Creepy - A Touching Gift

Episode Date: May 24, 2021

Beware a woman scorned...***Written by Erutious***Bonus episode: The Clean Scent of Tavistock, written by NM Brown and narrated by Nichole Goodnight***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***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.

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please check out our award tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. No. 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.

A touching gift, written by Erudius, and produced by Steve Blizzin. I've always been a bit of a ladies man. Ever since my first girlfriend, I've been a firm believer in the love and leave him school of thought. In high school, it caused some trouble. I was the handsome football player who went through women like water, and it seemed I was always in the middle of some drama between a couple of gals. In a way, I guess I fed off it, loving the attention I got from being at the center of such controversy. As I got older, I found similar conquests own the real world.

The car lot I worked at held a bevy of pretty clients, pretty secretaries, and lovely bosses who became far less authoritarian once the bedroom door was shut. Until the day, it had never gotten me more than a drink thrown in my first. my face or I need to change my locks and notify the security of my condo. That was before I met Maria. It happened a few weeks ago. I was drinking at the bar, warming up a pretty blonde on the stool next to me. When she walked in and grabbed the eye of every man there,

she took a seat, long legs moving beneath her red dress, her mane of black hair falling across her shoulder. I felt drawn to her. The blonde barely seemed to notice when I left her, almost like she too was taken with this bewitching creature who had wandered into our lives. She smiled at me as I approached, asking what she was drinking as the collective eyes of the crowd fell away from us. She said her name was Maria,

and for two months I was putty in her hands. She was unlike anyone I'd ever met Smart, confident Possessed of her own upward mobility She didn't seem to need me in the least When we made love it was incredible Like nothing I'd ever experienced That was the first time I thought about just staying with her forever

Lying there with her Basking in the afterglow I began to feel that I had to feel that I had to be able to I could hang up my bachelor life for good. After the third time, I started getting scared. This has always been my life. I'd always been a dog chasing my next bone. And this woman was making me feel things I'd never felt before.

I began to pull away. Began to pull away. I began to fall back into my old habits. I started to tomcat around again and lived my life as I had before Maria. A week before Christmas, she met me in front of my apartment and confronted me. I'd been out with someone else. She could probably smell her perfume on my coat. And when she tried to throw that in my face, I ended it.

I told her it was over. It had been fun, but it was over. She didn't cry. Guess I hadn't expected that she would. Instead, she got mad. She slapped me across the face, her red nails cutting my cheek, and I could see some of my blood dripping from them as she seethed at me. For a moment, her beauty slipped.

She looked more like a wild animal who'd been cornered by a predator. She was ferocious as she stood before me, and I found myself a little afraid she'd simply put an end to me right there. For a moment, she seemed to consider that very thing. You will pay for this. No one leaves me. You will regret this. You will beg me to take you back before the end.

You're crazy. We're through. You have no power over me. She smiled then, and it was an ugly thing on her pretty face. Is that what you think, Miamore? You will find that my reach stretches further than even you would believe. She was right, I suppose. For the next few days, I seemed to see her everywhere and nowhere.

When I was at a bar, at a club, in a hotel lobby, or wherever I was finding new and exciting places to pick up a woman, and I'd suddenly feel her close by. I would catch her mane of raven hair from the corner of my eye, I'd feel her emerald eyes on the back of my head. I would hear her laughs skate across my psyche and would throw me off my game. I was suddenly tripping over my lines, less smooth with my pickups, and I found myself going home more and more often by myself.

She seemed to haunt me, dogging my heels wherever I went, and I seemed incapable of returning to life as I'd known it. I was returning to my apartment. alone one night when I saw a package sitting in front of my door. It was December 22nd, two days before Christmas, and the sight of a package wrapped in deep red paper topped with a glossy bow was not at all odd. Someone had seemed fit to leave me a present. But who, I wondered.

I had no family, no friends to speak of, and no girlfriend who might come by to give me a gift. I lifted the package and shook it, hearing something heavy thunk around inside. It didn't tick. Didn't smell like a bomb? So maybe it wasn't from a vengeful X. I opened the door and brought it inside with me. I sat it on the kitchen table and went to get a shower. My prospect tonight had thrown a drink at me after one of my lines that landed badly,

helped in part by Maria seeming to appear in a mirror behind the bar. She'd favored sugary drinks, it appeared. And now I was sticky and sad need of a shower. I threw my clothes in the hamper and switched on the water as I stepped into the building's steam bank. The warmth took me away from my failures, ripped megrims from my mind, and plunged me in the blissful numbness as the water cascaded over me. I opened my eyes when I heard the soft sound from the living room, but shrugged it off as a heater coming on.

I stood under the warm water, letting the stickiness and the burning pockets of alcohol still present in my hair and on my face dripped to the floor of the plastic tub. I leaned into the water, letting a wash away my cares, wishing there was someone to wash my back for me. Some bouncy young thing,

her charms on full display, sliding her soft hands over my tense back. I could almost feel it as I stood there. Her strong hand rubbing against my tired skin. Her gentle fingers sliding over the knots. She's cutting my skin. I gasped as the serum pain ripped across one of the shoulder. I staggered against the wall, feeling the blood run down my back,

and realizing it hadn't been my imagination. I put a hand to the wound. My fingers coming away red and turned my shoulder at the water as I looked around for the source of the cut. My shoulder erupted in white-hot pain as the hot water hit it, but I was more concerned about what had scraped it against. I looked at the shower curtain, but it was free of anything that could have cut me. I looked at the opposite wall, anything that might be hanging from the ceiling puts on nothing. The blood running down the drain, however.

Said clearly that something had gotten me. In the mirror after I had gotten out and dried off, I could see three long scratches down my shoulder. They looked like nail marks. Maybe from an angry or passionate lover, but I shrugged that off at once. I hadn't had a woman since Maria had left, and the idea that they could be that old was laughable.

The longer I looked at them, though, I came to realize that there had been scratches there not too long ago. Wasn't that the spot that Maria had often clutched with her nails while we were getting heavy? How many times had I looked at scratches just like these, though not as deep, in the mirror the next morning? I shirked it off and pulled my robe gingerly over the shoulder. Coincidence. Nothing but coincidence. Maria was on my mind, so of course I was making sense. connections where there were none. I let the warm robe enveloped me and went into the living

room to see what was in the box. Now that I was less sticky, my curiosity was peaked. When I got into the living room, though, I found the box on its side and opened on the floor. Somehow the box had fallen off the table and the bow had come undone in the fall, spilling the contents out of sight. I started looking around for what had been inside. The box had been heavy enough to make me believe that the contents were pretty big, but I couldn't find anything. Nothing had rolled under the couch, under the table, into the kitchen, and nothing was out of place at all. Come in and stolen whatever had been inside? No, I thought after a moment of frantic looking, because the chain was on. No one could have gotten in if the chain was unbroken. I did find a card that had been

inside the box, though. The little red card with black writing, made me feel a little squirmy inside when I read it. And I thought again of Maria. Merry Christmas, me or more. May this gift remind you that my reach is farther than you think. It wasn't signed. I balled it up and threw it away. Someone was playing games, an X, probably.

I had many. Most of them were dumb as rocks. And again, I thought of Maria. This was the sort of thing she would think was funny. The sort of thing she might think would scare me. Maybe scare me enough to bring me back to her. I turned off the lights and went to bed. Lay in the dark with my head under the pillow, but sleep seemed to elude me.

The scratches on my back burned, throbbing against the covers. And I couldn't help but think about Maria as I lay there. She was never far from my mind these days. seeing her out the corner of my eye or seeming to hover just over my shoulder. Now this mysterious gift. What did it all mean? May this gift remind you that my reach is farther than you think? What the hell did that mean?

As I lay there, I began to hear a strange noise from the living room. I heard something moving around in the quiet of the night, a soft scuttling like a rat or a mouse. I'd never had a rodent problem. I was pretty clean for a bachelor. It was cold, and they were always looking for a warm place to hide. I made a note to call the landlord tomorrow so the exterminator would come out and try to go to sleep. Now, however, it was the scrabbling that kept me awake.

I could hear the rodent in my living room, moving around and exploring my nice, clean apartment. and the sound of its little feet was driving me crazy. I could swear it didn't sound like a normal rat. The cadence of its footfalls was off or something, and it just seemed to crawl into my ear as I lay awake. It sounded big, though, that was for sure, and I made a note to myself to call the landlord right away in the morning. When it turned its attention to the hallway,

I sat up to make sure I closed the door. I didn't figure could get in with the door closed and lay down as I tried to go to sleep and ignore that annoying beastie. It would hit the door and go away. Hopefully not nesting too deep in my apartments so the exterminator couldn't get them out easily. The last thing I wanted was a whole family of rodents in my apartment, chewing up my furniture and leaving droppings on my... When the bedroom door creaked open. I nearly jumped out of my skin. How had it opened the door?

Had I forgotten to close it from me? Was that rat big enough to brood its way through it? I heard the little bastard wandering in and hunkered under the covers. Okay. So he was in here. It's not like he'd climb in bed with me. I was a big, dumb predator, and he wouldn't want to get too close to me. Rats only came and chewed people's faces off in the moment.

movies or tabloids. In reality, they were cowards who barely ever bothered people beyond invading their houses and being a nuisance. Fall into my closet and probably chew on some of the dirty clothes I had on the floor, and that would be... I felt a tug on the comforter and shuddered as it pulled its way into my bat, the weight of the thing pressing down on me. It was bigger than I thought it was.

It's weight making me think of a kitten almost. and it definitely had more than four legs. It scrambled over my leg, up to my buttock, and over my back as it made a bee-line from my head. This was insane. There should be no reason for it to get this close. Rats don't usually get this close to people. I began to remember those old stories about rats eating homeless people's faces, the victims waking up and screaming as a rat made off of a lip or a nose.

Would he come under the covers to look for me? Did I want to give him that chance? I sat up suddenly as it scuttled over my injured shoulder. Tossing back the covers and roaring at it like a pissed off lion. I expected that it would send a little bastard running. It would piss itself all the way to the front door, not expecting a screaming human to be waiting for it. The little asshole had messed with the wrong guy today.

and he was going to get more than he bargained for tonight. At the time, my only regret was that I'd have to wash my comforter and sleep under an old quilt in my closet when he peed all over himself in his fear. I have more regrets now, but I wish I could go back to that time before now. It turned out that it wasn't a rat. And my angry cry turned into a confused scream as quickly as it started, but danced back, crouching in the corner of my baddest delight.

through the window showed me precisely what had been scrambling around my house. As my scream died in my throat, we sat and stared at each other, another scream trying to bubble up as it assessed me from its position of surprise. It was no rat. A mouse either. It was a hand, like thing from the Adams family show. The hand was pink, slightly tanned. It's knuckles hairy and back near the wrist covered in coarse black hair.

It hunkered on the bed, seeming to look at me. And when I screamed again, it lunged suddenly. My scream was cut off suddenly, the hand clamping her on my windpipe, and I yanked at the wrist stump as I tried to free it. Its fingers dug in pressing into my flesh, and its grip was strong and firm. Strong or not, it lacked the leverage that a wrist provides, and I soon felt the fingers sliding off my skin as I threw it against the door. It hit the door with a splat, and one of my neighbors yelled at me to keep it down.

It rose to its finger legs and seemed to be trying to get its bearings. That stunned it, and I could see its pointer finger was bent a little after hitting the door. I had to strike now before it got its wits about it, and I scrambled my own hand around the edge of my bed as I hunted for my baseball bat. I felt the cold metal of the bat as it came scuttling at me again, and I wrapped my hand around it, gaining confidence as I lifted it. Its finger legs bringing it up to the bed is prepared to lunge at me again, wanting to spook it. It tested its fingers a single time and sprang at my throat again, looking ghostly in the moonlight as it leaped. I swatted it deafly out of the air, and when it hit the wall, I saw twitch as its fingers stood at odd angles. I didn't wait for it to get itself together this time.

I rolled out of bed, deft as any hunting cat, and swung the bat down on it as the lake twitching. I saw its spasm, blood oozing from the strange thing, but I kept swinging until it was little more than pulpy flesh on the ground. It's blood, black in the moonlight, sat on my carpet like sludge and clung to my bat like icker. I was winded when I stopped swinging. The thing was little more than a pile of meat and bones.

I grabbed a great grocery bag from the nightstand and picked up the pulpy mess. I didn't want it in my room, didn't want it in the apartment, and I intended to walk straight out to the dumpster, despite the hour and throw it away. I'd sleep much better once it was gone and I was suddenly very tired. The adrenaline was keeping me upright, but once it left, The dread and the exertion would lay me out. I opened the door to my room and took a step out into the hallway. I froze as three more of the hands came wheeling around the corner,

making a beeline from my open door. I slammed it in their non-existent faces, putting my back against it as they banged and smashed against it. That's where I've been for the last three hours. The sun is peeking up now. And the bag sitting beside me has stopped moving, but the hands outside are still moving outside the door. I can see them if I peek under the door, and my phone's been blowing up with text messages

for the last two hours. They're all from her. She's been texting me ever since I made the phone call. I spent the first hour in a state of excited panic, trying to think of ways to escape. The bag, I had the broken hand and moved a little, the hand going through its death throws, and the hands outside kept pelting at the door as though they could sense its passing. Finally, I just curled up against the door and put my face against my knees, sob and quiet as my fear got the better of me. That's when I thought to call the police.

I picked up the phone and dialed emergency services at once. How would I not thought of that before? The cops would come in and find the hands, and this would all be over. They could kill them and bring this nightmare to an end. I lifted the phone to my head, with shaking hands. When the operator answered, I almost cried. Yes, I need the police here immediately. I have strange creatures in my house that have trapped me in my bedroom.

They're trying to hurt me, and I need help. Okay, sir, one moment, please. She asked my address, verified my name, and then began to ask me other things while I waited for the police to arrive. How long had this been going on? What sort of creatures were they? Was I injured? I told her I wasn't hurt, not really, that I wasn't sure what they were. I couldn't tell her they were disembodied hands in my house.

She'd think I was crazy, so I lied. Yes, you do, she said, and her voice sounded familiar the longer this call went on. Why don't you tell me what's in your house, mea more? Maria! I breathed, my breath catching in my throat. Why don't you just give up and come back to me? I'll let you crawl back and we'll put this all behind us. You don't want to know what I'm.

happens to the ones who decide not to come back to me. And she cackled evilly on the other end of the phone. I hung up and threw it under the bed, where I continued to ring. I heard her ring again and again. The hand slamming into the door as it did until she finally gave up and started texting me. I heard it chirp a dozen times, two dozen, three dozen, before I finally dug it out and started writing this, sending me messages to telling me to give up and just come back to her. I kept swiping them away, trying to ignore them.

And 30 minutes ago, she sent her last text so far. Do you soon, me a more, the hands have stopped banging now. And I can see a pair of shoes standing on the other side of my bedroom door. Someone just knocked. Calling my name and telling me to open the door. appears that Maria has arrived. It appears I'm out of time. It appears I should have been wary of my ex's bearing gifts.

It appears her reach was indeed. Farther than I believe. For your bonus episode, creepy presents the clean scent of Tevostock, written by N.M. Brown and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. Did you know that when heated to the proper temperature, you can melt an entire human body into a puddle with lie solution?

My sister-in-law Tanya's voice poked a crack in my concentration, shattering the mental list I'd built in my head. The fuck? I asked her. Something you're wanting to tell me? I joked as I nudged her ribs with my elbow. If she responded, I sure as hell didn't hear her. The colors, shapes, and scents were too mesmerizing. We'd fallen victim to Sunday boredom and decided to go to the Tavistock Gallery for some retail therapy.

The soap shop was the last place we stopped at. Nothing makes the time pass like spending money. A pretty employee wearing a wide smile walked over to us. The crisp name tag perched on her left shoulder read the name Jane in italic letters. My stomach immediately flipped. I always hated it when sales clerks bothered me while I was trying to browse. I know, I know, it's their job. It just makes me super nervous. So naturally, the second she asked if we needed any help, I said no in the politest and

firmest way possible. However, Tanya spoke over me as she often did when we were together. Hello, Jane. I have a few questions, if you have time. The lady perked up at this, shifting her attention from me to my sister-in-law. Of course. What can I help you with? Here we go, I thought Riley. Tanya was going to waste my time by badgering this woman. What's worse is that she didn't even come here to buy anything.

She just came into the store because I did. I tried to stifle a groan with annoyance as she cleared her throat, crossing her arms over her chest in preparation for an unnecessary battle of wits. Yet, do you make the soap on site or is it delivered? We mostly make it on site with a few exceptions. Jane replied pleasantly. Tanya gingerly picked up an opaque green and brown-layered soap bar, holding it up for both of us to see. Is this glycerin or olive oil-based?

It smells fabulous, but it's obvious this is from a melt-in-poor brick. She flipped it over, revealing the price on the back. 1299? she exclaimed. I tried to interrupt her, to no avail, of course. She simply brushed me off and continued. You do realize you can make an entire soap brick for you. that price, right? Jane's cheeks flustered a sunset pink, but she remained professional nonetheless. Yes, ma'am, those are our vegan bars. They contain vegetable glycerin and

are made off-site and shipped to us here at the shop. My sister-in-law seemed nonplussed by this as if genetically coded to be a pain in the ass. Her lips drew into a condescending smile. Well, I guess if you slap the word vegan on the label, you can just charge about anything. The bricks that are made here in the shop, are they olive oil-based? Jane seemed relieved to answer a less confrontational inquiry. Some are, yes. Our lime-made soaps have different bases for different benefits. We have olive oil for firmness, goat's milk for moisture,

and we just got our hemp oil basin last week. The one you're holding in your hand is more clear. That's how you can tell it wasn't made here, naturally. My sister-in-law's eyebrows raised slightly. she was clearly impressed. Jane continued. Once the lie gets mixed in with oil or milk solution, it turns a creamy eggnog color.

I walked off at this point, leaving them to their stimulating conversation. As much as Jane seemed to be enjoying it, if Tanya was holding her verbally hostage, the least I could do was buy something. I kept walking until they were just out of earshot, not fully realizing at first that I had walked past the sales area and had stumbled into what looked like a back store

room. It wasn't nearly as fragrant as the front sales floor was, but I did recognize the silhouettes of soap bins. I can't really explain what I did next. Maybe it was the stress of the holiday season. Maybe it was the subconscious suffocation I felt due to my husband's sister moving in with me after he unexpectedly died. Maybe I just wanted to make the same childish decisions I had made in malls when I was young. But for whatever reason, I reached inside the closest one to me. My hands clasped around as many as they could before plunging them deep into the bottom of my purse. Despite the fluorescent lighting in the majority of the store, this area was pitch dark, so dark that my breath hitched in my throat when I saw someone charging towards me. The shirt and

pants she wore were were black, so at first it looked like an angry, disembodied head. If not for the white of her shoes, I'd have thought I was losing my mind. Hey, you can't be in here. This area is prohibited to customers. She slid sleek safety glasses over top of her head before continuing. This leads to her soap on site area which has dangerous materials and chemicals. She gestured towards the sales floor with a black-gloved hand. Embarrassed and relieved at not getting caught, I mumbled an apology, spun on my heel, and caught back up with Tanya. Thankfully, her conversation with Jane had ended and she'd moved on to sniffing and browsing. Ultimately, we bought two soaps each, a body bar and a shampoo bar.

The anxiety of my pilfered goods began gnawing at my gut, eating away bits of it like termites on wood as we stood in the checkout line. Tanya went on and on about shampoo bars, and I politely nodded in agreement, even though I'd absorbed virtually nothing about what she'd said. We'd just stepped up the line when a frantic woman reeking of smoke cut in front of us in line, desperately grasping the front counter with both hands.

I mouthed of what the fuck to. my sister-in-law as the woman in front of us started to ask questions about an incense shop. This living ashtray wasn't even fucking buying anything. As much as I wanted to say something, I couldn't risk causing a scene. By the time I'd get the nerve up, it would have been our turn in line anyway. True to thought, the woman was soon gone, leaving nothing behind but the smell of soot in a bad taste in my mouth. We got rang up, made small talk, paid, and left the store. My purse was a bit heavier, and little Jane was none the wiser.

I couldn't wait to get home and see what my grab bag contained. The ride home was silent. I'd avoided speaking to Tanya and pretended to concentrate on my phone as she drove. If we began talking, she'd get comfortable. And when she got comfortable, she brought up her brother. I know she meant well, and I missed him too, just in a different way. Sure, she grew up with him, but he was the love of my life. It still hurt me to talk about it.

After the door to my room was tightly closed, I emptied the contents of my purse onto my bed. It was due to be cleaned out soon anyway. A slight frown formed on my face to notice that a lot of them were Halloween shapes. They looked like individual hand soaps and all smelled incredible. My work had its annual Christmas party that night, and I figured they'd be perfect in gift bags. We each picked Secret Santa partners. I just couldn't help but to make a little something up for everyone. It was a great night in all. We opened gifts and we'd all been drinking, so my soaps went over amazingly well. My Secret Santa got me a fancy purse and candle set. The Italian restaurant

Amici's down the street catered it, leading me to eat way more than I should have. Nothing really remarkable took place, honestly. It's what happened after that that was worth noting. First, Erica Matheson called in to explain that she was taking bereavement leave. Her son had suffered a horrible accident which led to him passing away at only nine years old. A swarm of bees surrounded her son when he was playing in the backyard. His little throat closed almost immediately despite him never having an allergy to them. I didn't think anything of it at first, but then our supervisor Carson got into a car accident and broke both of his legs. A sinking feeling resonated through my body as I recalled placing the extra-sacraste.

soaps in his bag. They were bone-shaped, left over from Halloween, and they were broken. That's why I'd given him extra. It seemed beyond absurd that the two could be connected, but then I also remembered that the bag I gave to Erica had honey and milk-scented soapies in them. My mind raced to remember the other soaps I'd placed in bags. I bit at my lip out of dread and anxiety not stopping until it bled. Grant Brierson received a Ziploc bag full of brain-shaped soaps. They were red and white-tied and rose-scented. He'd suffered an aneurysm and died six days later.

Two more employees received soap gravestones, and while one didn't die, their family suffered a devastating loss. The other, of course, died soon after the New Year. In my state of hysteria, a flood of warmth came over me to remember giving the new girl Cassandra Pete, sea shell and rose-shaped soaps. At that moment, there was no conceivable way in my mind that those could turn out to be harmful, much less cause death. Regretfully, the newspapers proved otherwise.

Like I mentioned before, she was new, so with all of the tragedy taking place, no one thought twice when she didn't return to the office. And I mean, who the hell would have? But on page A5 of the local newspaper, yes, we still got those. There was an article about a local girl who had been taking out on a boat and didn't make it back. Investigators found evidence of gunpowder on the inside of her boyfriend's boat, along with a box of roses, scattered rose petals and stem pieces. It was assumed he proposed, she said no, and he shot her point blank. The bullet went through the bouquet of flowers he'd given her before, striking her and knocking her overboard.

At the time of the article, her boyfriend was arrested, but her body was arrested. hadn't been found. Naturally, work became impossible to show up to. My mind grasped at any straw it could, sane or insane, to create some good of a terrible situation. I needed a shred of hope, no matter how small, something to make this all worth it. There's one last soap left, the largest one that I'd saved for myself. It's pumpkin cream-scented and is in the shape of a smiling ghost. There's still more soaps to be used by the employees. I won't waste more time explaining the results. Suffice it to say that at this point, I don't give a fuck what happens to me. I'm going to toast to Tavistock, get sloppy drunk, then take the longest and hottest shower of my life. I will use my ghost soap, and one of two things

will happen. Either my husband's discorporated spirit will materialize in our home, keeping me company until it's my time to join him, where it will end my own life, quickening the path to reuniting with my love. Whatever happens, I'll be happy with either option. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at Creepypod. dot com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments, share-a-like licensing,

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