Creepy - Ad Nauseam, Ad Mortem, Ad Infinitum (Part 3)

Episode Date: March 25, 2020

And finally...*** Written by EmpyRealInvective***Content warning: suicidal imagery, depression, addiction, child death***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 creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make me. contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Asium. Admortum. Add infinitum. Written by MP Real Invective. 3. Ad infinitum. So now we reach the conclusion.

My third act. My exhumped stage left. I feel like I should rehash my predicament a little. Ever since I was a teenager, I've been able to see things that no one else can. I can see certain spirits. I don't know why I can see some and not others. I thank God I can't see every dead spirit, otherwise my world would be full of billions of people that died before my time. I've only seen a handful of ghosts during my life.

One being a girl who killed herself in my house. The next, being my grandfather who was put out of his suffering by my mother, these ghosts always repeat their last moments ad nauseum. Admortem. I wish I could say that I managed to bear the burden of what I'd learned about my mother. The reality was that I just lost control of everything. I began slipping in a downward spiral. I tried to finish up the semester strong,

but the mental image of my mother pressing a pill, over my grandfather's face and smothering him to death haunted me. I found that drinking dulled that thought some, but did not completely obliterate it. I was self-medicating with some success, but the memory was too much to bear. For lack of a better term, I became a walking shit show. I was drinking whiskey like it was the waters at the river Leith. My memory was more persistent than the ghost themselves. That reality haunted me day and night.

The image of his final moments were branded into my brain. Can you really blame me for getting smashed every opportunity I got? Maybe I'm writing all this to find someone sympathetic who will listen to me. Or maybe I'm writing this to reach out to someone who could talk some sense into me. give me the answers I desperately needed. I wish I could say that I dropped out of college when I realized that I wasn't doing anything except drinking. But after another round of failing grades, my college politely informed me that I should not return next semester. I didn't bother appealing the decision.

I decided not to return home. I crashed with a friend for a couple weeks while I tried to figure out what to do next. I couldn't bring myself to go back. I couldn't face my mom. I slept on my friend's couch and drank like a fish thrown into a tank filled with whiskey. I managed to live with my friend for a couple weeks before he kicked my drunk ass out. He'd put up with me for too long. He'd spent too many nights cleaning up my messes and turning me on my side when I passed out.

He was a good guy. But I think the final straw was my late-night confession about the ghosts. I think he could handle an alcoholic hot mess such as myself, but throw in my hallucinations, and that was just too much. He calmly listened to my drunken ramblings and waited until I passed out before stealing my cell phone from me and calling my parents. I woke up in my bed at home. My father was standing the doorway and my mom was sitting on the bed next to me. She was stroking my hair gently like she used to.

to do when I was a kid. She whispered to me about how she was here for me and how she was going to get me through this. It was in that moment that I knew that I couldn't confess what I knew about my grandfather's death to my father. She was my mother. She was the only one I ran to when I hurt myself as a kid.

I decided I'd try to turn my life around. If only were that easy. I'm going to let you in on a few fun facts about giving up drinking after over a year of heavy drinking. The first fact being, it is not fun. You sweat like you're trapped in a sauna. You have mild tremors, unless you're hardcore alcoholic, then you get the DTs, delirium tremens, which are like severe tremors. I luckily didn't have that, but I did have anxiety, which was severely great.

component by the realization that while I was there sweating, slightly shaking, and otherwise feeling like shit in my bed, the ghost girl was right next to me weeping. After a few minutes of this, she would get up and go hang herself in the boiler room, and I'd make a mad dash to the bathroom to throw up. I tried to kick my alcoholism. I really did. I really wanted to move on with my life. I wanted a normal life with stupid, meaningless problems.

I just couldn't. I couldn't live in that charnel house. When the girl's weeping wasn't getting to me, the wheezing and groaning of my dying, dead grandfather was assaulting my ears. I managed to live at home for a week before I fled and went up to Grand Rapids, Michigan. It only took a couple of days living by myself, with myself, before I downed a bottle of Johnny Walker. My parents tried to give me to come home, but I couldn't go back to that place. I managed to convince them to let me stay as long as I called them weekly and kept them in the loop.

My father even managed to give me a job outside of town. I worked weekdays, cleaning animal cages for a pharmaceutical company. It wasn't the most glamorous jobs, but it paid well enough to support my necessities and me. Unfortunately, drinking heavily had come back into my life. I managed to keep my habits under control for a month or so. I'd work on the weekdays, five to seven, and then drink away my weekends. I found some friends along the way. Some at work, and a few at the bars I frequented.

I was just getting a sense of normalcy in my life when everything fell apart. It all started with a phone call. It was the simplest of things. One of my routine calls to my parents. We chatted about the usual things. I caught them up on my work, friends, and life in general. I was talking to my mom when she mournfully said, your grandfather would have been 78 today.

As soon as those words were uttered, I heard something click and begin pumping a familiar sound through the phone. It was the sound of the Liberator. The giant oxygen tank that my grandfather owned, which my parents had donated to a nursing home long ago. Sunday became a terrible thing for me. It was the day my parents would call. I'd spend the week dreading the time when they would call.

I knew it was them before they even spoke. The sound of the respirator droning became almost deafening to me. I had to ask my mom and dad to speak up when talking to me so I could hear them over the sound of the Liberator. They became increasingly concerned over my erratic behavior and eventually invited me home for dinner. I turned them down. I knew that if I stepped foot in that house with that spirit, I would lose it. My mom was silent for a few minutes before telling me she loved me. I was getting ready to respond when it began.

It was a low, barely audible sound, but I heard it. When I heard that sound, my weakened resolve shattered apart. I heard the low pain sound of my grandfather's strained wheezing that was quickly muffled by a pillow pressed over his face. I had managed to keep myself in check for a few weeks by relegating my heavy drinking to the weekends. That way, I managed to be productive enough to keep myself grounded. Hearing my grandfather's death gas rattling through my mom's phone was too much for me.

I fled to my old vice and let it take over my life. I went out to the nearest barn drink myself into a stupor. I'm pretty sure I was still drunk when I went to work the next day. My coworkers knew something was going on when I showed up the next day drunk. I haven't snuck out at lunch to have a couple of shots to get through the day. I tried to keep myself in a couple of times. constant state of inebriation because I knew that Sunday I was fast approaching and being intoxicated. I dulled that grim realization.

My coworkers were tight-lipped about it, but I could tell from their disapproving glares that I was wearing thin on their patience. The next Sunday night, the wheezing was so loud that I could barely hear my parents' voices. I made up an excuse telling them I didn't feel well and hung up shortly after that. I spent the rest of the week getting wasted as if. if my drinking could ward off their upcoming call and their concern. The situation of work degraded and my friends and coworkers began to distance themselves from me, sensing that I was about to self-destruct.

I'd develop my own routine for getting through the week. I'd wake up in the morning and wash my mouth out with a bottle of Jack Daniels before going to work. Luckily, I worked in a pretty rural area where my sloppy driving didn't attract a lot of attention. The sky was still dark at 6 in the morning. I'd have lunch by myself and take pulls from a flask to steal myself for the rest of the day. I'd become a social pariah at work. After work, I'd visit a bar, and I'd have dinner and a couple of drinks to keep me going through the night. I knew that I was burning through the money I'd accumulated while working, but it was a necessity.

When I was sober, I questioned what I heard. Was I really hearing my grandfather wheezing and gasping through the phone? Or was it my guilt at knowing what my mom had done and my decision not to confront her tormenting me? I managed to make it through another Sunday night call, but I'm almost certain that they knew something was happening. Maybe I slurred my words or maybe it was how I spoke, but they knew that I'd fallen off the wagon.

It was at this point that I can't really relate what happens next to you all with reliable accuracy. I forgot a large portion of this time due to my alcohol-induced days. I spent days in such a stupor that I'm still amazed that I wasn't fired. I guess I was still doing a good enough job that weren't paying me. But I'm not sure how. There's only one memory of this binge that I can remember with clarity. I remember turning over my phone and seeing it was my parents calling me. I hung up the phone and continued poisoning my body. The next moment that I can faithfully recall was a sound. A jarring thud snapped me out of my drunken autopilot.

My head snapped up and my glazed eyes glanced around. I realized I was driving and it just zoned out. I regained control of the wheel and sewed down the car. I pulled over to calm my pounding heart, having a little bit of the car. achieve that, I got out to inspect the damage. There was a halacious dent in the bumper. I examined the area as my stomach began to sink. Had I hit something? That thought sobered me up. There was no blood on the car, so I realized that I hadn't hit anything living. The dent was substantial, so it had to be something large. If I had to hazard a gas, I'd estimate it was the size

of a basketball or larger. I breathed out a sigh of relief before another thought insinuated itself. What did I hit with my car? I walked a couple hundred yards back, but I didn't see anything. I looked for logs, branches, or any type of debris in the road. But my search didn't turn anything up. I reasoned it was nothing. And after confirming that it was around six in the morning on a weekday,

I went to work. I didn't have a liquid lunch that day. I didn't have any lunch at all, really. My stomach and mine was so upset that I doubted I could hold anything down even if I wanted to. I finished up washing the animal cages and went home for the day. Along the way home, I stopped by the side of the desla of rural road and searched the area again. I turned up nothing in my investigation, home and sat in my bed. I didn't have anything to drink.

I didn't eat either. I also didn't sleep. What had happened on that road? I recall it was a Saturday. I remember this because I had to check my phone's calendar to find the correct date. Much to my chagrin, I realized that checking my phone to find out what day it was had become a common occurrence for me.

I moved to the fridge and a mechanical repetition of my typical morning ritual. I opened the door expecting it to be. be barren, but I saw a carton eggs and enough food to make breakfast for myself. It was a shame that I still wasn't hungry. It was around this time that I started to get worried about my health. I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning. I sat down on my couch where I typically had breakfast and turned on the television. Dark thoughts began to surface in my brain.

My mind flashed back to when I was younger. I was watching the ghostly girl. She'd appear almost every night and she was always repeating. She wept for a few minutes before sitting up and going to the boiler room to hang herself. My grandfather spent his afterlife lying in his bed, coughing and wheezing before my mother went to his room and smothered him and what I can only hope was an act of mercy. What was I doing if not repeating myself like them?

I was filled with existential terror. Horrible thoughts began to fester and start. my brain. What if I did something bigger than a log? Maybe I'd struck a tree and gone through my car's windshield. Maybe I was lying on that quiet rural street dying or already dead. Was I doomed to repeat a drunken haze before coming around full circle to the moment of my death? I continued with that terrifying mindset before there was some breaking news and I was safe from that horrible thought and thrown to a much more painful one. The breaking news, was an Amber alert. A local nine-year-old boy had gone missing. His parents woke up a day ago to find

he's not in his bed. The police didn't have any leads, but they were confident that he'd turn up in their search. I watched his tearful mom pleading with everyone through the TV to please return her boy to her. He was only nine years old. He liked reading, video games, and exploring the woods near their house. Her eyes welled up with tears as she repeated. He's my little explorer. Please come home to me. For some reason, my stomach coiled up tighter than it had before.

And I felt sick. It seemed like every channel I flipped to, I was looking at that boy's churipic face. When it wasn't his picture, it was his mother's weeping and his father's pained expression. I turned off the TV. I couldn't watch anymore. I went to the fridge and got a beer. I cracked it open and I just held it to my mouth when I got sick. I emptied my stomach into the sink.

Typically, I felt better after getting sick, but this time, I didn't. I went out onto my balcony to get some fresh air. I live in an apartment on the third floor. Every now and then, I go out into my balcony and have a cigarette. Below me, police and people swarm the street. like ants in a colony. They were all looking for the boy. My stomach coiled up even more to the point that it hurt.

Even though it was early afternoon I went to bed. I was so exhausted, but I still couldn't get to sleep. I spent hours in my bed, turning, writhing, and being unable to make sense of it all. What had happened on that road? It was around 4 in the morning when I had... decided that I wasn't going to get any sleep until I knew what had happened out there. I needed the cold, hard truth or reassurance. I had to have the certainty.

I got my car and started heading to where I'd had my accident. I wanted to know the truth, even if it was as horrible as I thought it would be. I parked my car on the side of the road. As I walked up and down the road, my memory slowly. slowly started to recall bits and pieces. I was driving to work. When I was waiting at stoplights, I'd take a pull from my flask. I turned off the city road and was headed towards my work by an old country road. I remember my head drooping down. I wasn't tired. I just wanted something to get through the day to get me through the Sunday night call. My head had just knotted down and then

thud. I must have walked up and down those dismal roads for about two hours. The sun was just beginning to peek through the night sky, and I didn't want to have to try and explain to any passing cars while I was walking up and down a mile stretch a road looking for God knows what. I decided that my mind was playing tricks on me, and it was just a fiendish coincidence. I pulled around and headed home. As I was leaving, I thought I'd seen something in my review mirror on the road. I ignored it. I got home and reflexively grabbed the remote and aimed it at the television. I didn't press the button because I knew what was waiting for me on the TV.

I managed to make myself a sandwich to eat. I still wasn't feeling hungry, but I forced myself to eat it. As I swallowed down the last bed, I regretted my decision too. The sandwich sat in my stomach like lead. I spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly around my board. apartment, too anxious to settle down with a book and too nervous to watch television. I talked to my parents that night, but I was too shell-shocked to recall anything from that conversation. I can't even remember if I heard the spirit of my grandfather wheezing and gasping

into the phone like a perverted caller. If you had a gun to my head and told me to remember that conversation with my family, I'd say that I remember talking about work. I would then question why you'd hold a gun to my head for such trivial information. Is it safe to assume that I didn't sleep at all that night? I rolled out of bed and went about my morning ritual. I forced myself for you to play to eggs and a slice of toast. I worked late that night. Most of my time was spent trying to correct the multitude of mistakes I made due to being distracted.

It was dark when I drove home. I was just rounding the corner when I saw him emerge from the woods. on the other side of the road. I slammed the brakes and he lifted his hands to his face as if blinded by something. He gave a slight cry before being knocked off the road like he'd been backhanded by some invisible and vengeful god. I pulled off the road and looked up and down the streets. There was no one on the road.

I was alone. In a sense. I walked through the side of the road and proceeded to climb down the slope. I scanned the darkness for a few minutes before I found him. He was curled up in the alcove of a tree. He was in a fetal position, cradling his fragile broken body. I stared at his corpse for a few minutes before going home and point every single liquor bottle down the drain. After I emptied out every drink I had in my fridge, which took a while.

I sit at the sink for a few minutes before breaking down. I thought throwing it all away would make me feel better, but I only felt worse. I can only describe it like this. Imagine that at some point in your life, something, somehow, gets knocked loose from you and you realize it's missing. But you don't know how to fix it. You live with that emptiness for years before realizing that there's a way to numb it. You can pour alcohol into the exposed wound, and for a moment, it doesn't feel so much. bad. The world seems monochrome and dull, and he don't have to care so much. All that pain,

all that ache is gone. You can function, if only for a little bit. Pretty soon, you realize that this is the only way you can reach that state of disassociation. You keep returning to that font and self-medicating as best you can with what you can. Whiskey, tequila, vodka, etc. until you realize something's wrong. It just doesn't work like it used to. It doesn't dull those thoughts. It doesn't blunt those memories. At first it numbed everything, but now,

now there's a dull throbbing in your head of what you've done and what you failed to do, and it festers. It eats away at you, regardless of how much liquor you pour into it, until you realize that it's not the liquor. That's the problem. it's you. So you pour everything out thinking there'd be some revelation, some great boon. But it's not.

It only feels like that emptiness inside you has grown. And now there's nothing to anesthetize it. There's nothing to solve these issues. You can't piece yourself back together. Something inside you is broken and you don't know if you'll ever fix it. Without alcohol, I couldn't find anything to numb that feeling. I consider placing an anonymous call

and to end the umbrella alert and bring some form of closure to his parents, but I couldn't do it. I'm a coward. And worse than that, I kept asking myself, why me? I made this terrible moment about me. I pretended like I was the victim here, but I wasn't.

I asked myself, what I'd done wrong to deserve all this. as if I didn't already know the answer to that. I managed to drift off of asleep that night, but I kept waking up with a scream in my throat and sweat, staining the sheets. At five in the morning, I decided to go to work early. I passed the boy on the way to work and on my way home.

Each time I was a little more graphic, a little more gut-wrenching. He stepped out onto the road. What was he doing out that early? He raised his hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from my headlights. My car struck him and sent him skipping along the asphalt, a whirling bear fish of broken bones off the road. I wish I could tell you that I did the right thing, that I called the police or parents and let them know where the body of their son was, nestled them between the roots of a tree. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I am a horrible person.

I am the lowest of the low. I tried to go about my life. After a week, the Amber Lord ended and the world moved on. I didn't. The parents didn't. He's on that road every time I drive to work. I seem stepping out onto the road. He's there with me when I closed my eyes.

I had foolish thoughts of moving away, but his death is going to follow me. It, no, he is going to haunt me. It's a dead albatross tider on my neck. I will never forget the sound of his startled gasp to impact my bumper on his tiny body. A few days after the Amber Alert was cancelled, I returned to that dead road in the middle of the night. I parked my car and watched his spirit living out its last moments of his ephemeral life.

I hit him with my car and he skipped along the road and off to the side. I walked solemnly behind him. I trailed him as he dragged his broken and bleeding body along the dirt. He reached the tree and curled up in his roots. His body was still there when I returned. Time had left him withered and putrefied. I can't say how long I stood by his corpse. It doesn't really matter in the long long time.

run as I stood there in vigil. I knew that this guilt was going to consume me. Eat me away like a cancer. It was this moment that I knew I would be haunted by this and the others for the rest of my life. I'd be dogged by the overwhelming loneliness that the ghosted girl who claimed my bedroom as her haunt. I'd be stalked by the feeling of hopelessness that consumed my grandfather as he lay in what would be his deathbed and excruciatingly slid towards. his demise. Most of all, I would be haunted by my murder of that young boy. That fatal mistake that was now like a tattoo on my soul. So we reached the conclusion. My conclusion, the irony is almost

palpable. I want nothing more than to die at this very moment and I'm consumed by an overwhelming desire to live. I know what happens to us when we die. I don't want to live those final moments of my life, my suicide ad nauseum, see myself slicing open my wrist, hanging myself for the rest of eternity. I don't want to experience this guilt and shame at infinitum. I want to embrace the reaper, and I want to run screaming from his bony grasp. These sentiments will follow me at mortum. My mind is constantly waging a war within itself to unload this burden and escape into death and to hold it with me like a dark treasure.

Maybe writing all this out will help me achieve some form of clarity about what I should do next. I doubt it. Although I have to confess in some form or other. I don't know which choice is right or wrong. All I know is that this is hell. Add infinitum. 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. All stories told on this podcast. can be found at creepypasta wikiya.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.