Creepy - Ad Nauseam, Ad Mortem, Ad Infinitum (Part 2)

Episode Date: March 20, 2020

Life is a struggle, and then...*** 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. 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 violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Ad nauseum. Admortem. Ad infinitum. Written by MP Real Invective. To Admortum. I was just starting my junior year in high school and my grandfather came to visit. He was my father's father and he lived in California most of his life.

He used to smoke like a chimney But a few years back he was diagnosed with lung cancer He was put on oxygen and had to give up smoking He lived across the country But had come up to Michigan to visit with my family My relationship with my grandpa was always strained If you wanted to be pleasant You'd say that he was an old-fashioned man

If you wanted to be honest You'd say that he was a racist and a sexist who used to beat his children when they disobeyed him. My father was always honest about how he was treated by him when he was growing up. And because I respected my father, I found my relationship with my grandfather to be adversarial. He originally had come up to visit for a week, but due to health issues, he ended up staying in Michigan for over a year.

My grandfather's extended stay only served to put a strain on our relationship. We rarely talked. And when we did talk, I managed discourse in the coldest fashion. Since my grandfather was suffering from lung cancer, he had to carry on an oxygen tank. The manufacturers must have had a sense of humor because they named the gargantuan machine, The Liberator. The tank was a hundred or so pounds and sat in the corner by the entrance of the house. The oxygen cord gave my grandpa 500 feet to move around the house. I saw the Liberator as a man.

massive ball and chain that anchored him to the guest room, kitchen, and dining room. My grandfather was suffering from lung cancer. He had to take a regimen of pills to keep himself going day to day. The cancer had rotted away his lungs. The oxygen was necessary to keep him alive. He could barely move without gasping for breath, and when he talked, he came out as a rasp. The sounds of his respirator clicking on and off, and his ragged gasps, became a fixture of everyday life. We'd been living here in Kalamazoo, Michigan for about three years before my grandfather came to live with us.

At this time, I was accustomed to my nocturnal, and sometimes diurnal, visitor who wept in my room before proceeding to the boiler room and hanging herself. My latest attempt to contact her was through a Ouija board. I snuck one of my friends into the house through the emergency fire escape the basement had, which was just a ladder built into an alcove that led outside. She believed that there were ghosts And that only a select few were attuned enough to see them I didn't tell her about my encounters I only hinted that I thought there was something paranormal happening in my room

She snuck in during the night and brought her board with her We both sat on my bed and put her hands on the Ouija board I lit a few candles to set the mood For contacting the dead Not setting a romantic mood She sat quietly afraid to wake my parents. Spirits of this house, we beseech thee.

I always wondered why people thought ghost talk like serfs from medieval times. If you were trying to contact your loved one, would you talk to them like they were a 1920s gangster? Yeah, you see? She continued. If there's anyone here besides us, move the planchette and make us aware of your presence. We sat for five minutes with her fingers on the planchette. After nothing happened, she took her hand away and said,

I guess the noises you've been hearing was just a house settling. I cracked a smile because out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the wraith weeping on my bed. My friend was only a few inches away from the gulsory girl who haunted the basement of my house and couldn't even see her. We talked for a bit and then she left. I walked her back to her house and told her good night. When I snuck back into my house,

the sound of my grandfather's respirator filled my ears. A couple weeks passed, and my grandfather's condition deteriorated. He was now confined to the guest room. He could barely talk, and when he managed, he had to pause between sentences to catch his breath. Sometimes when he overexerted himself, his body was wrecked with coughs and weezes. My mother took care of him because my father was working and I was at school.

Out of everyone in the house, my mother's relationship with my grandfather's probably the best. She went out and picked up his prescriptions, cooked for him, kept him company, and changed his sheets. I remember heading off to school one day and seeing my grandfather sitting up in his bed. He now spent most of his time in bed and was developing bed sores and had to use a bedpan to relieve himself. He had a coughing fit. and he covered his mouth of the handkerchief. Sometimes I think that I saw something red staining that handkerchief. But I realize that that little observation that I make now is tainted by the memory of what happened to him later.

When I returned home that day, I knew something was wrong the moment I walked through the door. There was something off about the house. There was something missing. It took me a moment to realize what it was. The omnipresent sound of the respirator pumping oxygen was no longer present. The liberator sat in a corner silent like the grave. I went upstairs to find my mother in the guest room, stripping the bed sheets and pillowcases.

She'd been crying, but wasn't at that moment. Mom didn't have to say the words, but she did anyways. He died. His heart just stopped. There was nothing that could have been done. I pulled her into a hug and she broke into a fresh set of tears. I offered to help her wash the bed sheets and she told me it wasn't necessary. This part may make me seem like a horrible person.

But I was glad she turned down my offer. When my grandfather died, he'd evacuated. The smell was horrible. She washed the sheets as best she could but ended up throwing everything away. My father took the news like any son would take the news of his father's death. I didn't know what I was expecting from him. For some reason, I thought he'd be angry, angry at the fact that his father had never told him goodbye, never told him that he loved him, or that he was proud of him. He wasn't angry.

He was just quiet for a while. He didn't cry at that moment. but I remember going upstairs from the basement and hearing the soft hush sound of him crying in the night. I tried to take my grandfather's death as stoically as possible. I didn't cry until the funeral, and then the floodgates broke, and I wept as they lowered him into the ground. He may have been a racist, sexist, abusive old man, but he was still my grandfather. He was family, and he was gone. I didn't like him.

But I did love him because he was a part of my life. The next month was relatively quiet. My mom and dad dealt with getting his affairs and order and tending to his will. I can't tell you exactly when they started. But I can tell you when I first became aware of the sounds. I was sneaking outside at night to have a cigarette and I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I'd become so accustomed to the sound that it took me a few seconds to realize what was wrong. I was hearing the worrying and hissing of the Liberator.

We had donated the Liberator a week ago to the nursing home. I paused in the darken hallway and listened. It was a slow and steady sound. Listening to that noise chilled my blood and made my stomach sink. I must have stood still and waited for that sound to stop for a few minutes. It didn't stop. If anything, the sound grew louder. I lied to myself and said it was a bit of a bit of a bit of.

trick my mind was playing on me. I went downstairs and passed by the ghost as she proceeded to her death. I kept lying to myself for the next couple of days as the noise that the liberator got progressively louder and was joined by something almost undetectable. The respirator kept going throughout the day. It wasn't like the wraith girl whose weeping only manifested at certain times. The noise was constant and was growing louder. The sound obfuscated by the oxygen machine slowly.

grew more evident. It took me a few days to really begin to hear the wheezing and gasping beneath the warring of the Liberator. I avoided the guest room at all costs. It was quite a simple thing. There was nothing in there except for the sounds of gasping and wheezing. To be completely honest. I was afraid to enter that room.

I could live with seeing the image of the girl in the basement. But I wasn't so sure I could accept seeing the ghost of my grandfather reliving as last moments. I avoided it for a few months before finally succumbing to the curiosity. It was my senior year then, and I was just wrapping up with graduation parties. I had had quite a bit to drink that night, but I was still capable of driving. I pulled into my drive-way and a thought struck me. The thought was that I had to see him before I left home for college in a few months.

I had to face the ghost to my grandfather if I wanted to move on with my life. I went into the house and approached the guest room. I wasn't prepared for what I would see. And I don't think I ever could be. I stood outside the guest room for a few moments, trying to steal myself for what I would see next. I listened to the methodical wearing of the oxygen tank, and the discordant gasps and coughs that broke through the rhythm.

The more I listened, the more I found my resolve weakening. Another couple of minutes, and I knew I would completely lose the will to investigate, so I swung open the door and stepped into the room. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. The curtains had been closed to the moonlight, giving the room a sepricle feel to it. Then we're grown musty and smelled like moss balls. The wheezing and gasping was louder now.

It is just my mind now. But when I recall this moment, I could have sworn that the rasping and haggard sounding breaths were almost deafening. My eyes adjusted enough to see the shades of something on my bed. My eyes adjusted to the light and I could see him clearly. The spirit or echo of my grandfather was on the bed. His body rides spasmodically on the sheets and looked like it was having a seizure or a stroke of some sort.

His hands clawed at the air in front of his face. This motion looked out of place until I realized that he was probably trying to adjust the respirator on his face. He rised in the bed for a few more minutes before he fell still. He was dead. The room was silent. I turned around and left the room. As the door closed behind me, the sound of frantic gasping and wheezing started up again.

I turned around and left the room. As the door closed behind me, the sound of frantic gasping and wheezing started up again. The night before heading off to college, I rolled over in my bed and watched the nightly visitor to my bedroom. She rocked slightly in the bed and wept quietly. It tore at me to know that she was doing her best to keep quiet. Who was she hiding her depression from? Why couldn't she ask for help? She was tragically young. I leaned over to her and whispered to her. I'm so sorry that this happened to you. There wasn't much else left to say. I went to college the next day. My first semester of college was going well.

I didn't have any ghostly encounters in the dorm, which was a plus. I don't think I would have managed to focus with the spirit of somebody constantly dying from alcohol poisoning. I had friends, but in a sad way, I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, wanting to see, to talk to her, to talk at her, at least. November rolled around and I decided to drive home and be with my family for Thanksgiving. I wish I'd just stayed at college. I arrived the day before Thanksgiving and proceeded to catch up with my parents. My mom even rushed outside to hug me as I pulled into the driveway. My old man greeted me with a beer and we sat on the deck as I filled him in on my life at college.

My first semester wasn't over with yet, but I was already adjusted to life at college. It was one of the happier moments of my life. reminiscing about it now leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. We had a good dinner, and I settled down for bed. I was getting ready to drift off to sleep when I heard the sounds I'd become so familiar with when I was a child. I opened my eyes and faced a crying girl. I thought of all the usual platitudes that I used to offer to her. You were too young.

You had so many happy moments ahead of you. You could have been happy. I wanted to tell her all these things. but something else was on my mind. That thought was something that wasn't right. It was something that I couldn't make sense of until I saw him one more time. I moved upstairs and went to the guest room.

The respirator was still clicking on and off and he was still gasping out his last minutes in that room. Trepidation filled me. My whole body was screaming at me to turn around and my mind was begging the same. I knew that if I entered that room and witnessed my grandfather's death again, that I would never be the same. I entered the room anyways, and I wish to this very day that I had never tried to seat that curiosity. He was still on the bed, gasping, clawing, and struggling in his final moments.

I moved close to him and sat on the bed. His body writhed and twisted on the sheets. I knew something was off about all of this. Something in the back of my mind pushed me forward. I leaned in close and watched it all carefully. I watched as my grandfather clawed at the empty air in front of his face. Something was off about all of this. He wasn't clawing at the respirator.

When I realized what it was, I had no other choice. I went downstairs and grabbed my suitcase and flood the house. I debated whether or not to wake up my parents and let them know why I was leaving and why I would not return. You can call me a coward or you can call me righteous, but I just couldn't do it. I just couldn't face them with that knowledge. I threw my suitcase in the trunk of my car and drove to the nearest bar. I never needed a drink more than I did in that very moment. I wanted something to give me liquid courage to leave Kalamazoo, to leave Malmazoo, to leave

my parents. I was almost in tears by the time I reached the dive bar. I swallowed back my emotions, entered the bar, and sat in the stool closest to the bartender. It was a dive, a kind of place that had sawdust on the floor to soak up sweat and skull spit. I wasted no time in getting the bartender's attention. I ordered a double shot of whiskey and down it as soon as the drink was poured. I ordered another, then another. and another. His midnight rolled around and they were preparing for last call. They decided to perform their night before Thanksgiving tradition.

The bartender will go around and ask what everyone was thankful for this season and give them a shot of the cheapest liquor they had to offer for their response. The old man in the corner said, For health, a young patron who was probably too young to be drinking, shouted, Yolo! And was promptly denied a shot. A woman around my mom. my age declared, for life in its adventures, and down the drink.

A Spanish couple in the booth declared, A familia! He continued around the bar until he at last came to me. The bartender came around to me and asked, What are you most thankful for? I paused for a moment. I didn't know what to say. The bartender tapped his foot, ready to wrap up last call and finished the night.

I had to say something. I couldn't think of anything I was grateful for. He grunted. Come on, buddy, what are you grateful for? I said the first thing that popped into my head. Add mortum. I watched the bartender's quizzical expression as I down the shot and ordered another. I would have ordered another after that one.

But in some part deep down inside me, I knew that I would never erase that image from my mind. the image of my grandfather clawing at something in front of his face the image of the pillow over him that my mother had been holding down smothering him the memory of her disposing the bed sheets and pillowcase the day I returned home from school only made me feel worse I tossed back the shop and left the bar not knowing what to do next I felt sick

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