Creepy - Ad Nauseam, Ad Mortem, Ad Infinitum (Part 1)

Episode Date: March 19, 2020

What lies beyond?*** Written by EmpyRealInvective***Content warning: suicidal images***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.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. Hey everyone. I'm sure there are plenty of you who read the title of this episode and figured of some kind of paid advertisement. It's not. It's a story. The first of many. For those of you who don't follow the show on social media,

I've decided to start releasing additional content throughout the week. Right now I'm looking to do at least two more episodes each week. Free for everyone. Don't worry. I cleared it with the patrons. patrons whom you can quietly thank for being 100% on board with me providing more free content for everyone. All these episodes are out of pocket, but I'll do it for as long as I can. Times are strange, and this is my small attempt to help.

Even if all I can do to help is provide listeners something else to focus on for 15 minutes, then that's what I'll do. I'm fortunate enough right now to still have my day job, but I know a lot of you aren't so lucky. Some of our narrators are in the same boat. During this time, you might also hear some stories from narrators who aren't typically on the show. That's my attempt to help support the community that supports me. I thought about calling these episodes something. I've done the 31 days of horror, the bad days.

But I thought, for this, let's just keep things simple. No extra fanfare or announcements beyond this. I'll save that for some days. I hope you enjoy the extra content we provide and doubly hope you and yours are safe. We're all in this together, even though. those of us who have been training for social distancing our whole lives. This first story is actually a three-parter by one of my all-time favorite creepypasta authors. But because I only started working on this yesterday, I really haven't had the time to juggle

family, work, and the normal podcast schedule on top of putting everything else together. So please be patient as I release all three parts in the coming days. With that, 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. Ad nauseum, ad mortum, ad infinitum, written by Amp Ereel invective. Part one, ad nauseum. Have you ever seen a ghost? I don't usually ask that question because everyone will typically start telling their typical bullshit story of seeing an old woman in their peripheral vision one late night, hearing voices that aren't there, or maybe even picking up a phantom hitchhiker on a late night after driving for too long. I ask this question because I want you to have your spiritual encounter on your mind while I tell you my story.

My encounter with the afterlife wasn't very typical, and I doubt that after listening to my story that you'd be able to see yours as ordinary either. It all started in early 2001, when I was 13 years old. My family just moved to a new city after my father lost his job. He was lucky enough to find work in a small town in Michigan. The town, Kalamazoo, was a quaint and quiet community. We moved there midway through the school year, so I found that I had about five or six months of free time

before I could attend school and meet the other kids. My neighborhood was built for a younger couple, so there weren't too many kids to hang out with during this time, and the cold weather forced me inside most of this time. I was fine being indoors. I'm an avid gamer and love, survival horror games. I spent most of my time in my room, which was in the basement, playing games and talking to friends I'd left behind when I moved. I was a big fan of resident

evil and solely getting into Silent Hill around that time. Just a small note about my house in Kalamazoo. It had a main floor with a kitchen, living room, and bedroom bathroom. The basement had a wide open area, my room, and a room with a water heater off to the side. The house was old. The house was old. It was built sometime in the 1950s and was refitted to be more modern. Esbestos was replaced by insulation, lead paint was removed, and copper tubing was put in. He reminded me of the old ship of Theseus conundrum. At what point of repairing and replacing parts is a house stop being the same house and become a completely new house? Did I live in a house that was from the 50s? Or was it now a completely new building? I've been known to wax philosophic from time

to time. Sorry about that. The house had its fair share of problems. It was freezing in the winter due to poor heating, particularly in the basement. Every now and then I'd wake up to find my breath fogging in the air. I slept with the heater in my room to combat this invasive cold. I accepted this drawback in exchange for the privacy that it afforded me, and as a teenager, privacy was of the utmost importance.

The house also made sounds in. night. My parents told me that it was just settling on its foundation. But I wasn't so sure. It stared with the most innocuous things. Whenever I was settling down for the night, the sound of the door lightly pumping into the frame could be heard. At first I thought it was just a wind current generated by the heating system or pressure change pushing a door in the basement closed. I told myself that the next few nights had happened. I held tight under that belief when the sound persisted, even after shutting all the doors in the basement to cut down on flow through. Another noise that was almost always happening in it was the sound of my bed creaking.

At first I thought it was me turning in bed and making that sound. Then it started happening even when I wasn't moving. I spent a few nights lying completely still, waiting for the sound of my bed shifting. I'd always look over at the side of the bed, but there wasn't anything there. Eventually I began to get used to the sounds and they became background noise. A few days passed with the persistent sounds. I would have forgotten about it had I not opened my eyes late one night. I just heard the creaking sound and rolled over to look across the bed.

I was greeted with the image of another person right next to me. My heart leapt into my throat and my stomach sank. She was facing away from me and her long hair ran down her back. She was wearing a white nightgown. I laid on the bat, paralyzed, and watched her. She rocked back and forth for a few minutes before getting up. The bed creaked as she moved into a sitting position. She had her hands in front of her face.

She sat in that position for a few minutes before she got up and moved towards the door. She moved slowly. When she reached the door, her hands extended towards the doorknob. She didn't open it She just phased through the door And it moved slightly with her passing through it I didn't sleep for the rest of the night I spent the next couple of nights

Sleeping upstairs in the guest room I lied and told my parents It was too cold downstairs I knew I couldn't tell them what I saw They were already worried about my adjustment To a new city They didn't need to think I was going crazy I stayed in the guest room for a few nights before they began to get suspicious.

I went to bed in my room the next night, and I saw her again. I didn't just see her. I heard her as well. I tried to stay up that night, but I eventually drifted off. As I was about to really go under, I became aware of a sound softly repeating in my room. I opened my eyes, and she was there in my bed. She was still rocking slightly, and I realized what the sound I was hearing was. She was crying softly.

She was doing her best to stifle her sobs, but they were audible. I should have been scared. But as I listened to her pitiful bawling, I felt nothing but sympathy. She rose to a sitting position and wept for a few minutes before leaving my room. I managed to go to sleep a few hours. later on the floor next to my bed. The idea of waking up in the middle of the night and seeing her facing me. Dead eyes looking right into mine was a terrifying thought.

She didn't seem to be aware that there was someone else in bed with her, and I had no intention of making her wear of my presence. I slept on the uncomfortable floor in front of the heater the rest of the night. She appeared every night in my room for the next week. She always repeated the same motions. At the end of the week, I decided to try and make contact with her. I was beginning to feel like a voyeuristic creep, watching her at her most raw and unguarded moment.

When she appeared, I let her cry for a few minutes before solely reaching out my hand. My trembling hand slowly crept across the bed sheets. I was terrified that I might get her attention and provoke her wrath. I drew closer and closer to her shoulder. I blew out a latent sigh and reached forward. My fingers slid right through her. It was the oddest sensation I ever experienced in my life. My mind told me that I wasn't feeling anything,

but I still feel like I'd touched her. Later, when I was older, I'd come across an article explaining phantom limb syndrome. It talked about how amputees would sometimes feel sensation and their lost limbs despite the fact that was no longer there. I think this is the closest analogy I can come up with. I was feeling something that was not there, or at least no longer there.

My attempt at contact elvenized me. I shot out of the bed and walked around the other side. She had disrisen to a sitting position, was now facing me. She was a few years older than me. If I had to guess, I'd say that she was 16 or 17. She had relatively plain features, but there was an endearing quality to her simple style. I was shocked and a little embarrassed to be thinking of her like that. I was busy mentally castigating myself when she stood up and moved right through me.

If trying to touch her was discomforting, feeling her passed through me, it was the oddest sensation I ever felt. I had to sit down and catch my breath and still my heart. The next night I tried to make contact again but met with the same results. Instead of watching her leave the room and make the sound of the door bumping against its frame, I decided that I had to follow her. I had to figure out what happened to her. She moved slowly through the basement, but wasn't heading in the direction of the stairs.

She was instead heading towards the boiler room. I followed her to the door, but as soon as I got within reach of the handle, I thought my blood turned cold and my skin prickled. She phased through the door and I stood outside. I was afraid of what might happen to me when I entered that room. But I was more worried about what I would find when I entered that room. I didn't enter the boiler room until a week before class began. I won't lie.

Those first few months in Kalamazoo, Michigan, were some of the loneliest of my life. My friends back in Simsbury, Connecticut were moving on with their lives and I felt like I was being left behind. I didn't have any friends in Kalamazoo yet, and to tell the truth, I was beginning to see this nightly wraith as a companion and kindred spirit. She was alone and sad, just like me. Every night I'd wake up to the sound of her suffering and had follow her to the boiler room. A week before class began for me, I entered the boiler room with her. I'd sit outside the door for a few minutes, trying to steal myself for what I might see. My entire body was screaming at me to run back to my room and never go near that room again.

But I had to know what happened next. I drew in a deep breath and blew it out. I grasped the doorknob and turned it. The door swung into the room. And I was at eye level with her feet. They swayed back and forth like a pendulum. I stifled a scream when I realized that she wasn't levitating like a ghost. She was hanging from a beam in the ceiling.

I left the room and went back to my bed. There's nothing more I could do, and I had no intention of spending any more time than necessary in that boiler room. I laid in bed and slowly curled up into a fetal position. I prided myself in not being the kind of person who cried openly. But at that moment? The floodgates broke and I wept. My throat felt raw and my eyes stung with tears.

I sobbed for a few moments before I realized I was not alone. She was in bed across from me and weeping in that same position she had always been in. I tried to find out who she was, but the realtor was tight-lipped about the house's previous occupants. I pressed her for more information and she finally caved and confessed to not doing any real research on its past. I went to the library, but I failed to turn up any information. I even tried asking the neighbors about the previous owners, but the two families that lived there before ours didn't have a daughter, or only had an infant daughter when they occupied the house.

I had no idea about the girl who appeared every night and hung herself in the boiler room. It was now a routine for me. I'd wake up in the middle of the night around the time she would appear. I'm ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I found myself waiting for her. I was hopeful that someday I break through and tell her what I wanted to say ever since I saw her. I would tell her that she didn't deserve the fate she was suffering. I would tell her how lonely I was, how desperate I was for someone to talk to.

I would tell her... I don't know. I always stayed behind when she left the room. I'd walked into the boiler room during the day once, and I saw her. hanging there. She was gasping and clawing desperately at her neck as she slowly asphyxiated. She rocked back and forth in the room and her feet frantically kicked around, looking for some purchase to save herself.

I did scream then. I had to make up a story about seeing a shadow from my mom when she came downstairs and saw me pale as a ghost and shivering. I started class and began to make some new friends. I even had a few classmates over to hang out. I remember one time we were playing a video game and the girl passed right through him on her way to the boiler room. My friends couldn't see her, nor my parents. Only I could.

I wondered for a bit if I was going crazy, but I'm not sure that's the case. Well, at least not going crazy back then. She was repeating, always reliving her last moments. she'd start out weeping on the bed and she'd rise to a sitting position for a bit before going to the boiler room and hanging herself. This happened almost every night, but on a few occasions,

I did catch her walking through the doors on the way to her demise during the day. I must have seen her hundreds, no, thousands of times during my time in Kalamazoo. Sometimes I try to talk to her. Sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes. I'd do nothing.

It took me a few years to try and figure it all out, but I finally did. I realized what she was doing. I realized what the afterlife was like. There isn't a heaven or a hell, at least not in the literal sense. There are only those last few moments of your life, reiterating like a broken record. She was reliving those final moments. maybe trying to make sense of it all. Maybe she wanted to choose another path.

But in the end, she always came around full circle to a noose in the boiler room. This is why the concept of death scares me so much. H.P. Lovecraft said the oldest emotion is fear, and the most powerful of all fears is our fear of the unknown. I think he's wrong about that. I know what's waiting for us all when we die. and that is the scariest thought I can think of. I am so terrified that when I die,

I will stay behind on this earth repeating my last moment's ad nauseum, trying to make sense of my last minutes. I know that this is what is waiting for us all after it is all said and done, and I know that the end is inevitably approaching. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at Creepypod at gmail.com. All stories told on this podcast can be filed.

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