Creepy - A Snip Away from Freedom & The Craft and the Jars Of Jetsam

Episode Date: July 20, 2023

A Snip Away from Freedom***Written by: John Eric Schleicher and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Content Warning: Spousal abuse***The Craft and the Jars Of Jetsam***Written by: Rickey Rivers, Jr. and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex AldeaHosted 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. No. 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 biocations of biocations. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. A snip away from freedom. Written by John Eric Eichliker and narrated by Heather Thomas. Kara Bellingham towered over her cardboard dollhouse with a satisfaction unique to creating. The dollhouse had taken her much longer than six days to make, 55 days to be a exact. Yet she felt a god, so she plopped onto her floral sofa, the one Stanley hated, and rested.

The thought of her husband got her ruffling through her purse, pushing aside spent tissues, mascara tubes, and lip balm, before she found a little vodka bottle, the single serving type, 50 milliliters down the hatch. It calmed her. She welcomed it, needed it. The alcohol in her cardboard dollhouse Such an unexpected hobby

kept her sane Stanley was a real son of a bitch Fifty-five days ago a YouTube video Which was hidden deep in a DIY rabbit hole Snagged her attention Her digging had started at Pickling Somewhere in between she half-watched videos on paper poppies Two pedestrian

Throw pillows Two old ladyish And embroidered denim to a la punky brewster. Then she clicked on miniature cardboard kitchen. Emojis nested in the title. How could she not click? She's human.

Captivated. Kara watched giant hands cut, fold, and glue paper and cardboard, done in time lapse, done with a happy jingle. A tiny little sink, tiny little cupboards, tiny little MacBook air on a tiny little table. All of it awash in pink as if someone had vomited pepto. There was gold, too, glittery and inviting. Her stomach fluttered.

She momentarily forgot about Stanley, his violence, the welts, and the bruises. She dug deeper. Further down the rabbit hole, she learned the tricks to make sofas, staircases, and beds. Oh, my. Then she fantasized about the videos she'd shoot, the importance of lighting. and bright colors, the necessity of manicures. Her hands would be stars. They'd be influencers. She'd quit her job at the law firm and Stanley, the firm's managing partner, would be old news. She'd be his possession no longer. That's all she was to him. No brains or heart or feelings.

Simply a thing to show off like his BMW or a good golf game or his profile in the national jurist. To gear up to be a social media star, she decided to replicate their two-story house. Granted, the house didn't have the neon colors that attracted clicks. They would come. They'd follow her skill. Martha Stewart simply hadn't jumped in and published Martha Stewart Living. No. She first restored an 1805 farmhouse on her own time. The Empire came later. And now, 55 days later, she lay on her sofa with a sense of a sense of a

accomplishment and independence, gazing upon her creation. The dollhouse contained every room of her abode and all the major furnishings, albeit tinier, so cuter. It didn't quite match her house's true floor plan. Rather, its ten rooms and hallways were stacked on top of one another at two or three per level, so the dollhouse measured five stories, unlike her houses too, Along with no depth to its width, each room of the dollhouse had three walls, not four. How else could you see the craftsmanship inside? While spectacular, it was missing something.

Like a cake without the candles and song, a martini without the olive. It came to her in an instant. Dolls! The dove factor embarrassed her. She knew the ones. Sally and Ralph Nanna Ruth, rest her soul, had sewn and stuffed the dolls herself. The DIY bug swam along in Kara's blood. Small from head to booties, Sally and Ralphie measured the height of her hand when she was a child. With black beads for eyes, red threads for mouths, and yellow yarn for hair, they had always scared Kara. As gifts from Nana Ruth, she could never part with them. Always the eccentric, in fact ostracized for it. Nana Ruth had instructed her to keep the dolls close for protection.

What a lovely kook. Kara jumped from the sofa, opened her mahogany chest, and dug to its bottom. She found them. In her adult hands, Sally and Ralphie looked more diminutive than she remembered, but still had that creep vibe. Any rate, the dollhouse needed doll. Sally would be Kara and Ralphie Stanley. She kindly lay Sally on the floral sofa in the crafting room of the dollhouse.

She stuffed Ralphie in Stanley's office. Perfect. Now she could go to sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow she'd tell Stanley that she's got her yearly with her gynecologist. Nothing shut him up like the workings of a vagina. Though she wouldn't see a doctor. Her workings worked just fine. Instead, she'd see a lawyer, the divorce kind.

That night she didn't wake, Russell, or fret. She slept the whole night through. First time that had happened in years. The next day, Kara knew she had made a mistake as soon as she walked into the office of Thomas Tommy Ellsworth III, Esquire. She wasn't having second thoughts on the impending separation. That was a no-brainer.

She regretted the counsel she first sought. From having Esquire and the third engraved in a nameplate, to enough golf paraphernalia around the office to give Arnold Palmer a wet dream, the twerp was a lawyerly stereotype that said, The men in my family are attorneys, and in a whisper said, The men in my family have small penises. Tommy, he had corrected Kara, that he was not to be called Mr. Ellsworth, leaned back in his chair with his palms on the back of his head.

Mrs. Bellingham, are you familiar with what we attorneys call conflicts of interest? Yes. The arrogant POS knew she worked in a law firm. Then you should know I cannot ethically represent you. Your husband is a client of mine. Stanley's seeking a divorce? Tommy flashed a toothy smile. Divorce, no. I represent matters besides family law.

Attorney-client privilege bars me from discussing it any further. Tommy could discuss it further. The privilege didn't go so far as to be absolute. Fine. He had nothing to offer but mansplaining and arrogance. She wanted to scream to pull her hair out. Instead, she quietly stood and, walked out of the office.

On the road back to work, she made several calls to other prominent divorce attorneys. They all answered the same. Sorry, but not sorry. Conflicts of interest. One attorney, a woman, said Stanley hired her on retainer a couple of years back. Kara hung up. She guessed that bastard had hired every respected family law attorney in the greater Phoenix area. Kara did scream once in the parking lot of the firm, Stanley's firm, parked in front of the Bellingham PC sign.

Even with the air conditioning of her Porsche boxer on full blast, sweat beated and trickled down her skin. She downed a 50-millimeter vodka bottle and tossed it with the others in the floor well of the passenger seat. When she opened the car door, the desert furnace confronted her, and her cotton mouth tasted extra cottony. Once inside the firm, the AC buzzing along, she sat at her desk,

logged into her Outlook account, and opened an email from Stanley, marked Urgent. It simply read, Empty calendar tomorrow, make a reservation for 10 a.m. tea time for Stanley Bellingham and Tommy Ellsworth. Kara scribbled, I quit.

In shaky penmanship on Bellingham PC stationary, almost tripped when she stood, and raced from the firm. Her head swam with indecision as she drove home. Even at three in the afternoon, it was bumper to bumper the whole ride back. The urban planners of Phoenix loved themselves some sprawl. The air above the sea of black asphalt shimmered all around her. The center line was a fuzzy yellow. NPR did little to distract her from the day's repercussions.

What would Stanley do now that he knew she was leaving him? To think of anything else, she daydreamed of her dollhouse and those dolls, Sally and Ralphie. She imagined Sally sprinting from room to room, blue tears painted on, her red-threaded mouth in a circle as if screaming. Ralphie chased her. He screamed obscenities. He strangled her, popping her head off as if it were a dandelion flower, her body the stem, white fluff going everywhere.

Late that evening the stars were out, and Kara hadn't seen Stanley since he arrived home from work. She couldn't help but hear him. He made sure of it, clomping and stomping around downstairs as if he thought his foot heaviness was strength or dominance. The man was a large toddler, a terrifying abomination to decency. A toddler's hit might sting. Its bite sometimes left a purple mark. Here's an extra 150 pounds, kid. Now let's see what you can do.

Kara went to the liquor cabinet to pour another martini. Her vision was blurry, her steps unsure, which matched her future. After pouring her drinks stiff, she turned toward the dollhouse, placed her fingers on her mouth as if they could hold back her gasp, and dropped the glass of martini on the oriental rug, which drank it up. Ralphie was no longer in the office of the dollhouse, where he should be, where Kara had put him. Instead, the doll leaned against the counter in the kitchen, where Stanley's heavy footsteps echoed. How long had Ralphie been there? She had paid no mind to the dolls when she first got home.

She had decisions to make of, which she had made none, and drinks to pour, of which she had drunk three. Stanley must have moved Ralphie. Must have. But when? Whenever he had, Stanley had crossed their unspoken barrier into her sanctuary. "'My sanctuary,' she said on her way to the dollhouse. She clutched Ralphie. "'My sanctuary!'

She threw him hard against the floor. In the kitchen, pots and pans clanged together. Stanley cussed. "'Let him rage,' Kara thought, "'so long as he took it out on the dishware.' She fell on her sofa. The ceiling spun, and her stomach turned. She hadn't the energy nor the coherency to plan out her next move.

Sleep would do her good. It came to her in a hurry. So did a dream. She dreamed of being watched, and not the wanting kind, where she might smile and show off, where it felt light and welcomed like a spring breeze. It was heavy and menacing. The feeling followed her wherever she went.

As this was a dream, she had no concern. restraints, neither time nor location, to where she could flee. She jumped to the future. She crawled to the past. She hid in the present. The nakedness of being watched persisted wherever, whenever she fled. Though Stanley had yet to appear, she knew he was the voyeur. She could smell his sourness, taste his bitterness.

She ran. He followed. She hid. He found her. Pitch black surrounded them. Even without light, she could see his every detail, his jelled, slick back hair, his angular facial bones that were as hard as his personality.

At the moment he was ten times her size, he reached down for her. No, Stanley, no! Kara fell backward and cowered under her arms, a position she had never grown accustomed to. She closed her eyes, knew this was it, believed that she would be crushed by his grip, bones cracking, insides bursting out like a popped blood blister.

She thought of the lore of dying in dreams. How if she died here now, she'd die for real. How the docks might call it a stroke or a heart attack. All a crock of shit. Stanley would have done it. He found a way to possess her completely and snuff her out. He cannot possess you. The voice was a woman's that warbled from age, familiar from her childhood.

It warmed Kara like a down blanket. Nana Ruth. Feeling safe and protected, she opened her eyes. Stanley was nowhere to be seen. Gone. Poof. Just like that. Nana Ruth and Kara were sitting on Nana Ruth's old porch,

holding basil watermelon juice in glasses that dripped and beaded condensation, wrinkled skin, a warm smile, her white hair in a blue bandana. Nana Ruth was a snapshot of when Kara had last seen her, a year before her death. For her part, Kara's legs didn't reach the porch, and her bare little toes wiggled in pink flip-flops. She was humming. once I caught a fish alive.

Nana Ruth stopped her rocking and turned her gaze, staring with blue eyes that sparkled and pooled tears. Stop your humming and listen to me good. What is it, Nana Ruth? Kara noted for the first time her childlike voice. That man is venom. Kara looked down to see she no longer held juice, but instead gripped Ralphie.

Ralphie? Ralphie is Stanley. Stanley is Ralphie. He's no good. He aims to stomp on your heart, squish it like it was nothing but a damn butterfly. But you won't let him, will you? No, Nana.

You're gonna run, aren't you? Yes, Nana. And if you ain't running, you're fighting. Yes, Nana. Good child. Now, drink your juice. Kara lifted Ralphie to show Nana Ruth had nothing to drink. She once again held a cold glass of basil watermelon juice.

She gulped it down, enjoying the refreshing coldness of the ice cubes pressed against her top lip. The juice tasted as delicious as she remembered. Sweet and tangy. Wake up! Nana Ruth said. hyperventilating sitting up on the sofa in her crafting room, Kara's head hurt like a jackhammer to the temple, a martini hangover.

Despite the lights being off, hadn't she fallen asleep with them on? She scanned the room and felt Stanley's glare. The crafting room reeked of him, of subjugation. Once her eyes adjusted, she stood and took wobbly steps to the light switch, her hands guiding herself along the sofa. When she flicked on the lights, she needed to brace her head from the pain.

Hello, sweetheart. Stanley sat with one leg crossed over the other on the yellow sofa chair next to the dollhouse. Kara jumped. What do you want? For you to honor our vows. Get out of here! She leaned toward him, trying her best to look strong.

"'till death do us part.' Stanley smiled, letting his threat hang in the air like a guillotine blade and took slow steps toward her as if pleasure was found in the moments before violent redress. Kara inched backward to the wall and shrunk within herself to where she hid from the beatings. Would it soon be her last breath, her last tear,

her last chance? The closer Stanley got, the more his last, lips curled into an unnatural simper, as a fish-hooks tugged up at each corner of his mouth, pressed against a framed childhood photo with nowhere left to backtrack. Kara closed her eyes, readying for pain, smelling Stanley's hot breath, the fetter of sourcrowt left out in the sun. Seconds unraveled and felt like minutes there before the devil himself, and Kara opened her eyes. Sucking in a nasly gurgle, Stanley hawked Flim on his palm.

When he swiped down her face with that gooey hand, Kara shuddered and collapsed, her abdominal muscles nodding in dry heaves. She scrubbed her face raw with her shirt. Try to leave. And I'll kill you. Stanley slammed the door once he left. Kara choked back her urge to cry or scream.

So to deny Stanley the satisfaction, She imagined him in the hallway, his ear pressed to the door, his sadistic smiles spreading wide. When she saw Ralphie's location in the dollhouse, she staggered back. The doll had moved, or rather, Stanley had moved him from the floor where Kara had thrown him to inside the dollhouse in the hallway, leaning against the door of the crafting room, as if listening. Stanley's doing, right? to scare her.

It worked. Unless... No, it was only a dream. Still, Kara crept the door, softly placing the balls of her feet down. She touched her ear to the door, stopped her breathing, and listened. Nothing.

Against her better judgment, she tapped on the door with one knuckle. Shave in a haircut. Stanley rapped back. Two bits. Shit, shit, shit. What should she do? Nana Ruth had said to run, but where?

Anywhere. Out of here? A motel or hotel. But not a dive, someplace respectable, where the room doors opened to a hallway with green and blue argyle carpet rather than a grease-stained parking lot. To get there, she had to get to her Porsche. To get to it, she had to get to the garage.

She had to pass Stanley. Shit. Again? Ralphie had moved again. The doll lay on the bed in their bedroom, the place she hadn't slept in years. Kara inched backward until her calves hit the sofa, which buckled her legs. She fell onto the sofa. She was mad.

Wide-eyed, she kept her gaze on Ralphie, inanimate, as he may seem. He could walk. or fly or float. The mere idea was preposterous. To invite it meant she had given up on a sanity born sometime when she was six or seven years of age. Before then, all of her dolls and stuffed animals had personalities that sparked to life whenever Kara bade them no attention. She used to imagine full-on soap operas, the drama of which was thick and suspenseful, that occurred while she slept or went to school or was out. Then she grew up, and the world weighed down upon her, squeezing the fantastical from her life.

And now under Stanley's fat thumb, when the world weighed the most, the fantastical came roaring back. The dream was more than a dream, the doll more than a doll. What did Nanobruth say? Ralphie was Stanley. Stanley was Ralphie. Kara got it now. Ralphie pinpointed Stanley's location, currently in the bedroom.

Now was her chance to flee. She grabbed her purse, Sally, Ralphie, and the cardboard dollhouse, her magnum opus. The dollhouse was light. She could hold it with one hand, palm up, and the many furnishings and accessories, the ones not glued on,

clattered to the floor. They didn't matter. She paused a moment and put the dollhouse down. Once she found herself outside the house, what help would the dollhouse be? Nata, zilch. Crafting needed to be done. She grabbed her crafting bag, red, large, and covered, and shiny sequins.

She stuffed it with all the supplies she could. Fabric, paper, glue, hot glue gun, dye cutter, scissors. One pair for fabric, another for paper, cardboard, paint. She took it all, the dollhouse, her purse, her crafting bag, stuffed in fat, and she went to the door. She creaked it open. Wincing, she wished she'd had the foresight to squirt WD. 40 on the hinges first. With the door wide open in her heart and her throat, she stood at the doorway, staring at the bedroom door, believing any second Stanley would barge out, knife in hand. He'd plunge it in her.

This did not happen, so she tiptoed on. When the dollhouse scraped against the plaster wall, she stopped and cursed her carelessness underheld breath. But Stanley didn't rustle. She continued her slow escape down the dark hallway. At the top of the stairs, so close to the door that led to the garage, her patience almost fled. She almost sprinted down.

She closed her own. eyes, took a deep breath and descended, making sure to step on spot she knew by heart wouldn't groan or creak. Through the dining room and into the kitchen, she beeped, beeped the Porsche unlock with the key fob. Upstairs, she heard the bedroom door open. It too needed WD40, and the stomping of Stanley's feet. So that's what it'll be. She swung the door open, pressed the garage door opener as she jumped down the two stairs from the doorway to the concrete floor, got into the Porsche, put it in reverse, and sped backward, clipping the bottom of the garage door as it went up, raining splinters of void. Into the street, the sun casting its orange and yellow on the desert suburban landscape,

she put the Porsche into drive and sped away. Unsure if Stanley installed a tracking app on her phone, she tossed it out the window as she blew past the sign to their gated community. It shattered against the first L in sleepy willows. In the early morning hours, she sped. Let the police stop her. She'd tell them why. Hell, the firm defended Phoenix's finest whenever they weren't so fine,

so she and many of them were on a first-name basis. They joked. They were friendly. More than one said they'd help her if ever in a pinch. More than one flirted. weaving in and out of the pre-rush hour traffic, she popped open the glove box. Sure enough, she had a few unopened single-serving vodka bottles. Thank you, Nana Ruth. Thank you, God. Praise be her.

Whoever the guardian, what mattered most was she had a watchful friend. Time felt to exist in a vacuum, and before Kara knew it, she pulled into the parking lot of a Howard Johnson, parked in front of the Ho-Joe's oversized chair and a palm tree, then raced into the lobby. She didn't need the clerk's disapproving expressions nor his condescending tone to cue her of her disheveled appearance, not like she was going to put on her best face when on the lamb, nor was she going to pay with plastic.

A quick login to American Express would give Stanley her location. She got her room key, told the clerk where to shove it, and pushed the luggage cart from the lobby to the Porsche. Nice house, the clerk said as she pushed the cart through the lobby. Fifty-five days! Kara held her head high and entered the elevator. Pushing the door open with her back, Kara entered room 225, a twin room. There were no available singles.

The smell of disinfectant and stuffiness hit her at once, and the AC gave off a grating hum. She didn't feel the least bit protected. She first went to the mini-fridge. Empty. Damn. It wasn't that type of hotel. Her mouth parched, her nerve shot.

She got to crafting. She cut the walls and the roof of the Hojo from memory, and her hands weren't steady from adrenaline and booze to the point where she cut in uneven lines. The hot glue gun warmed up within two minutes. That bad girl was the Porsche boxer of glue guns. She put up her walls, pasting them on top of the cardboard that served as a parking lot. She capped the hojo with a roof.

The finished project was crudely done. Had a lobby, a second floor, and room 225. None scaled to size. She didn't bother to overlay the cardboard with colored paper. It served one purpose, to let Ralphie do his magic and triangulate Stanley's position. Nonetheless, the vulgarity of it, how it leaned. to the side, how globs of glue littered the parking lot and clung to the building, grated her.

She put Ralphie in her beautiful dollhouse on the nightstand in the corner of the room. She plopped the shanty Hojo on the sink counter by the bathroom. She sat on the bed and watched. As nothing happened, the absurdity of what she was doing hit her. She should leave, drive to the ER, and tell the admitting nurse that all was not mentally right. But something was missing this time around, wasn't it? Sally, yes, Sally had been in the dollhouse when Ralfe had done his ghostly things. Here she had kept Sally stuffed in her craft bag.

Poor thing. Kara related. After placing Sally in room 225 of her Hojo, she crept to the spot between the two beds. She stood there, holding her breath, her stomach churned. something awful, her head aching, sweat-beating, not willing to take her gaze off Ralphie. Ralphie's leg twitched. It was slight but clear. Kara wished he hadn't, relieved that he had. His other leg twitched, then one arm, then the other. He sat up. He took wobbly steps as if strings were attached to his head, arms and feet, controlled by a novice puppeteer.

The red thread of his mouth, once smiling, reverted before her eyes into a frown. He twisted his head so his black beads for eyes stared at the wall that hid the cardboard Hojo. He fell from the nightstand, stood in his awkward way, and slowly lumbered across the carpet. Kara sat on the bed. She stood up. She sat again. She didn't know what to do. This couldn't be happening, but it was. Ralphie couldn't represent Stanley.

But he did. She felt her scream deep in her chest before she belted it. She clawed at her face, digging her nails deep into her cheeks, without feeling a thing. She sprinted at Ralphie, kicked him hard and good, and watched the doll fly. It didn't take much of a stretch to imagine Stanley's somersaulting through the air, smacking into the window like a fooled bird, his guts everywhere, his threat gone. But no, it was not the real Stanley of flesh and bones and terror, but a damn doll of fluff and fabric and magic.

Ralphie lay there, motionless, and Kara sighed relief, then stood paralyzed and indecision. deciding amongst going to the police, the hospital, or a bar. She walked to the cardboard Hojo by the sink. Its appearance sickened her. In the mirror, her reflection looked worse. Her hair went every which direction. Four red gashes ran down each cheek.

Caked in her nails was her skin. She splashed water on her face. This stung. Get her shit together. she said, even though that matra never worked. Walking back to the bed, she stopped, felt the vodka and gin gurgle in her stomach, then up her throat. It burned.

She kept it down. Ralphie was walking again like Lazarus, like Chucky. Livid, so the doll seemed, with his red-threaded mouth zigzagging across his face. One step, two steps. He jerked his way across the room, past the first bed, then the second bed. He was at her feet. She stood her ground, wouldn't move from his path. He walked around.

He turned the corner of the clothes hangers towards the sinks. She followed him. He leapt straight up as if pulled by a cord. On to the sink he traips near the cardboard that represented the parking lot. Kara sprinted to the window and to her horror, Stanley's black BMW pulled in. Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood and grill of the car. Kara threw up then, projecting liquid and froth against the window.

It splattered and stunk. She wiped some of it off with the sleeve and looked through the globy streaks. The son of a bitch parked next to the Porsche. Kara lunged for the phone and dialed. 911. What's your emergency? My husband is going to kill me. Ma'am, is he there with you? Not yet.

What's your location? Howard Johnson by the airport. On East Van Buren Street? Don't know. I'm in room 225. What's your name? Kara Bellingham. him. He's coming. Please hurry. Stay on the lap. Kara slammed the phone on the receiver and ran to the window. With a black leather bag, Stanley trod past the damn oversized chair, talking to someone on his

cell phone with a scowl plastered on. He had an abrasion on his forehead that bled down the side of his face. What was in the bag? Did he have a gun? Did he even own one? Maybe a knife, duct tape, or some chloroform? Kara sprinted to the cardboard Hojo in time to see Ralphie stuffed in the lobby, one leg hanging out, his arms folded in unnatural positions. There wasn't enough space for him to stand. Kara screamed and jumped when the phone rang. She peaked around the corner as if the call originated from the room. It rang again.

She picked it up on the fourth ring and listened. Mrs. Bellingham. Who is this? Chief Johnson. The chief of police had Stanley's cell number on his phone. The same help for Stanley. Calling 911 had been a mistake. What do you want?

I'm only concerned about your health and safety. Then get some of your cops here. They're on their way. To arrest Stanley? He wants to help you. That's all. She ripped the cord from the wall and threw the phone against the floor. She screamed long and drawn out,

and when her throat scratched and she tasted blood, she did not stop. She dug deeper pulling from pain and neglect, from fear and loneliness. She pulled from these emotions, which had been chipping at her soul piece by piece, day by day, so much that no drug prescribed or otherwise could ever fill the tattered remains, and she let loose a yell that brought her to her knees. On all fours, crying, she flung

snot and spit on the carpet. The world was out to get her. It wore a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt and hit a weapon in a black leather bag. The fist pounded on the door. Open up. Go away! I have a key. Damn the clerk. Damn her short-sightedness. She should have demanded that no keys be given,

particularly to anyone that shared her last name. Kara peaked through the peephole. Stanley had their kitchen knife, long and sharp, meant to dice hearty roots and vegetables with precision and speed. Go away! It was all she could think to say. I want a kiss and make up. He looked the peephole with his slimy tongue.

She looked at Ralphie, scrunched with his head on his leg, he was balled up on the second floor of her model. She grabbed him in a pair of fabric scissors for self-defense. She sprinted into the bathroom, slammed that door shut. From inside the bathroom, sitting with her back to the door, she heard the beep of the electronic door lock before the door smashed into the wall. Good. Hide in the bathroom. I'm going to drown you like the shit you are.

He kicked the bathroom door. She clutched the scissors at the door rattled from his repeated kicks and punches. Go away! She threw Ralphie against the tiled wall. Stanley screamed, and a loud bang sounded from the side. The silence lasted seconds before she heard him pound on the door again. Cause and effect connected for Kara, and she reached for Ralphie, grabbed him by the legs, and slammed him against the toilet. Stanley yelled. He fell near the door. The pink of his shirt was visible under the crack of the door. He didn't move, nor say a word. Was he breathing? She hoped not.

She took her scissors and stabbed them. into Ralphie. When she pulled the blades out, they were bloody and red filled the hole, the circle expanding. With one hand she lifted Ralphie his plush body becoming moisture by the second. With her other hand, she gripped the scissors, opened those blades wide, and cut off Ralphie's head. Blood sprayed like a geyser, splashing her face and clothes and mouth. From underneath the door, a river ran, its current thick and slow. Kara left. In her favorite place of all the world, her crafting room,

Kara set all her supplies out on the table. For tonight's video shoot, she had written on a big poster board the brands and the specs of all the supplies she planned to use for the project. Each commercial plug paid a pocketful. Of all her cash streams, the scissors brought in the most. It paid the mortgage by itself. Just as so, she believed, the black bows of this pair were sleek, beautiful, and as light as air.

The blades moved through the thickest of paper like an oar through a pristine mountain lake. Doubtless, once she uploaded her video, comments would roll in, asking if they were the same pair that did Stanley in, the same pair that decapitated him. No, Kara didn't know those scissors. fate after the police bagged them up for the evidence locker until the trial. They did look for another weapon. Couldn't believe fabric scissors had inflicted such carnage. As they handed Kara styrofoam cup after cup of coffee, it was clear whose side they were on. You're saying he attacked you. Yes? He had no weapon.

It took all of her power not to scoff. The chief and Stanley were tight. Naturally, they tampered with the scene. Whatever, she could play their game. The scissors? You're saying you rustled these scissors away from a man, twice your size, and strength. Then severed his head. With scissors. Guess so?

Don't know. I blacked out. Tell us what really happened. You can talk to my lawyer. The trial was a national affair, consuming all minds and comments. conversations. Everyone thought they knew what happened in room 225. Their theories clogged all social media feeds, airwaves, and newsprint. No one had a clue. No one would believe her if she told. The prosecution put on a dog-and-pony show. Witnesses took the stand and told coordinated ruses,

painting Kara as a drunk, a woman well past the cusp of a mental breakdown. Stanley was distraught. He didn't know what to do. He believed any day she might take her life. As evidence of his concern, the prosecution introduced the GPS tracker Stanley placed on her Porsche. They said that in his haste to rescue Kara, he crashed his car into a tree, that he banged his noggin up pretty good.

Did he go to the hospital? No. He went to Hojo to rescue his damsel in distress. Asholes. Kara's defense had an easy time, flipping the GPS tracker as evidence of his obsessive control. They said Kara sought alcohol to cope with the abuse. They said Stanley was a shrewd killer who had sown seeds of doubt to Kara's mental capacity

so her murder would be ruled as suicide. The decapitation? Who knew? Kara didn't. Amnesia via trauma. Her expert witness explained. Murder? Nope.

Self-defense? Absolutely. Kara never took the stand. The case polarized the nation and hung the jury. The district attorney chose not to retry the case because no way did he want that circus again. He lost his re-election. So here Kara was in her crafting room,

doing what she loved most, creating. Tonight, she'd show her fans how to make a cute, tiny refrigerator, for a cute, tiny dollhouse. Above her, up on a shelf, Nana Ruth smiled in a framed picture. Beside the picture sat Sally, her legs dangling off the shelf, her hand resting on top of Ralphie's bloodied,

bodiless head. He was frowning. Creepy Presents The Craft in the Jars of Jetsum, written by Ricky Rivers Jr. and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. A former colleague contacted me about the findings from a crash near his home. He'd taken his discovery from the crash site and begun dissection on it.

The first phone call, while brief, allowed me to get the gist of the situation. Apparently, something had fallen out of the sky and made no noise near his neighbor's home. He'd seen the thing fall like a bird's descent. From the sky, he said. It came straight down. He'd been reading on his porch, and the thing caught his eye. He raised his head from the book and waited. Then he ran over.

My neighbors weren't home. Across the field separating two houses, he went running and searching for what had caught his attention. Upon crossing over onto his neighbor's property, he saw the neighbor's dog, a Labrador, usually quite lively. Now the Labrador was still, so still, afraid or shocked he couldn't tell. From where the lab stood on the porch, opposite to where he was, was the thing laid out, an organic ball of light. Radiation, I thought. Slow, with hesitant steps, my former colleague approached the ball of light. Upon closer review, the ball was not a ball, but instead something the size of a tire.

This sphere of light seemed to pulsate as he approached. Right there is where the call ended. I stood in my living room pondering. Wanting and having half a mind to return the call to find out more about his findings. Instead, I refused. Anxiety is a terrible thing. It's plagued me for so long. To see me at the height of this anxiety is a terrible thing. My colleague knew, or I assumed, he recalled. Nevertheless, he told me this tale, almost as if it didn't matter. In this case, It doesn't. Discovery matters, most of all, in our profession. It's important to discover,

dissect, and detail. That's what they taught us anyway. This colleague, for the sake of privacy, will be named Stephen. Stephen waited a full day before further communication. The whole time my mind played tricks on me and told me the tale, was a lie. Upon answering, Stephen greeted me with an update. He'd taken the thing inside. Amazing, he'd said. You wouldn't believe it. Tell me, was all I could muster. From there, I was told further details about the object. It seemed to be, extraterrestrial. In fact, it had parts on top of parts. Stephen called it a catacomb of organs. He'd extracted three livers and sixteen would-be hearts. Into jars they were placed and labeled.

He was confused to not find eyes. The skin of the pulsating sphere seemed to be how the thing breathed. It needed to be unfolded to be properly taken apart. Like a puzzle, he'd said. I remembered puzzles like this, ones that needed to be taken apart

in order to find the objects inside. A sort of Chinese puzzle box from the stars, it would seem. Stephen described the skin of the object to be saliva-like or of a snot-like texture. I shuddered when I heard this. All I could think of was my time in the hospital, unrelated. I must see you, was my answer to his findings. Please, your address.

Truthfully, he was not on my mind. The object was of the utmost importance. See me, he'd said. Why would you want to see me? With that the connection was lost. I dialed back. There was no answer. I feared mistakes were made.

It took nearly a week to receive word back from Stephen. In the meantime, I got caught up on old TV by staring at the screen and letting the shows bleed into one another. Black and white, then color. 50s, 80s, early 2000s, it didn't matter. Comedy or drama. I just didn't care. The phone rang as I Love Lucy played in the wee hours of the morning.

I sprang from the couch and went over to where the phone. phone laid waiting. At my hello was no answer. Again, I spoke into the receiver. I could hear breathing, but no words, only tiny breaths pushing into the receiver. Tiny breaths into my ear, strained, pained, Diven?

The connection cut. I tried to dial back, but I stopped. myself. Something wasn't right. Truly, it was impossible to sleep, staring at old cartoons from the 60s. The phone rang as Bugs Bunny ran away from Elmer Fudd. On the other end, Stephen was back. He gave no words beyond his address. He seemed to be afraid. wrote down his address and headed out on the main road. He didn't live too far, only about 40 minutes away, maybe an hour with traffic,

or more if you were taking your time. The whole time driving, I thought about the object and his description of it. The idea of finding an extraterrestrial being in your own neighborhood and cutting the thing open? It all tangled my medical imagination. I'm reminded of frog dissection from grade school, the translation from that to the human. It made sense why Stephen had been eager to call. In a way, Stephen was like me.

Both of us marvel at discovery. Both of us love a challenge. Stephen was just luckier than me. You have to be lucky to discover something like that so close to home. The farmhouse was just on the outskirts of town. Stephen's neighbors had supplied the stores with produce, but Stephen wasn't a farm boy. He only had the money to buy the farm. He was able to get the farm.

the place for a good price and refused to sell. This, of course, led to rumors, jealousy. You know how people are. Apparently, they didn't like him, but I'm sure he didn't mind. I drove past his neighbor's home and saw the Labrador Stephen mentioned on the phone. The dog was on the porch looking out in the cornfield, apparently in the same position as our phone conversation. Next, I was in Stevens' driveway.

I was out of the car. I was at the front door. Then I was standing there. My heart was beating out of my chest. I had to calm down. I breathed in and out. The words from therapy rang in my ear. mindfulness. But I was ready for this ultimate find to see what Stephen had seen.

I was ready, and waiting at the front door like Stephen would greet me. I was ready, and my heart sank down into my legs. After breathing deeply on the porch, I got myself together and went inside. The front door was unlocked. The house was dark. I thought of calling his name, but instead I kept quiet. In my mind, knocking him out and taking the thing seemed to be the best course of action. Slowly, I went past his living room and into the kitchen. There were empty jars lying around. Some were in the sink. Had Stephen been lying? Upon relaying the story,

story back to myself, I remembered him saying something about the location. Had to bring it downstairs. I searched the forced floor of the house, then, nearly missing it, saw beneath the staircase a small door which no doubt led to victory. I clutch the doorknob of this nearly hidden door, turned it and peered in. A little light shone revealing a staircase that led down to the basement. Into this new discovery I went, easing down the narrow staircase. Soon I reached the bottom and walked further still into a different room.

This room was covered in heavy plastic sheeting. I first saw the jars, which weren't. not empty. I then saw the liquid, which was not blood. Next, I saw the hole in the wall. I was not prepared for this. I called out for Stephen once, twice, no answer. Only the grim and nearly dark basement knew me. I knelt down and peered into the hole, spherical marking, clearly a defined tunnel. This tunnel was long and small in diameter. I could see into it, but not fully put my head in the hole.

Next, I surveyed the surrounding jars, nearly slipping on the liquid covering the heavy plastic. By my estimation, there were more than 50 jars, and each jar had a part of something in it. I saw hearts, kidneys, livers, bladders, testicles, eyes, and other organs I couldn't recognize. Were these animal parts?

I saw no sign of Stephen, the man, the actual man. I saw no signs in terms. I went further, moving jars away from other jars, some gallons, some pints. I then saw a sign. I saw then a skull, stripped clean, yet covered in some substance, the surrounding liquid, a sort of thin saliva. Upon seeing this, my eyes went wide, my breathing erratic. The face of a skull, eyeless, toothless, peering out with anguish.

I left the basement screaming, up the stairs, and away from the scene. I thought about returning, not for Stephen, but for the tunnel. but I can't go back. I mustn't. In my fright, I believe the jars were moving. No, not the jars, rather the contents of the jars. They seemed to be sustained in the liquid, preserved in a way. I dare say possibly kept alive.

in whatever liquid coated the plastic sheeting. On my way away from Stephen's home, I saw again the neighbor's Labrador on the porch, staring out into the cornfield in the same position, with the same look on its face. The dog may be living, but not living, watching a scene from days prior or simply paralyzed from fright. Visitors from above no doubt the cause.

I felt bad for this dog. I felt bad for Stephen. Then came a dreadful feeling of doubt for our town and what could be next. Who was I but a number? single person. And what could I do? Call the police? A person like Stephen, a man who was full of parts and pieces like all of us, these pieces easily divided and sectioned into jars. Why were they preserved as such? Was it necessary to house his remains in this way? In actuality, what could I do with this knowledge, this knowing, that something from the stars

could divide us all as such so neatly, so cleanly? Mostly, I'm frustrated. I never saw the object. I only saw what a little bit of it. it could do, and the things seemed to tunnel itself after dividing, tunnel itself as if hiding, waiting. I didn't expect to see Stephen again. Truly, I thought he was gone, back at the farmhouse, only just parts in jars.

Apparently, that wasn't him. Stephen came to my home and stood outside the front door. I heard a thud before seeing him. I say a thud because I believe it was supposed to be a knock. But it couldn't be a knock because Stephen wasn't knocking. I don't believe he could. Stephen was simply standing there. He was naked.

I watched him as he stood in a daze, his arms at his side, a vacant look behind his eyes. He was there, but not really. And he was covered in liquid. Something happened. Of course, something happened. I didn't open the door to ask.

I called the police. The police arrived close to ten minutes later. The whole time, Stephen stood in the same position. I witnessed a policeman yell orders, approach Stephen, grab his shoulder and direct him back to his police car. Another police officer had his weapon drawn and trained on Stephen. I had to step away from the door. After Stephen was placed into the police car,

one of the policemen came to my door to ask me questions. He didn't get far with the questions because Stephen was making noise, in the police car. The sounds were, for lack of a better way to describe them, like using a cheese grater on a dragon's testicles. This horrible sound rang out, and from my open doorway, I saw Stephen burrow through the police car and down into the ground beneath it.

The police car was split in two. Both policemen drew their weapons and aimed at the hole in the ground. After five minutes of nothing, they holstered. That's it. That's the end of my curiosity. I don't know what fell down from the sky. I don't care. All I know is that that thing isn't Stephen. And I could have told you that

because Stephen's skull was in one of those jars. The thing at my front door had Stephen's skin, sure, but the skull was missing from his head. I could tell the man in front of my door wasn't himself. Beyond the vacant look in his eyes, I can tell when something looks inflated, bulbous, expanded from the inside, either from a tube or a hose. This imitation of my colleague had his,

his head blown to be the size of a human skull, but not accurately depicted. It was like whatever from the sky took his parts and put themselves into his skin as a replacement. Stephen looked squishy, like some kind of experiment. It's true. He looked to be experimented on, and I assume the process of overtaking his body meant that Stephen was now used as a vessel. I'm going off of pure assumptions.

which I know is unwise. Maybe I should behave like one of those officers and spout obscenities. Maybe I should repeat the mantra of mindfulness from therapy. Maybe I don't know anything anymore, only that the future scares me. Mostly, I fear Stephen's return. The ship, the vessel, calls. I haven't given a name to whatever it is in him. I haven't told the police about Stephen's house, the petrified dog, or the many jars of parts. I'm sitting here living one day at a time because I don't know what happens next.

I don't even know how the vessel called Stephen got back to my house. I'm afraid, but I've always been afraid of something. This is just another thing for therapy. Something to mention in passing like it didn't happen. I had to fill up a hole in my yard with concrete because an animal dug holes. Of course, that it'd be met with That's you patching up the holes in your life. Your body is responding to stress.

It's not that therapy doesn't help. It's just that therapy can't help me with this. If that Stephen-looking ship comes back, All I have to defend myself is a gun. Yes, a gun. A gun versus something from outer space. I wonder who'd win. Sometimes I have to use humor to help myself in situations.

It's important. Levity can make a situation much better. At night, when I hear rumbling underground, I imagine it's Bugs Bunny under my house, trying to find his way after taking a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Every so often, when I fill a hole with concrete, I think about bugs hitting his head and turning around to find the right path. Maybe he runs into Daffy. I don't know why Daffy would be underground. The Tasmanian devil would make more sense.

I even imagine Elmer Fudd turning the gun on himself. 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-like 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.