Creepy - A Short Happy Life

Episode Date: December 31, 2020

Teaching is hard...***Content Warning: mention of school shooting***Written by R.A. Busby and narrated by Danielle Hewitt***To learn more about Feeding America, visit FeedingAmerica.org***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko 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.

This is the Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network. Before we get to today's story, narrator Heather Thomas is going to share with us the charity of her choosing. Hello, creepies. This is Heather Thomas. And for my donation, I chose Feeding America. During 2020, some of the hardest times have fallen on so many families. And because of the pandemic and its economic impact,

more than 50 million people may struggle with food insecurity. and this includes possibly 17 million children. That's shocking, especially since we all see our fair share of waste every day. Still, millions of Americans aren't sure where their next meal is coming from, or if they'll get one at all. No one should have to go hungry, and if we have the means to help, it's really our duty to our fellow humans to do what we can. And right now, possibly more than ever,

help in any capacity is needed for millions of Americans. Each contribution to feeding America goes towards supporting the nation's largest network of food banks and pantries. This network reaches every state and serves virtually every community in America through the hard work of kind volunteers and generous donations. Every dollar donated will provide at least 10 meals to families in need. Overall, this organization offers

an incredible service to our nation. And I really think this charity is a great way to help those who possibly need it most. Thanks, Heather. Creepy has donated $100 to Feeding America. To learn more, please visit Feedingamerica.org.

Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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 A Short Happy Life, written by R.A. Busby and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. My first thought was, he's going to shoot me. I was a baby teacher that year. The year the Titanic sunk, Diana died. Missy Elliott was super-dupa-dupa-fly. And I woke up in a cold sweat every night, hoping my American lit juniors would never realize that there were 34 of them and one of me.

Todd Jagger sat in the center. His appearance was bland at. unforgettable, a broad and unassuming face that no background crowd could be complete without. Yet, he was unnerving, all the same. I think it was his eyes. Flat and black, they lay on his doughy face like doll buttons, and absorb the light rather than reflected it, positioned safely behind the scarred wooden lectern. I'd glance down at lesson plans on Hawthorne or Whitman or Poe. Only to find that during the tiny, inattentive moment, Todd's eyes had never left me, not even once. Also, Todd rarely brought anything with him to school. While the other kids tooted Jansport

backpacks, embellished with buttons from Marilyn Manson or Bone Thugs in Harmony, or their favorite spice girl, Todd carried nothing. His hands jammed into the pockets of his long black duster that swirled about his legs as he marched to each class alone. Occasionally, he would produce a pencil for a scantron test, but that was all. Then came the Hemingway Unit. Beginning with the story, the short, happy life of Francis McComber.

During the narrative, Francis McCumber's failure to face down a lion on safari earns him the scorn of his wife, who begins a revenge affair with the safari leader. When a water buffalo charges at Francis, He regains his masculinity for just a moment by standing his ground. But his happiness is short-lived. Behind him, Mrs. McCumber takes aim with a rifle and fires,

presumably to save her husband from the oncoming buffalo. But the bullet strikes Francis in the back of the head. So the question is, I read looking down at my notes, did Mrs. McCumber shoot her husband on purpose? The safari guide clearly accuses her of murder. But do we? When Todd raised his hand, I stared at him a moment. It's obvious. She killed him.

He said and fell silent. It was the first time he'd spoken. His voice, quieter than I'd imagined, was flat, almost monotone. The other students did not appear to notice. Why do you think so? I asked. Todd glanced down at the Xerox copied I'd passed out the afternoon before for them to read and flip to the last pages. She shot the buffalo with a 6.5 manlicker rifle and hit her husband two inches above the base of his skull. He shrugged. I nodded slowly. Yes. Yes, she did. He leaned back and twiddled his pencil a little.

The 6.5 manlicker shown hour is an extremely accurate weapon. High ballistic coefficient. Do you know what that means? My experience with gun, Guns have been limited to shooting beer cans from our garden wall with a daisy air gun, and taking infrequent aim at flocks of doves during hunting seasons with my father's foreten. No, I said. It means the ammunition it fires is very flight-stable. Long bullets. High, penetrative power.

German manufacture. He said, then added something else. It's like the rifle that killed Kennedy. He nodded. Slightly different model. The essay Todd wrote on Hemingway was the only work he did all year, and it ended with this line. There is one conclusion.

With a man-licker, we can be certain that if there is a bullet hole, it is because the rifle used was aimed precisely there. Never again have I taught that story. Never again have I asked that question. And I've never forgotten the moment that Todd turned in his essay. All right, folks, pass your work up. I said when the bell rang, holding the old wire basket for papers somewhat awkwardly.

Around the class, students' backpacks unzipped, and binders clicked. As for Todd? Why, his eyes never left mine. Then his hand slowly slid into the breast pocket of his duster, and felt inside. At the corner of his mouth lingered a smile that was almost wistful, and I thought, my God, he's got a gun. He's going to pull out a gun from his jacket and shoot me.

I've often wondered why Todd did that. I don't really believe in psychic phenomena. All the same, I know our minds were linked just then. He knew what I was thinking. He'd wanted me to think that. And perhaps, because I stood my ground, much like Francis McCumber, Todd simply drew out the folded pages of his essay

and laid them on his desk. I put them in the basket. I wish I could say it had been courage that made me stand there. It hadn't been. I just had no or else to go. It was my last year at that school. That summer, I moved back home. Possessions towed by an old U-Haul

that clinked past field after field of corn, a landscape simple as a child's drawing in crayon greens and blues. I started teaching near the mountains, a place of open spaces in brown brick. The following springtime, I noticed Todd sitting in the cafeteria, bade an array of sunlight that streamed through the window. His duster seemed a little faded, but otherwise he looked precisely the same. His eyes as flat and black as the final day I'd seen him,

when he'd inexplicably brought me his yearbook and laid it on my desk. All of its pages had been blank. I flipped through and found Todd's junior photo in the rear. his face grim and unsmiling. I gave my book to Todd to sign himself. And on his, I used the margin beside his picture to scrawl the usual sentiments. It was great having you in class. You're an awesome student.

Have a wonderful summer. He took it back and scanned it. His expression unreadable. Your class sucked. Said Todd flatly. But less than the other ones. I appreciate the ringing endorsement. I replied not able to keep the tartness from my voice.

It was the end of a difficult year. Then I added, Todd, um, about your Hemingway essay. He paused, his slight figure framed by the doorway. What about it? It was my turn to look directly at him, and I said. I'll never forget it. He gave a thoughtful nod.

I'll remember that. Now on this bright cold day in April, twelve hundred miles away from our old school, there he was again. Todd raised his fingers in a gesture of greeting. By the time I reached the window, he had gone. The next day was the Columbine Massacre. The shooters wore black dusters, just like him.

Nearly a year and a half later, I saw Todd in the fall. A bright Tuesday morning, crisp as a cold hour. the day I dashed downstairs to Ellen's history classroom, my hand shaking and my breath coming way too fast. Her door was shut and the lights were off. I peered inside the little vertical door window decorated with American flags in a picture of President Bush, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ellen working at her desk in the corner. Please be there, please be there, please be there. She's always late. Maybe that's it.

From farther down the corridor, I heard students' voice as loud and insistent, the sound of TV news in every classroom. A freshman girl darted into the hallway, her face red and smeary, and as she rushed past me, I spotted Todd perched on the third step of the stairs. Black engineer's boots scuffed, and a little worse for the wear. He raised his fingers in a wave. And Ellen? She was always tardy. rolling into school with 30 seconds before the first period bell, papers spilling out of her leather teacher bag, the whole works. We'd made jokes about it, sitting around the faculty smoking area by the drama room

and teasing her about missing assignments, forgetting deadlines, arriving last to the party. Ellen wasn't tardy then, though. Not that day. Her cousin had driven her to Dallas, precisely in time to catch flight 77 to LAX, on this beautiful Tuesday morning, September 11th. And the black plume of smoke I'd witness pouring

from the ripped open side of the Pentagon was partly made from her. I haven't always seen him before a disaster. My mother died in 2011. My father a few years after. No, Todd. Before the Marjorie Stoneman Douglas shooting. I noticed a black-coated boy bending over a water fountain by the gym.

But I'm not sure that it was him. but earlier in March this year. I saw him on a Friday after school, and I was sure this time. Far down the hall near the entrance where the buses gathered. I caught sight of his bland and forgettable face peering at me from beneath a St. Patrick's Day hat,

green glittery clover is bobbing on either side of his head. He wore a satin banner over his shoulder, with the word lucky, inscribed on it in sparkly emerald letters. We never returned. None of us. Not the teachers. Not the kids. Three hundred thousand dead people later, we still haven't. Not until the virus lifts and it's safe. If it's ever safe. The world is not a safe place after all. You see, about three years ago, I received an email from my old school, inviting me, a former faculty member, to their 20 years. reunion. Even though I hadn't gone to my own high school yet together, I flew across the country

to attend this one. The Ambassador Hotel Ballroom had been rented for the occasion, and the committee played lovingly to 90s nostalgia. The speakers thumped with Backstreet Boys in NSYN, and on the walls, PowerPoint displays featured photos of old students, the girls in platform shoes, plastic chokers and butterfly clips, the guys in baggy pants and big ones. And big Asia airwalks. Near the buffet, the reunion committee had set up a table filled with the volumes of old yearbooks. I found the one I remembered best, flipping for a moment to the faculty page. And there I was, under my maiden name, staring out into a future version of myself. Then on impulse, I turned to the Jays, looking for Jagger, Todd Jagger. He should have been sandwiched between Antonio Jackson and Sarah Jimenez.

but he was not. Nor could he be found in any yearbooks I examined. Not that year, not before or after. Nor was he in the volume I'd stored in the worn cardboard box I checked when I got home. A yearbook, all my students had signed. That Todd had signed I'd watched him do it. Yesterday I saw him. He was sitting on a bus bench, across from the Albertson Shopping Center.

A cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. His coat was a little grayer, a little torn, but he looked the same as he had for 23 years. As always, Todd raised his hand slightly in a greeting as I waited to turn right into the parking lot. I'd like to say I don't know what it means. And yet I think I do. Think one day he'll reach into his coat

and pull out something more deadly than any essay. It'll come in different forms, I think. A car. A bad plane flight. A microscopic virus. Or yeah. A bullet. I've had a short and happy life, but I'll try to stand my ground. Just for a moment more.