she didn't look remotely interested. In fact, it was like she was looking right through us. My wife kept tugging at my sleeve to keep walking, but I stood firm. The woman was obviously heading our direction, and walking away would have been rude. But she didn't stop. She kept walking straight past us until she reached the sticks. She bent over, picking them up with both hands, and tying them back together with a piece of brown string.

Let's go, Henry. It was weird, Lauren said, grabbing my arm and trying to pull me away. With that, the woman stood upright and stared at her. Her face emotionless and her body completely still. She stood like that for a good minute while my wife gave me a not-so-suttle sign that she wanted to leave. Then the woman raised her hand and waged her finger at us, whispering words in a language that we didn't understand. She gestured to her neck, chanting would almost seem like a, you know, incantation. And that's when we made ourselves scarce. She seemed to grow louder by the second,

and we could hear her words echoing in our ears as we made our way down the mountain. My wife was almost in tears at that point, saying that she had no idea the crosses were even there, and what if she'd cursed us? I did my best to calm her down, telling her everything was okay, and that superstitions only had power over the people who believed in them. So I was surprised when she brought the subject up again almost three weeks after we'd returned from our trip. Could I be cursed? Lauren repeated, her eyes brimming with tears. I put my arm around her and promised that she wasn't.

However, the following morning, she made an emergency appointment at a clinic a couple blocks away. Our family doctor hadn't been available on such short notice, but Lauren was adamant about seeing one immediately. The physician performed a thorough exam on my way. wife's throat, getting her to say, ah, and E, taking a swab for further testing. You have nothing to worry about, she said eventually, clasping her gloved hands. It'll clear itself up within a few days. My wife seemed to find solace in the doctor's words and didn't bring the subject

up for a couple days, mostly keeping to herself and her study. One morning I walked in on her inspecting the inside of her mouth in the bathroom mirror and asked her whether her throat still hurt. Yes, it still hurts, she whispered. I can't even look down. I stared at her perplexed. What do you mean you can't look down? In spite of myself, I was starting to worry.

More than a week had passed since she'd first brought this up, and as far as I could tell, her symptoms were only getting worse. I can't lower my chin, she gestured to her throat vaguely, her voice wobbly. I have to keep my chin pointed up. I rushed over to her and gently cupped her face in my hands. The sides of her neck were flushed with tension

and her jugular protruded slightly outwards. I could feel her shivering and rent my arms around her. It's a curse, Henry. I'm cursed, she whispered. We have to find that woman, I seized her by the shoulders gently. Curses don't exist, honey. Forget that woman. She's nothing but a mad old hag.

But we need to get you to the hospital right now to get a looked at. We rushed to the emergency room in a state of panic. My wife could barely open her mouth, let alone speak when asked about her symptoms, so I had to do most of the talking. The doctors ran a series of blood test and left us waiting hours in between appointments. When the physician finally returned with the results, we were both exhausted. It's a severe case of strep throat, ma'am. He began scanning his notes.

You do well to stay home and get plenty of rest. I stared at him incredulously. That's exactly what she's been doing and she's only been getting worse. There's an edge to my voice. I knew I was on the verge of causing a scene. I'll thank you not to take that tone, sir. He looked as though he'd heard it a million times before. Your wife needs to stay in bed and rest.

Meanwhile, there's nothing more we can do. We drove home in a mournful silence. As soon as we were inside, I held my wife upstairs and tucked her into bed. She looked worse now. Her chin was raised at a hundred and eighty-degree angle, and her skin looked gray and lifeless, aside from her. from the rouge across her neck. The light, she whispered.

Can you draw the curtains? I walked over the window and shut the blinds. I heard her tossing and turning in an attempt to find a position comfortable enough to accommodate her tilted chin. I hoped her symptoms had reached their peak and she'd feel better the following day. God, was I wrong? I was reading the newspaper the next morning when I heard several thuds coming from upstairs. Lauren?

I called, praying that she was finally well enough to walk about. But there was no answer. I got off the couch and started up the stairs, listening for any indication of my wife's location. I just reached the landing when a blood-curdling screech came from the master bathroom. It was so hoarse and gravely, it didn't even sound human. My heart dropped and I raised across the hallway, I stood pounding in my temples.

I reached the bathroom door and flung it open with a loud bang. What I saw will remain with me for the rest of my life. My wife was standing in front of the sink, her back arched and her neck even more angled than before. Both arms were raised over her head, yanking a hairbrush lodged in her tassel curls to no avail. But there was something else. Her neck was tearing at the front, like a piece of cloth at the seams.

The more she tugged at the hairbrush, the more it split, giving way to her rasping screams. For a moment I stood still and had a loss for what to do. Things like this didn't happen in real life or to real people. I felt so faint I had to hold onto the doorframe to steady myself. Then I darted to the bathroom cabinet and grabbed a pair of scissors to cut the hairbrush out of my wife's hair. It fell to the ground with a loud clang. I set her down on the edge of the bathtub to stop her from collapsing. Her screams had turned into quiet, crackly whimpers. I couldn't bring

myself to look at her throat. The entire room resembled a crime scene, and I knew she was running out of time. I had the ambulance on the phone within 30 seconds. Yes, yes, we need immediate assistance, I shouted into the receiver, dashing from one room to the next in a frenzy. Please, hurry! The call operator promised the car would arrive within ten minutes, and I sat down next to my wife holding her hand, willing her to be okay. She looked as though she was trying very hard to say something. But no sound came out.

I wanted to tell her that everything would be okay. I wanted to tell her the doctors would know what to do. But I couldn't bring myself to. I'd been feeling a tingle in my throat since yesterday, and I didn't want a warrior. Instead, I reached out to wipe her tears and cress her hair. But to my absolute horror, this was too much for the seams to bear. 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 Share-A-Lite 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 stories author.