Creepy - Anchor Wing

Episode Date: August 18, 2025

Anchor Wing***Alex Isn't Alex***Written by: JT Johnson and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content warning: child death***The Clicking Sound Coming from Our New Cat…***Written by: Mr. Michael Squid and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Content warning: graphic animal death***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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. For our first story this evening, when a construction worker takes one last look at an abandoned mall before its demolition, he discovers an unused wing in the mall that wasn't on the blueprints.

Before long, he starts to understand why. Creepy Presents Anchor Wing I parked two lots away. It's a superstition of mine. I work demolition and there's something about parking close to a thing that I'm in charge of destroying that feels kind of... I don't know. Contemptuous?

Not with everything, mind you. I could demo some dipship billionaires failed enterprise all day long and not only not lose sleep over it, but kind of feel good about it. Knowing somewhere one of these titans of industry had to acknowledge being a failure. It's the little things in life, I tell you. But there's something about when it involves a mall. My formative years were spent in malls. There's always some kind of deep nostalgia in my chest, even for the malls I've never been to when it comes to removing one.

I could spend all day wandering down memory lane in most malls, imagining teenage me again, getting giant cinnamon rolls or overly buttered pretzels, walking around looking for girls I knew, but trying really hard not to look like that's what I was doing. Going to the Gap and American Eagle to find something to fit in better. Known full well, we could never afford Abercrombie or Tommy Hill Figure clothes. How much time I spent looking through the posters at Spencer's Gifts?

I still remember that in one rare moment of rebellion. I bought one featuring some Playboy playmate, tastefully posing on a bed and covering her bits with a blanket that I put on the back of my bedroom door, and how months later my mom finally saw it and shook her head in shame at me. The posters about how to mix shots that I brought with me to college, trying to look like I was some experienced drinker because I could name shots like slippery nipples or buffalo farts, screaming orgasms, and whatever other silly name they assigned to some random mix of alcohol I'd never pay for in a bar. But this wasn't the local mall.

from my youth. That mall's just a parking lot now. Not because of me. And over a thousand miles away. A different life. Now I'm an adult with adult responsibilities. And a pretty big one involves checking and double checking anything that could possibly impact demolition. Not the least of which being making sure that there are no squatters or urban explorers trying to camp out inside and advance of the blasters coming through to set their charges. The malls, all sat hollow on the edge of town, weather worn and bleached by years of sun and inattention, weeds grown wild through all the cracks and the concrete. Late summer winds tugged a torn signage along the chain-link fence set up to keep kids and squatters out.

The demolition signs had gone up weeks ago, but no machines had arrived yet to help deter trespassing. Walking along the length of it, I could see the fencing had been clipped in three places. I was only responsible for one of those. Besides the general patrol, I returned because I'd seen something on the service map that didn't match. A wing with no name, no anchor store. Anchor store is a term for a large retail store, usually at a department store like J.C. Pennings. It serves as a primary attraction for shoppers and drives traffic to the surrounding smaller stores. Instead, there was just an angled corridor and a few rectangles marked.

Least space. I found the blueprint in a box and misfiled security logs at the local archive during my due diligence. Two sets of plans. One newer and available to the public and one older draft revised in pencil. This corridor only appeared in the older one. There were no drafts between the two. No notes on the update and no reason for the update. They just stopped including it.

Inside, the air tasted stale, even through my N-100 mask. It might have been excessive, but I wasn't going to mess with any shady insulation left to rot in the walls for over a decade. Every footstep echoed twice, once from behind and once ahead, as if something moved in response. I didn't bring music or a camera to record anything. This wasn't anything official, and it was just for discovery. I don't know. Something about places like this, it just feels like it demands silence and honesty. I passed storefront's long stripped of identity.

Glass cracked, mannequins toppled or stolen. Some were dressed in a few scraps of dated clothes that were probably back in fashion again. Most weren't dressed at all. The thought of that fashion made me shake my head. My daughter is just old enough to be obsessed with fashion and fitting in, so I know all two well how popular the oversized Y2K styles are. My wife says that fashion is cyclical. I say it's lazy. The fashion's so cyclical, why doesn't the cycle go any further than the 1970s? From what I can tell, it only started being cyclical after grunge, which to me is actual when fashion

gave up and just got lazy. But I digress. The escalators were rusted in place. Their teeth jam. with dead leaves. I looked up at the skylight above the main concourse to see most of the glass had collapsed, the ivy fingering down through broken seams. I made a note on my tablet. I didn't remember being broken during initial walkthroughs. I reached the end of the wing I knew. The usual anchors, an empty department store sealed with rusted security gates, a gutted theater

with collapsed chairs, and a few remaining kernels of popcorn turned to mulch. To the left, drywallden scaffolding. To the right, corridor blocked off by caution tape. It should have been at that end. The public blueprint said so. But the original draft said otherwise. Showed an L-shaped passage leading into a short wing of shops. No signage, no service hall, no exit.

Just space. I stepped past the yellow tape. It wasn't colder. foul smelling or anything like that, but something in the air, tightened, like walking into a room after someone had just left, the displacement making the pressure feel uneven. It wasn't an uncommon feeling for people who spent so much time in abandoned buildings. Some co-workers refer to the feelings as walking through ghosts. That was a bit silly for me. This corridor was different from the rest. For one, the lights had motion sensors.

They turned on as I approached, but not for long as they started to flicker at odd intervals. Not random, not faulty in any way I had seen before. We're like timed. Like a Christmas display. The tiles underfoot were cleaner. The glass in the storefronts was unbroken. There was no litter on the ground. It looked untouched, like moments'

before a grand opening. I started to slow my steps. The first store had no name. Its windows were full of dozens of mannequin standing shoulder to shoulder. Each wore layered gray clothing. The faces were blank and smooth, but their hands were wrong, not molded fists, but open with too many fingers. I wondered if they had just gotten a bunch of defective ones on cheap.

The next door changed as I passed it. Not visibly, not dramatically, but the clothing and the window was shifted. I'm not talking about the colors like that viral dress image where it might look different to different people. I mean the styles. One second, I swear they were wearing autumn jackets and the next long sleeveless tunics. I took out my phone to grab a video, but disdainting. screen stayed black. It hadn't died. The lock screen still worked, but the camera refused to open. Same with my tablet. I checked the seal on my mask and wondered exactly what was going on in the walls

and what exactly I was starting to breathe then. Further in, I could hear an escalator running. Just one, an up escalator, emerging from a shaft that extended far below the ground floor. I'd never seen an escalator that literally cut through the floor instead of stopping at a landing. I watched it for several minutes. The rubber-matted steps didn't have anything on them. No dust or debris. They moved steadily, but they'll pause. I've seen a lot of stupid stuff in my career.

Most of it had to do with construction choices that seemed to work against whatever project they were working on. Drain's in places that weren't. were graded for drainage, outlets in places that just didn't make sense or so out of reach, you'd wonder how it even got installed in the first place. Doors that opened in the corners or pillars. Most of the time I chalked it up to laziness and companies going with the lowest bidder. So many malls were built in the 80s that I assume there's a good percentage of them that were paid for with drug money and designed by guys and mustaches with white powder perpetually under

their noses. Honestly, that was just about the one rational explanation I could think of for such a stupid place to put an escalator. Sometimes the answers in life really are just that simple. People are stupid and do stupid things. I walked up to it, checking to see if the rails were sturdy. I listened, trying to hear any kind of creaking or groaning that might indicate a lack of structural integrity. Finally, I took a breath and stepped on to it, hopping through the gap in the floor. I looked behind me into the darkness, but I couldn't see the bottom.

I looked up as I passed through the ceiling. There were glass walls alongside the escalator that reflected back, not myself, but a delay, like the movements hadn't made yet. Had it been some sort of an optical illusion because all the mirrors and the angles reflecting off each other. Still, I adjusted my mask again, making sure there's a good seal. I stepped off at the top and my feet touched tile. Another corridor lay in front of me.

This one was darker. The surfaces were dull, smudged. The ceiling curved parabolicly, sagging in the middle like it was filled with water. I scanned down the hall. The storefronts were different too. No names, no displays. Just openings where gates and windows should have been. Like they'd been made to have shops, but no one ever moved in after the initial build.

I passed them without pausing, just wanted to get to the end of this so I could get back to my truck. Inside the sixth storefront, something moved, a rack slightly swaying, a coat slowly slipping from a hanger. I looked around for an air conditioning vent, even though I knew the system wouldn't or shouldn't be on. I scanned a flashlight around and called out just to case it was a squatter and let him know exactly why I was there and the danger that they were in, yelling out to the air that I wasn't a cop and that it was okay. But there's just silence. And when I didn't see anything, I opted to keep walking.

A bit further down, I came to a glass door. No frame, no signage, or like a mirror hanging on a wall. For whatever reason, I reached out and touched it. and it opened soundlessly to reveal a stairwell cut right into the floor. None of this made sense, like I was walking through a half-formed idea of them all. Seriously, how much coke did the architect do? Not much wanting to backtrack and hoping it would take me back to something a bit more normal.

I descended the stairs. The steps felt worn, but not old. Where there's traction despite the fact that the fact that the stairs. the surface probably should have been a little bit slippery. The walls narrowed the deeper I went, turned at a landing. There was no exit door, just more stairs. At the fifth landing, the stairwell ended. The door before me bore no handle, only a slight indentation about the size of my palm.

I pressed mine against it. The door opened, but in the room beyond was decidedly not a room. It had depth, but no shape I could readily identify. Corners receded unevenly. Walls met the floor at angles that refused a sensible conclusion. The walls were made a tile that looked out of place. They were larger, older, with thin seams packed tight, like some old bathhouse or disused subway tunnel.

A shallow sort of trough traced along the base, collecting nothing and leading nowhere. Soft light panels overhead created no shadows. Along the left-hand wall were more mannequins. Only these weren't posed. They were collapsed. Slumped like they were trying to catch their breath after a long run. Some were still upright but bent at the knees or hips.

Aces were still featureless. But one headed jaw halfway open. as if molded around a scream. In the silence, my breath sounded mechanical. I paused and tried not to hear it. The quiet here had texture. I sped up my pace as the corridor widened. The tile gave way to carpet, perfectly clean, low pile gray without pattern or stain,

absorbed my footsteps completely, taking away the only other sounds. I came across a set of display platforms. Each platform held a single item. A glove, a belt, a necklace made of what looked like thread soaked in oil. No prices or tags. One of the gloves twitched. Then I realized it wasn't a glove at all. It was a hand.

Not a real hand, it was just plastic, but too accurate. I must have imagined it moving. I walked past it. My throat was dry and I could feel perspiration building around the inside of the mask seal. The corridor turned again. This new stretch resembled a children's store, but only loosely. Low shelves lined the walls, each holding single items of what I can only describe as an uncertain purpose. A spoon without a bowl.

a pacifier made of carved but splintered wood. A mobile spun slowly and still air. The mannequins here were infant-shaped, all seated in identical poses, legs out, arms raised, heads tilted just slightly to the left. The moment I passed the third one, I noticed its head was tilted to the right. I could have sworn they were all tilted to the left the first time I looked. None of the others had moved. I kept walking and didn't look back.

At the far end of the corridor stood a service elevator. There were no buttons, just a dark glass panel. I walked up to it, expecting it not to respond. But the doors opened, and I stepped in. Inside there was only one floor option. Negative three. The doors closed before I could even think about stepping out. The descent was slower than I was.

I wanted it to be. The floor didn't vibrate. The lights inside the elevator dimmed slightly, enough to let the dark glass become a mirror. My reflection stared back at me with accurate proportions. I stared at it for what felt like a long time. Sure, I'd seen it move out of sink. When the doors opened, I saw nothing at first.

Here's the wide open floor. It resembled a department store stripped of all the interior. your function. Columnes every 20 feet. Wall unfinished. No ceiling tiles, only exposed ductwork and wires that ended in clean, capped lines. It was the first time things felt at least some version of normal since I'd gone down the hall. The first signs that there have been life there, that had been built instead of just, I don't know, formed. At the center of the space was a hole. Square, unlit, no guardrails or warning signs. The edges have been beveled, carefully smoothed as though safety was at least somewhere in engineer's mind.

I didn't approach the edge. Instead, I walked the perimeter. There were more mannequins here, and they were different again. Arranged in clusters, heads bowed. No clothing or accessories, just bare white plastic, discolourable. at the joints. One had writing on its chest, but then script carved rather than painted. The handwriting was too shaky for me to make out any words, if there were words at all. There were no footprints in the dust, only mine, but the mannequin shifted slightly when I turned corners, never visibly, but

unmistakably. I felt them tracking me. That's when I knew I'd been in here or way too long. It was messing with my head, but all I could do is keep going forward. I passed into another corridor, this one narrow, lit by a red strip at ankle height. At the end was a single door.

It looked like a service closet. I opened it to reveal a changing room. There was a stool, a floor length picture, and some empty hooks. I stepped inside. I don't know why. I thought there was another door to go through. Or maybe I just thought I had to cross through to be finished.

It took me a moment to realize it wasn't a picture across from me. It was another mirror. But it wasn't reflecting me. Instead of my reflection, there was another mannequin. It moved how I moved, but slightly slower, lagging behind just by fractions of a second. I lifted an arm, so did the mannequin. I saw a tremor in the elbow, a slight delayed twitch in the wrist. I stepped closer and lifted my mask.

My breath didn't fog the mirror. As I watched, the mannequin version of me and the reflection raised its other hand, the one I hadn't lifted. I didn't move, but it waved. I turned from the mirror expecting to leave, but the door was gone. The room had collapsed inward or had moved without sensation. Walls are now seamless, the ceiling lower. The hooks behind me were gone.

Only the mirror was still there. The floor beneath the stool had changed. No longer laminate but metal, textured with tiny hexagons, industrial and clean. I didn't sit. The mirror flickered once. The mannequin stood in the same posture I had. Its features were blank, but it was different now. Its limbs articulated with hyper-realistic precision.

Every joint mirrored human anatomy down to musculature. A display piece, maybe, but one never meant for public sale. Its fingers twitched. Then mine did. But I knew my brain hadn't sent the signal. Something in me locked. That fear. Something colder.

Acknowledgement? I watched as the mannequin leaned forward. Placing a hand on the other side of the glass. I did the same until our fingers touched. The glass wasn't cold, it wasn't even hard, it gave, like pressing against still water. The mannequin stepped forward. It passed into the room, not emerging but replacing. Where it stood, I no longer did.

I turned around or tried to, but this space turned instead. Now the room was mirrored but without a source. no panels, just reflections repeating outward infinitely. The mannequin stepped into the middle of it, wearing my posture, testing my balance. I was watching from somewhere else. A corridor stretched beyond the changing room now. The mannequin, me, stepping into it, somewhere inside me, feeling so. swirled, fear, panic, anger. I looked down and saw that the stool was now next to my shin again.

I grabbed it by the leg and smash it against the glass. I watched as the glass cracked, and I watched as the crack spread. I watched it spread beyond the edge of the mirror into the world around me until with one deafening boom, it all shattered around me. I reached up. I covering my face and had from what I was sure would be a painful way to die, sliced and bleeding in a pile of glass. But when I opened my eyes, I was back in the mall, the real mall, the one from before I stepped into the anchor wing. Not as it had been, as it had almost been.

The original version. corridors, full storefronts, signs and looping fonts. Shoppers paused in eternal browsing. No, not shoppers. More fucking mannequins. All sizes. Dressed in frozen impostures that felt like they've been moving until the split second that I opened my eyes. Escalators that carried some up, only for them to tumble into a pile at the top. And all of them. turned to look at me. I was done. I bolted out of the first exit I saw,

got back in my truck and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving half the rubber on my tires behind, and a cloud of smoke. To be clear? I don't know what the fuck happened in there. I don't know how to even begin to process any of it. And I'm a little terrified to even consider the possibility

that what I saw wasn't real in the first place. No, it was real. Real enough. When I filed my report, it didn't have anything about what I saw. I knew if it did, either people would think I was crazy or they'd go see for themselves. In the event that they actually saw what I saw, and that I didn't imagine at all? Well, I didn't want to live with the possibility of what might happen to them if they couldn't get out. I work demolition.

I'm responsible for shit getting destroyed. and never in my life did I want to see something destroyed so badly. When I stood there as a charges finally went off, I barely even noticed the actual implosion. I just kept looking at the windows and all the mannequins lined up there. They're molded plastic arms on the glass as if in one last desperate attempt to get out. For a second story this evening, a desperate choice leads to a real estate. that the price we pay to undo a wrong is sometimes far steeper than you can imagine. Creepy presents.

Alex isn't Alex. Written by J.T. Johnson and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I'll do anything. Please. My voice is raw from screaming. My arms numb and cold as I sat shivering in front of the open door. Alex limp on my lap. His face a sickening shade of blue. His lips dark and parted just enough to know for sure there is no warm breath whispering out of them.

Guilt gripped my chest, my heart pinching painfully as I felt hot tears burn trails down my cheeks. But then the soft voice of the stranger pulled my eyes away from Alex's face. I'd been screaming, screaming so loudly. In my panic I dropped my phone into the bed. bath, arms plunging down to pull Alex out. I can still see the water running over the tub, the way his hand seemed to bob gently on the water's surface through playing over and over in my mind. I had only stepped away for a second, or at least, I thought it had only been a second. I had been waiting on Brian to call me back, and he finally did. But Alex had been so noisy in

bath. I just stepped away. My brain is screaming that he is dead and that I have killed him. He'd been so cold, so still. I just, I began screaming for help, for someone, anyone, to help me. Give me the boy. The stranger stands on the other side of the door, cloaked in swirling shadows that remind me of smoke. Eyes like pale gold coins. Look out at me from an ethereal face. I moved with my little brother heavier in my arms as I struggled to pass him to the porcelain-like hands of the stranger.

Please, my voice, a croaking rasp as I stare down at Alex's lifeless features. Please help me. I promised my mom I could handle keeping us safe. I had promised her over and over nothing would happen, that I was fine. Everything had been so hard after Dad left. Our entire world falling to ruins as I watched Mom attempt to keep all of us afloat. She hid it well, but I saw the late nights. The way her eyes seemed to glaze over as more and more envelopes with red print filled our mail slot.

The shock of Dad leaving was eclipsed by the glare. truth that without him, we were going to lose everything, the house, the car. Mom had picked up a second job, and while the letters and notices quit, the look on her face never went away. My brain continues to send sirens through my ears, wailing that I killed him, my brother. Her baby. The voice in my head was broken and screaming. matching the way my thoughts seem to be unraveling. I can help you, child. Their voice was serene, but different,

as if it belonged to another world. For a cost, of course. I was nodding, frantically agreeing. I didn't care. There was nothing I wouldn't do to undo what I had done. I felt bile creeping up my throat, my hand's shaking. I'll do anything, please, help me. My mom! I could feel each second slipping away like literal grains of sand. The seconds quickly sealing the

small window I had between now and when my mom's world would shatter forever. I know in my heart that he can't be saved. Dead is dead and it was my fault. A small smile curled the colorless lips of the stranger, gold eyes flickering like iridescent flames as it moved its smooth hands over my brother's face, then his shoulders, before settling them gently onto his still chest. He will be almost as he was, for nothing once dead and returned to life can ever be what it was before, death claimed it. I stared down at Alex, his hair still wet. the smell of his soap making the air tainted with plumes of berries and vanilla. I thought of every second I'd had with him.

Only four years' worth, snapshots and moments forming into a pile that wasn't big enough. Almost, I decided. Almost was better than gone entirely. I don't care if he's a little different. My voice was thick with panic and pain. Please. My mom, she's going to be home soon. I can't.

Calm. The command was soft and lelting, making my breath still. My chest seizing as I stared down at Alex. I can reverse what was taken. For a price, of course. Their hypnotic eyes watched me closely, the beautiful face free of any emotion. The cost to return a life is steep.

Should you wish to pay it, simply say so. I nodded frantically. His body already so cold and stiff. Yes, please, I'll do anything. Just bring him back! They moved with an otherworldly grace. pale hands hovering over every inch of Alex before eventually pausing over his face. Cold eyes met mine, a sharpness to them now as two long fingers pried my brother's mouth farther open.

The boy may eat as you eat, drink as you drink. But you must provide them with nourishment, lest they lose there, human qualities. A small grin slid across their features. You must provide them flesh and blood, as I have provided new flesh, new blood. New flesh, new blood. The words felt like oil, greasy and staining, carefully oozing over my mind as I, I nodded once, and then twice. Okay. They sucked in a long breath.

Their eyes no longer as warm as they had been. Their beautiful features somehow shifting to something more sinister. You must feed it what it lacks. Life requires life to continue. With their free hand, I watched them pull something red and squirming, from a pocket of their cloak. Their smile curling wider now, changing their face even more

as they slid the red thing into Alex's mouth. Wait, wait, what is... Long fingers curled over his cheeks and chin, clamping Alex's mouth closed, and I watched with wide eyes as the mass slowly moved into his throat, where I could see it pulsing and moving

as if alive. Alive. I wanted to gag at the implication of the word, too mesmerized to look away as it continued to squirm and wry, as if right underneath the surface of Alex's skin, until it slipped somewhere lower, as if free falling right into Alex's stomach. The smell of death leeched between us,

blotting out the smell of Alex's soap. My stomach twisting with the feeling, couldn't understand. It is done. Long, thin arms lift Alex, guiding him effortlessly back into my lap, the touch of their hands like dry ice against my arms as I flinched. Fear spiked in my chest as I tried to breathe, finding it harder and harder to take an air as a million questions filled my head.

When, when will he wake up? How, what, who? What do I? The debt will be paid when due. The rules have been given. Without pause or transition, they were gone. A dry sob clawing out of me as I stared through widening eyes at the empty doorway. At the empty yard beyond it.

I scrambled backwards, hugging Alex's limp body to me as I stood, slamming and locking the door before stumbling away. his head rolling heavily with every movement. The air felt rigid and stale. My eyes burning with new tears as I moved on autopilot. My legs numb as I ran up the stairs. Alex's small face wedged into my shoulder as I took us to his room. Every movement was mechanical.

My brain rolling over into shock as I nearly dropped him onto the bed. His head lolling to the side. His lips still a dark shade of blue. his face a terrible pale. Oh my God, Alex, Alex, please forgive me. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. My face hot as I hugged him, a numbness filling me as I carefully pulled his blanket over him,

tucking it around his shoulders. It was like he was sleeping, just sleeping. I wanted to believe the lie. my fingers trembling as I pushed them through his damp hair one last time. The voice inside tells me that I'm crazy, that I had hallucinated all of that. I've cracked, my brain can't handle what I did, and now I'm going crazy. I moved to the door, staring at his face, at the thick lashes resting against his cheeks, at his small hands.

I silently urge him to wake up. sending the mental command without words. I waited, holding my breath, waiting to see the blanket lift, to see him take in a breath. I waited until I heard mom's collar pull into the driveway, my heart sinking with dread, my throat closing nearly all the way

as I gripped the wall for support. My steps heavy as I began going down the stairs. I had to tell her. I had to. I couldn't even think of what to say, my heart pounding in my ears like two drums banging over and over. This was going to kill her. And then that death would be my fault too.

I walked down the stairs, each step resistant as I moved. My vision tumbled as I forced myself forward. I heard the soft jingle of her keys, the hush turn of the doorknob as she walked in, the heavy sigh and mumble she thought no one would hear. She was already going through too much. And then I went and... Hey, Joey, I didn't think you'd be up this late.

Joey, what's wrong? Her face had brightened only for a second before darkening, her eyes moving over my face, already aware that something was wrong. Mom, Mom, I have... I didn't mean. She took two steps, her hands pausing as she slid off her coat. Wait, Joey.

My throat bobbed, my eyes dimming. Mom, I didn't mean to. Alex, I... Each word came out as a gagging sob. My eyes burning with new tears, my mouth dry as I knew, as I knew. What I was about to say was going to kill her. Joey? What are you?

The words Alex is dead nearly rolled out of my mouth. My lips trembling as I took another step. When I heard a loud bang. A door. Alex's door swinging open, a blur of wet hair in superhero pajamas rushing past me, nearly pushing me down the stairs as I shrank, out of the way.

Mommy! His voice. Him. It was Alex. Cold filled me as I watched Alex hurdle into mom's arms, her face melting into a smile. The worry I had seen building up in her eyes vanishing as she lift him. Whatever word she said lost in the loud rush of blood in my ears. I felt the floor under my feet shift.

a loud buzzing filling my ears as I swayed, unaware of my body tipping forward. It was only when Mom yelled my name did I catch myself, as if somehow ripped back from the edge of fainting. My mouth dry, a cold sweat breaking out across my brow as I forced myself to sit down, my leg shaking as I tried to unblur my vision. I was aware of Mom in front of me now, her hands pressing lightly into my cheeks and forehead, her voice too loud as I squeeze my eyes shut. The events of the night felt like boiling water in my head, like the sloshing water,

the smell of Alex's soap, the sound of the three heavy knocks as the stranger had arrived. I felt vomit creeping up in my throat, my head shaking violently as I choked it back, forcing my eyes open. The only thing I needed to know was if Alex was actually there, or if I was somehow going even more crazy. He stood at the bottom of the stairs.

His brown eyes shadowed as he looked up at me. His hair still damp as he watched from over Mom's shoulder. Joey, what on earth? Are you feeling okay? What is going on? Words became impossible. as I stared at my little brother, at my, alive brother, my face too hot as I stood, unable to shake the tremors that made continuous waves of nausea stir inside me.

He was back, he was here, breathing. Exhaustion stole what little relief I wanted to feel, too many questions stabbing into my brain as I stared down at Alex, who had been blue and lifeless, moments ago. They did it. They brought him back. I didn't argue when Mom walked me to my room.

Her voice low as she asked me over and over if something was wrong. If I was feeling sick. I didn't answer when she exclaimed with frustration that the bathtub had been overfilled. My heart sinking when I realized I hadn't had time to clean up the mess I'd made when ripping Alex out of the water. I didn't say anything. I just lay under the covers, holding my breath as I listened to Mom, tucking Alex back into bed,

all while unable to shake the image of how he had looked when I'd handed him to the stranger. When sleep finally did come, it was plagued with pale, glowing eyes. The next morning I found them both in the kitchen. Alex perched on his chair while mom cooked at the stove. The smell of scrambled eggs and toast, filling the small space. Morning, Alex?

I smiled, reaching out to ruffle his hair, my hand stopping just over the soft strands. My lips tightening as his bulging eyes met mine. His skin was a dark shade of blue. His lips swollen as they slowly parted, allowing a steady dribble of dark gray water to run out. His eyes rolling and lost in a smudge of purple. I felt my words jumble in the back of my throat,

a scream hovering on the edge of my teeth, my throat squeezing shut as I stared down at Alex. The whites of his eyes yellowing as his mouth widened, the dark water peppered with suds as it fell silently onto the table. The water moving slowly across the cluttered tabletop until it reached me. I jerked back, the water leaving a gritty residue on my hands, my eyes widening to the point of pain as his face seemed to stretch, darkening still as the water poured heavily from his gaping mouth.

Joey? Mom's voice cut through the painful buzzing now consuming my ears, breaking the strange hold Alex's face had had on me. I blinked, staring wildly down at where Alex's his water-blooded face had been just seconds ago. Only now he was just as I had seen him before he had changed. His head resting on one hand as the other pushed the eggs on his plate lazily. His eyes not on me, but the TV in the other room.

It wasn't real. I imagined it. I... Joey, Mom's voice came again, more insistent this time. my eyes moving mechanically to look at her, a cold shiver slithering through my veins. Sorry! I blinked. What?

She frowned, setting my plate down as she stared at me. As if she thought she looked hard enough, she could somehow read my mind. I'm fine, I sighed, rubbing my face. I guess I'm just tired. Unconvinced, she walked back to the stove, mumbling something about teard. teenagers, and I'm too tired for this. I couldn't eat. My stomach too uneasy as I watched Alex from the corner of my eye.

A new voice rang through my head. He will be almost as he was. For nothing once dead and returned to life can ever be what it was before death claimed it. When it was time for mom to leave for work, I felt like I had swallowed a chunk of cement, a swell of dread building inside me every time I tried to sneak a cautious look at Alex. Okay, I'll be back later. Mom sighed as she shrugged on her coat. I left a casserole in the fridge.

Don't whine about it. She pointed an accusatory finger at Alex, but he was motionless. Eyes blank as he watched whatever cartoon was playing. I saw the small frown flicker across. mom's face, could almost hear the inner turmoil in her head. That's not like him. Why is he being so quiet? I saw the shift from quiet worry to a look of resolve only grown-up seemed to be capable of, before giving me a quick kiss goodbye and leaving. I felt Alex's stare burning into the back of me as I slid the lock into place, the sensation like hundreds of tiny frozen pebbles

swacking me in the back. I turned, half ready to see the dead, swollen version of him I had seen at breakfast. Would there be a stream of old water coming for me? His eyes were dull and sunken, his face not blue were swollen, but a greenish shade that he got when he was coming down with some kind of bug. Are you hungry? He shook his head slowly, his eyes still fixated on my own. Do you want to watch a movie? He repeated the same motion, eyes unblinking. And now more than ever, I wished he would be the way he had been before. Before, Alex had two modes, sleeping and maximum energy.

This version of him was just wrong. My little brother was the kind who looked for trouble, who went out of his way to pester and annoy me, to complain about dinner or beg mom for candy or treats. Not this. I thought of the red thing, the pulsing, sickening thing that had slid down Alex's throat, how it had vanished into him.

Is that still in there? Is that what is making Alex alive? I took a cautious step closer. my eyes narrowing on Alex's slow, lifting chest. His breath small and uneven. I want to go to bed. He sighed, moving in slow, rag doll-like movements, his head lolling to one side as if it weighed too much for his neck.

I frowned. Okay, let's go. When I went to reach for him, my hand hovering over the top of his head, I felt an almost Arctic shock zap between us, like static electrified by ice. I pulled my hand back, forcing myself to ignore it as I took his hand and brought him upstairs. In his room, I watched Alex curl up into his bed. His eyes smudged with dark circles, his hands folding under his cheek as he looked up at me with glossed over eyes.

There's water in my head, Joey. His voice was so small, his words stabbing into me as I felt every muscle freeze. It's filling me up inside, Joey. Why? Why did you let me go under the water so long? I stared down at him, at the dark liquid slowly trickling out of his ears. The pillows staining a murky gray as the smell of old water in something sour filled the room. Alex.

It's filling me up. The bubbles hurt my brain, Joey. Alex, it's okay. It's going to be. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't what I thought would happen. He's not the same. He's not right.

This is all wrong. I wanted to scream. My words falling flat as I backed away from the bed. guilt and fear squeezing down on my chest. He was laying on the bed. His face no longer warm and healthy, but even worse than it had been when the stranger had brought him back.

An almost insidious glimmer to his eyes as he watched me. His throat bulging out. His hands reaching for me with twitching fingers. Just go to sleep, Alex. It'll be better tomorrow. I couldn't keep the shudging. shaking from my words. My chest tight as fear practically shoved me backwards out of the room. I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to see what I had made him become. I hidden my room,

holding my breath every time I thought I heard something outside my door, unable to shake the terrible feelings stirring inside me. The cost to return a life is steep. Should you wish to pay it, Simply say so. The warning given by the stranger scratched in my ears. Is this what they had meant? But even though he'd be back, the price would be. This? Sleep had eventually dragged me from my spiraling thoughts,

throwing me into a dream with the stranger. Their looming golden eyes watching me from the shadows. A cruel hiss-like laughter omitting from the darkness. I dreamed of Alex. His face under the water, his eyes open, mouth stretching into a long shape as he screamed, black bubbles festering to the surface as he jerked and reached for me. I had been running from Alex.

Only it wasn't him. Where Alex's face should have been was the face of the stranger. His bag arched, mouth stretched into a long grin as he then ran after me. I woke with a scream halfway out of my mouth. My blankets tangled around my legs, my heart hammering in my throat as I looked around wildly for my phone. It was three in the morning. My heart sinking as I sat up,

straining my ears to see if there were any noises beyond my door. I could hear something. The sound too ambiguous for me to know what it was, my teeth biting down on my lip as I sat up, making my way slowly to the door. Mom should be home. She was never gone past three in the morning. But creeping in the dark of my room,

I couldn't help but shake the terrible feeling she wasn't. And that I was alone. Not alone. You have Alex, remember? My thoughts felt taunting as an involuntary shudder wrecked right through me. She's home. I whispered out loud, ignoring the way my hand shook as I opened the door,

walking briskly to the stairs and bounding down them two at a time. I could hear the noise still, fear being forced away as I pushed myself, intent on finding out what the noise was. I paused at the front door, mom's shoes in their usual place, her keys and coat resting on their designated hooks. I turned to look back at the stairs,

kicking myself for not turning the hall light on, before coming down here. My heart too loud in my ears as I tried to calm my breathing. It's not a big deal. Just go back to bed. But what about Alex? Shouldn't I check on him? What about the noise?

I was in the kitchen doorway now, my hands shaking as I tried to convince myself to go back to bed or to turn on the light, to do something. Another noise came from the darkness. Only this time, my eyes were able to just barely make out a shape in the space before me. I hadn't noticed him at first.

He was almost perfectly invisible in the dark coverage of the kitchen. My mouth went dry as I took a small step. The image of Alex from my nightmare filling my head as I tried to work up words. His name barbed and wedged on the back of my tongue. I reached around the wall, cold finger seeking out the light switch. Alex? I could just barely see his silhouette, the sharp movements of his shoulders,

a wet gnashing sound whispering from the dark. The switch clicked up softly, light cutting through the darkness, chasing away the thick shadows that had obscured him from me. I stared at the floor when I had seen Alex, where I had heard him chewing. Empty.

I sucked in a breath, my eyes tracing over the kitchen, over the empty chairs and equally empty space under the table. Alex isn't in here. I wanted to cry. My skin crawling with goosebumps as questions flooded my mind. I was alone. My lungs aching for air as a new instinctual dread filled me. I turned back towards the stairs,

the world spinning momentarily as I looked down at Alex. Blood coated his chin and the front of his shirt. His eyes glossy and unfocused as he swayed in the center of the living room. I staggered towards him, my instincts screaming up at me to get away from him. A small voice in my head chanting over and over, You did this, you did this, you did this. Alex, what happened? My hands moved over his face and chest,

searching for any sign of injury that would have caused all the blood. I pushed his lips up, his body motionless as he stared vacantly past me, his breathing shallow as I checked his mouth for any missing teeth. Did he fall out of bed and hit his mouth? His nose? What happened? Alex? Alex, where is this from? What happened? My voice was shrilled, my heart racing as I yelled for our mom. Fear bearing down on me, making my screams for help more muted than

I wanted them to be. Come on! I grabbed him, adrenaline making his body as light as a feather as I ran up the stairs. My only goal was to get to Mom's room. I barely registered the wet carpet as I skidded into her room, her door banging loudly against her wall as I raced to her bed, nearly throwing Alex's motionless body on top of her.

Mom! Mom! I scrambled for the light. the soft yellow glow of her lamp filling the room. Red. The bed was almost entirely red. Only then did I realize the wet blanket soaking into my legs as I sprung back from the mattress. Mommy! Her name was a whimper. My hand shaking as I reached for her, momentarily forgetting about Alex. Red consumed my vision. Her hair spayed across her stained pillow. Her skin sickly cold against my fingertips.

I pulled her shoulder towards me, the sound of her body peeling away from the sheet, sending a surge of vomit up my throat. My face burning as I tore my eyes away from the wide, raw gash where her throat should have been, away from the lifeless eyes that stared up at the ceiling. I looked at Alex, at the blood crusting around his mouth and chin, at the stain that spread down his shirt.

My eyes dropped back to my mom. My legs shaking as I fell to my hands and knees, revulsion making my words gurgle as I whispered. Alex, what? Did you do? I needed to call 911. I needed to call for help. I grabbed her phone off the nightstand.

The image of her face and mangled necks stayed burning in my mind as I tried to dial. My hands too slick with blood from the bed to. to make the screen work, my shoulders shaking violently as I sobbed. Please, please, I need help. I cried, jamming my fingers ineffectively into the screen. The phone unable to register my touch. I need help! I screamed into the phone, as if somehow my desperation would make it work.

Goose bumps covered my arm as an icy chill filled the room. I had felt this before. The same sensation had vibrated under my skin when the stranger had knocked on our door. I looked up, my eyes moving over Alex's unaffected face, moving until they landed on the stranger. Once more, they were surrounded by moving shadows. Pale eyes watched me from a serene and inhumanly beautiful face. Fear swelled up inside me as they grinned, the slow curve of their mouth malicious and cruel.

I can help. They cooed the words. Laughter rippling out of them as Alex moved to stand beside them, their pale hand gently moving over his hair. For a price, of course. For a final story this evening, a rescued kitten's odd behavior escalator. until something sinister infects the family.

Creepy presents, the clicking sound coming from our new cat, written by Mr. Michael Squid, and narrated by Alicia Atkins. My parents owned the same cat my entire life, bubs, an adorable orange tabby who lived outdoors more often than in. I grew up in a quaint little town in Maine that was stunningly beautiful,

with crashing waves, endless moody skies, and plenty of grassy places to bound about and climb trees, as both children and their outdoor cats do. Bubbs was always there for me, purring on my lap and rubbing against my ankles when returning from a frolic in the woods. As I grew into a teenager, he stayed the same size and aged gracefully,

but one day he went missing. I asked my father, who broke the news, He'd been hit by a car and been killed. My mother was deeply distraught, more so than I, and I tried to tear her up. The next week she had a sad, distant look about her, until nearly a month after when she found the kitten. We'd been on a walk along the rocks of a nearby bay shore in a particularly windy day, just about a half hour from our house, when we heard the cry. An adorable gray kitten emerged from some tall grass,

mewing and sniffing at our feet with a high-pitched, heart-milting little voice. He looked to be about three months old and had a dabbling of black spots on his back. My mom picked him up and gazed at him with her loving eyes, as only she could so perfectly do, for the four-legged stranger. Dad raised an eyebrow at me and smiled. No words needed to express what we both knew. We had a new pet cat. Pip, as my mom had been referring to him over the next few days, was an adorable new friend.

But he sometimes made a strange clicking sound. It was almost always when he was conked out or asleep, and wasn't loud exactly, but it was pretty odd. I asked my mom about it and she just chalked it up to the ocean air. But something about it seemed off and actually creeped me out a bit. He'd be walking around, playing with string, and then would plop down for a nap, and that sound would bubble up out of him instead of a snore, which I would have been more than happy to listen to. The clicking just seemed so out of place. Mom was back to her joyous self, though, so I tried not to dwell on it.

The next few days, I wish I'd only had an off-putting click to deal with. Around the fifth day, the proud cat owners we'd returned to being, I'd noticed some peculiar behavior. Pip would occasionally move in a rapid kind of scuttling that seemed so unnatural and foreign for a cat. I looked up cat videos to try and see what kind of condition this might be. I discovered something called feline cerebellar hypoplasia, an issue with an underdeveloped cerebellum. But even that looked far different from the rapid movements he'd make. On top of all of that, he was clicking more.

often, and the putrid stink of his litter box seemed to hang on him at all times. I told my mom once she'd finally return from the post office, where she works, and she just told me with a smile to give him a bath, silly. I walked over and picked him up and realized he felt unhealthy, very bony. I frowned, but took him to the tub and began to wash him. I coated him twice with shampoo, but he still had a lingering stink. I finally gave up, and when I went to pick him out of the water, I screamed in pain and stared at my bleeding finger. There was a straight slice in it, not a bite like I was expecting.

I shook him angrily, not too hard, and yes, I felt horrible after doing so, and he stared at me with his unfeeling black orbs of eyes and began to make that awful clicking sound again. I kept my distance when drying him with a towel, again, confused at how he felt so bony, but was the same size the entire time we'd had him. I began staying clear of Pip. On Monday, after about three days of avoidance aside from the odor, which even caused my mom to purchase some Yankee candles for the house, my father expressed concern. Mom realized this was abnormal, so we made a vet appointment on her first day off, that

Thursday. I saw Pip peering at me under the table during dinner that night. And as I cleared the table to wash dishes, he made some violent crunching motion, like he was compacting from front to back. It made my heart skip a beat, causing the blood to drain from my face. It was completely unnatural, like a compressing accordion. I ran in horror to my parents' bedroom, where they assured me the vet would take care of whatever was wrong. I tried to explain this wasn't me overreacting, but there seemed to be no way to convince.

her. Upon exiting her room, I saw Pips sitting calmly and staring at me with those bulging black eyes. They seemed to be pulsating slightly, or almost jutting outward, and the entire room smelled of the acrid stench of death. I ran to my room, not taking my eyes off of him. I locked my door that night for the first time. Today, I awoke to the muffled sound of crying and entered the living room to find my mother in tears. On the carpet beside her lay the lifeless body of Pimp, but it looked like he'd been slaughtered violently, deflated, and split. There was a trail of blood leading from his back end that faded out after a few feet,

and there were tiny footprints in the drying blood on the carpet. They were claw prints. I swear they looked like lobster claw prints or more so a crab. I tried to console my mom and said, He was sick, and it wasn't our fault. But she shook her head, face strained with despair, and said she didn't care about the cat. She just motioned a limp arm towards the kitchen

after wiping away tears from her eyes. I slowly walked over, following the direction of trailing blood, to meet my father's blank eyes staring at me, and listened in utter horror, as he slowly opened his mouth wide and made the familiar sound of clicking. For more information on this podcast,

including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons share-a-like licensing. or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the story's author.