Creepy - A Withered Christmas

Episode Date: December 28, 2020

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Hello, everyone. This is Owen McEwan. If you recognize my voice at all, it's most likely as Jerry from the gas station. And I'm here to talk briefly about the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society is at the forefront of the fight to cure cancer. They're the largest nonprofit dedicated to creating a world without blood cancers.

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Creepy Presents A Withered Christmas written by Michael Whitehouse with guest narration by Jimmy Ferrer produced by Steve Blizzin I need to hold on I have to keep my mind together before it's lost in a haze again

what's happening to me if I can just piece it together maybe I can figure this thing out I need to stay awake the voices. I have to filter them out. I can't concentrate with their infernal juttering.

Take a deep breath. Let them fade into the background. I don't know how long I can keep it together to remember. Let me think this through. And remember, it's clearing. It's starting to come back to me. It all started five years ago on Christmas Day. For once,

I'd ignored the calls for my family to spend another futile Christmas dinner with them. It wasn't that I'd had enough of their petty squabbles, though that's something I never look forward to. It was more of that an opportunity to present itself, a Christmas meal with an old friend. Lawrence and I have been part of the same writing scene for nearly a decade. We'd meet every couple of days with a few other hopeful writers and spend the hours, rain or shine, in the corner of a coffee shop somewhere. Yellow legal pads in front of us, scribbling down the next great American novel.

Over time, most of the group became disillusioned with their lack of success. They gave it up. But not Lawrence. And not me. We were both cut from the same cloth. We'd rather face the gutter than defeat. In the end, even I was. left behind.

Lawrence struck gold eventually. He became a published writer, a bestseller, no less. Critics adored him. Reader's gobbled up his works like truffles and caviar. But me? No. No such luck for me. I was creating beautiful works of art, stories for the ages, real drama about the intricacies

of the human condition. but no one would listen. And yet, Lawrence's pathetic horror stories had landed on a mansion in the countryside and a bank account splitting at the seams. It was blind luck that gave him that chance. Crossing paths with the right agent, who then put his novel on the desk to the right publisher, and then to a willing public. That was the kind of luck I needed. and don't think I didn't try to get it.

I was struggling financially when I received Lawrence's invitation to Christmas dinner. He said he had to speak with me about a delicate matter. I knew then that I had to go. Perhaps he could be my savior. My port in a storm made up a repossession letters and the real possibility of homelessness. I'd asked him to champion my work before. But he always said I had to write something. more commercial, whatever that meant.

If it really was in need of a favor, then I hope that in return he'd take another stab at getting my novel into the right hands. At the very least, hopefully he'd see good to lend me enough money to stay afloat. That Christmas morning, five years ago, I traveled to Lawrence's home. The sight of it stuck in my throat. A large mansion with his very own security. security garden and imposing black iron gate. When I identified myself, I was allowed into the grounds.

The damn opulence of the place practically suffocated me as I parked outside in the white gravel driveway and made my way up marble steps polished or render a reflection. Of all things, a servant answered the door. A tall man in a black coat. My God, he's got a butler too. I thought, I couldn't even afford a new pair of shoes. Inside, the mansion was suitably decorated for the season. In the wide open lobby, which led to the central staircase, garters of gold and green hung cheerfully from the walls,

and a large Christmas tree twice the height that it needed to be, it was decorated perfectly in golden bibles and red and white candy canes. Somewhere in a distant room from above, A music box played old-fashioned carols. The place looked like the front of a Christmas card, and I felt like a beggar knocking on the door to ask for spare change. The butler led me up the staircase to the floor above and then to an enormous dining room,

warmly lit by two crystal chandeliers. Another Christmas tree? This time's smaller, but no less well-decorated, sat in the corner next to another fireplace. To my utter shock and despair, the large dining table, with its perfect white cloth, gleaming silver-coloury, and several burning white candles, was only set for two. The table could have set at least twenty. But there was no mistaking that I was the only guest. I had expected more, and for the first time I was unnerved by why I was a guest of honor.

Lawrence and I had been close, once, but never like family. Then Lawrence finally entered the room. I was shocked to his appearance. He was severely gaunt and at age 20 years or so to my eyes from the last time I'd been in his company just a few months before. No hiding this, I suppose. He said, pointing at his own body, wither beneath an ill-fitting dinner suit clearly tailored for his previous. eyes.

Lawrence, what happened? Are you okay? I asked, still shocked at the sight of my old friend, diminished from his once exuberant self. I'm dying, my friend, and I just wanted to see you one last time. In fact, I needed to see you. We embraced, and he proceeded to tell me at the fatal condition with which he'd been diagnosed just two short months previous. I'd never heard of it before, and I can't remember the name of it now.

These damn drugs are fogging up my mind. That in front of chattering. Why must the voices speak like that? Let them fade again. Remember the details? Put this thing together so I can think of a way out. There must be a way out. Where was I?

The disease. Lawrence had contracted was something to do with the withering of arteries around the body. He was literally wasting away. And there was nothing the doctors could do about it. It was a bitter end for someone still sailing on a crest of personal and professional success. Over a succulent turkey dinner, which Lawrence hardly touched, we cried and laughed about old times. I felt deep guilt about coming there to ask for money given my friend's condition. and so I decided not to mention it when he himself brought up that very subject.

What he asked me then, under the glow of those priceless chandeliers, with the unbearable sentiment of a decorated Christmas tree nearby, was almost unspeakable. It was everything that the festive season is not. I want you to kill me. He said, his eyes heavy set. that in his skull and his lips thin and dry. He didn't have the heart for it.

He couldn't do the deed himself no matter how hard he tried. But he ensured me that if I did it, I'd be saving him from a fate worse than death. That in a matter of days, he'd enter into the final protracted stage of the illness, that his body would become infected, gangreness as his veins struggled to pump the blood to his limbs and organs. effectively he was condemned to rot away like a man already dead and yet he was not dead he'd be alive and aware through most of the agonizing process he knew of my money troubles having helped me out once or twice before a while back and this time he was offering me a large chunk of his estate if i was willing to do as he asked i didn't answer at first i couldn't i'd never thought myself for murderer, but deep down, I was stunned at the thoughts running through my mind. I knew I could do it, especially if it meant pulling myself out of my own curse condition.

My pathology was financial and could be cured. Lawrence's was physical and could not. God help me, but has he attempted to persuade me for an hour or so? I began to think I'd be helping both of the first. us if I went through with it. But how would I kill you? I asked, my voice trembling. I don't think I could kill with my bare hands.

Not you in any case, Lawrence? For the first time that evening, Lawrence smiled. His grin almost like that of a skeleton. The skin pulled tott over bone and failing muscle. He got up and walked over to a bookcase nearby, then brought a small wooden box over the table, which he then laid in front of me. Opening the box I saw inside a rich velvet-lined interior, and, resting comfortably upon it, was a hypodermic syringe.

The needle was unusually long, at least three inches, and the sight of it made me shudder. It cost a pretty penny to get it. Warren said, sitting down once more on the other side of the table. What's in it? I could feel my voice weakening at the thought. Name is meaningless to you and me, old friend. Suffice to say that this is an extract from a rare plant that grows on a small, uninhabited Pacific Island.

It has a remarkable property of shutting down the brain completely, and it can do so without leaving a trace. At least anything that would be looked for during an autopsy. I touched the coldness of the syringe and then picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand. So... So I just stick this in your arm and... It's not that simple, I'm afraid.

Lawrence said. He then pointed at his left eye with a slender index finger. It must go in here So that it can be absorbed by the optic nerve A peculiar trait but One perfect for our circumstances In your eyeball? Jesus, no

It was then that Lawrence pleaded With me and did so in as eloquent a way As I've ever heard another human being speak He told me of the pain he was in and how I'd be saving him from an undignified and brutal end, and how he'd already left me enough money in his will to pay off my debts and focus on nothing but writing for the rest of my days. If I'm dead, I can hardly call my lawyer and reverse the decision.

As I silently mulled it over in my mind, Lawrence took out a key from his breast pocket and laid it in front of me. The only other thing I ask is that you unlock the box in my room at the foot of my bed. Inside, you'll find three novels and a few short stories. No one has read them yet, not even my publisher. But I want to put them in the hands of you. A fellow writer, who will make certain that they are published with no significant alterations.

I don't trust my agent. So you will be legally my representative in this matter? I have made this clear in my will, but grab them tonight before anyone else gets their grubby paws on them. I have put everything into these volumes. I have no words left in me. The books are my last gift of the wall before I pass beyond the veil, or too oblivion, either of which is preferable to my current state.

Do you promise to have them published with no interference or changes? Of course, I said, and I meant it. At least then. After taking the key and putting it in my pocket, I took the syringe and walked over to Lawrence. His breathing was deep and rhythmic, and I could tell that he was afraid. Sleep well, my old friend. It was all I could think to say. The needle was thin and delicate, so as not to leave a trace.

I was worried it would break if you move suddenly during the process, and so I held his head still with my arm wrapped under his bony chin, which dug into the flesh in my forearm. It felt like I was holding a skull, a needle, into the eyeball, while it was convulsed in pain. But the syringe felt as though it was stuck on something. So I pushed harder, and then I felt a small pop somewhere at the back of his eye, which I think was the retina and then the optic nerve. I pushed down on syringe, emptying the liquid into the back of the eye. Lawrence convulsed and shivered as I pulled it out.

He whispered, Thank you. And then he let out a long, low breath. And never inhaled again. He was dead. I stood there in horror at the sight of my friend. His gaunt body on his chair. His head back into the side.

His eyes wide and vacant. Dressed for his final Christmas meal. My hands were trembling, but at that moment's survival took over. Without thinking, I placed a box back on the bookcase and then looked for somewhere to dispose of the syringe. If I was caught with it in my possession, I knew I'd be charged with murder. At the rear of the room next to the Christmas tree, I approached the fireplace. It was stocked to be lit, though due to the milder than usual December,

it seemingly not been required that evening. Looking around, I saw a box of matches was sitting on the mantel above. My hands were shaking as I lit one and then brought the fire to life. Then, I threw the evidence and, to the flames. The syringe melted until the plastic was a charred, warped, unidentifiable object. I removed it with an iron poker resting beside the mantle and waited for it to cool. After that, I broke off the metal needle, opened a window, and disposed to both pieces and a large collection of bushes below. I decided to hope that no one would have called a search there.

I cried out for the butler to come. Lawrence is dead! I shouted. Lawrence is dead! quickly the butler entered, shocked at the lifeless body of his employer. After that, it was simple. An ambulance arrived, then a doctor. No one seemed the slightest bit surprised by Lawrence's sudden death given his condition. In fact, his doctor told me there was a blessing that he'd gone before the end of the disease.

I held on to that thought. Rather than think myself a murderer, no one suspected me of a thing. In fact, everyone was sympathetic that I'd gone through the trauma of witnessing my friend's final moments. There was only one thing to be done after that. The key to the box in Lawrence's room, I offered the butler and staff at the mansion my services, told them I'd stay the night and helped them with any logistical issues before Lawrence's lawyer arrived to handle the estate the day after Christmas.

They were thankful, and so a bed was made up for me on the second floor. During the night, I found Lawrence's bedroom, the box. and the manuscripts inside that he wanted me to look over for him. It should have been a simple job of taking the manuscripts home and safeguarding them until Lawrence's will was read, but that was when I made a terrible mistake. That night, I couldn't sleep after what I'd done, and so I began reading one of the novels. It was incredible. I'd never read anything quite like it.

The language was superb, the character's rich, the themes moving. But while I perused page after page, another thought began to bubble up from my insides. One born of greed, this is your chance, it said. This is it. I tried to ignore it. I tried my best. Eventually I was able to barter with myself. I couldn't steal the stores and claim them as my own, even if I could.

wanted to. They'd be mentioned in the will. People would know that they existed. That would be a precarious situation to escape. Lawrence's funeral came and went. It was a somber affair. When the will was right a few days after at a lawyer's office, I learned that he had indeed kept his side of the bargain. He'd left me a couple hundred thousand dollars. I could see his agent from a cross room awing me suspiciously because I got more than she did. But who cares? I was going to get what I deserved. Then it came to the stories.

The lawyer mentioned them briefly among numerous other pieces of Lawrence's belongings, and we asked me if I had them in my possession. The strangest thing happened. I found myself lying. No. I said. He never mentioned anything about a box or manuscript. to me.

Perhaps he was going to, and he died before he could tell me where they were. Maybe he changed his mind and hit them somewhere else. And there he had it. I was no longer just complicit in the death of my friend. I was now a thief and a liar. And everyone believed me. The only person who seemed incredulous to my story was Lawrence's agent. But I did my best to ignore her accusatory gaze.

Once you start to cheat and lie, it becomes easier each time you do it. Eventually, you're no longer a good person struggling with your conscience. Instead, you're a bad person reaping the rewards. That's just what I was. A month later, I submitted the manuscript to number publishers. Call it luck if you want or a curse. But when I received a glowing response from a well-neutral. known editor. I knew they were going to sign me. The publisher asked if I had any other books that

they could look at, and when I showed them the other manuscripts, but with my name on them instead of Lawrence's, they signed me on a massive three-book deal. It changed my life. And although there were whispers and conspiracy theories from Lawrence's old agent, no one seemed to pay heed to them. After all, I've been a writer for many years, so it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that I had the talent in me. Within two years I was a bestseller. It opened doors for me in ways I didn't know possible, but sometimes at night as I lay in bed in my new country house, smaller than Lawrence's, but not by much. I felt the needle of guilt occasionally, dream about it, quite literally. I remember the way the needle from the syringe pierce Lawrence's eyeball.

I remembered his convulsing before he died. I remembered his final whispered words of, Thank you, but none of that truly mattered to me. He was gone. I wasn't. And didn't I deserve the success after all those rejections? All those years of writing exceptional works of literature only to have them discounted every turn?

Over time, I managed to bury the guilt. And soon, I slept like a baby. The haze is coming again. I can feel it. I need to stay awake and think. Why are their voices chattering? My life was great until a few nights ago. And Lawrence was just a memory I rarely dwelt upon.

But things have a habit of catching up with you. No matter how hard you try to forget. It happened on Christmas Day. I was alone in the morning, but I was looking forward to spending the day with my girlfriend and her family in the afternoon. I'd picked the perfect necklace for her as a ruse. Inside the attached locket was, in fact, an engagement ring. Then, I intended to celebrate later that night back at the mansion with a few close friends,

family, and a couple of important industry people. while I was getting dressed for the day ahead in my bedroom, humming a Christmas carol and fixing my tie in a mirror. I heard something coming from inside an old antique wardrobe that sat in the corner of my room by the window. It was a sort of rustling and scratching sound. The wood inside was being scarred by something not unlike an unseen claw or a sharpened tooth. I shivered slightly when I heard it and didn't know exactly. exactly why. The noise would stop and then start up again. Stop and start, stop and start. I stood silently, straining to hear anything else, but it was clear that I had to move closer. Approaching the tall oak

wardrobe, which loomed over me. I pressed my ear against its closed doors. The spaces inside seemed to amplify the scratching, adding a deeper quality to it. And the rustling. It sounded like hair or fur pushing and moving against the wood inside. Then I heard a strange squeaking noise that had the quality of being somewhere between a bird and a rodent. But I couldn't quite place it. That was when I was certain. An animal was trapped inside the wardrobe.

I just had to hope that it was only one and not the beginning of an infest. Knowing that I was to have guests for a late Christmas party that very night, I didn't want a rat or a squirrel running around frightening my guests. Especially when some of them were leading figures from the publishing industry. Indeed, a film producer was coming to talk to me about adapting one of the books that's stolen from Lawrence. It being Christmas Day, would have been difficult to get a hold of a pest control company out there in the countryside. Now, I knew I had either leave the same. the animal trapped in there, deal with the thing myself. I'm no monster.

I didn't want the animal to suffer with no water or food. And in any case, I knew I wouldn't be able to enjoy the party later on, continually concerned that the critter would escape from the wardrobe and turn up to terrify my guests and one of the punch bowls. Against my better judgment, I grabbed a plastic box from my closet and, in the other hand, held the lid, hoping I could somehow scoop up whatever it was and then release it outside. No harm done. Standing in front of the wardrobe, the scratching and squeaking continued. But then as I touched the door to open it, the noises ceased.

Somehow the silence was worse than anything. Slowly I opened one of the wooden doors and peered inside. It was, as was normal, filled with a few hanging suits and other clothes. But right in the back, in the corner, away from any light. It was a black furry mass. It looked like a shadow at first. It was so dark. I was unable to see any features of note,

but I heard the same rustling noise coming from it. I now was certain that it moved ever so slightly as I closed in with the box and lid. I moved my hand forward with the box, readying the lid to scoop the thing up. But something then leaped forward out of the hair-covered mask and bit me in the hand. But then retreated back into the darkness as quick as that had been. I didn't get a good look at it, but it had a large mouth and hair. And if it was a rodent, it was about the biggest damn rat I'd ever seen.

Lurching back and dropping the box and lid, I closed the wardrobe doors with a thud to try and stop the thing from trying to bite me again. Looking down in my hand, the wound was deep and bloody between my index finger and thumb. I was going to have to get some shots now to make sure it didn't get infected and was cursing the thing under my breath. That was when I heard something else from inside the wardrobe. Whether it was my imagination or not, I heard what sounded like two almost human words. A whispered voice that said, reeling from the sound, I ran out of my bedroom.

I was only able to persuade myself that what I had heard was my imagination when I had put a good deal at distance between myself in that room. Regardless, I did not go back in there. The rest of Christmas Day was an uncomfortable one, to say the least. I went to a hospital and was given several injections. The attending doctor there looked at me with a strange expression when he first inspected the wound. Then, the nurse who dressed it had the same uneasy look on her face. I couldn't see what was so unusual about it and tried to put it out of my mind. The day was too important.

I attended Christmas dinner and my girlfriend's family's home as planned, though a little late. and the engagement ring gift was received with great celebration. But the entire time I felt something gnawing in my stomach. A sickness began to take me. And of all places, it was during Christmas dinner that I reached crescendo. Just as they were serving the turkey, I threw up over myself. I remember hearing my girlfriend scream in disgust, and then I passed. out. It's now the day after Christmas and these drugs, they're clouding my mind. I have to stay focused.

I have to stay awake. Who knows if I'll live? The chattering voices are clear to me now through the haze. They're the words of medical professionals discussing a patient who's fading away before them. As the doctors stand over me in what I can barely see as a hospital room, I hear the beeping of the machinery. My vitals are erratic, and their faces are growing increasingly concerned. I hear them mention something about an infection taking over my body and withering my arteries. Someone mentions rabies, but another doctor disagrees that it hasn't been long enough since I was bitten, and besides, the symptoms don't match up.

They're puzzled. The only thing they can agree on? is that soon I'll die. I don't need to do guesswork anymore. You know what's happening to me? It's not fate. It's not bad luck. That thing in the wardrobe in my house was no animal.

It appeared there for a reason. Five years to the day since Lawrence died. And listening to the doctors as the medicated haze kicks in again to rob me in my will. I know why the nurse thought the wound. in my hand was so strange and why the doctors are talking about it and how such an ease. It's because it's in the shape of a human mouth.

And, if anyone ever checked, I know that the wound would match up exactly with any records that exist of Lawrence's teeth. For more information,

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