Creepy - Another Deformed Dog Leg & Broody

Episode Date: June 26, 2025

Another Deformed Dog Leg***Written by: Jacob Brewer and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Broody***Written by: Josh Shevill and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***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. Creepy presents. Another deformed dogleg.

Written by Jacob Brewer and narrated by Nate DuFort. Minneapolis, bright, the skyline glistening in pain reflection of the silvery moonlight. And even the moon seemed frigid now that the burnished lights of the Wells Fargo Tower, that golden spire, erectile proof. of financial solidity had been extinguished. This occurred most nights at 1204 a.m. Keith did not think the lights were automated, though, because they turned off early during bat migration seasons. He completed his circuit of the parking lot, the river ran to his right, and the walking path looping from here to the foot of the old bridge, which had collapsed in 2007.

Apart from himself, the only people still awake were those taking their dogs for late-night walks, and they wouldn't linger for the cold. Keith prepared wore a thick parka, mittens, not gloves, snow boots, and a balaclava, itchy beneath his beanie. No snow yet, but it didn't take a meteorology degree to know that snow was imminent. Was the Wells Fargo Guard cold? probably only in intervals as he checked the stairwells and the roof. Keith liked to imagine that all night shift guards were part of some secret, inclusive cabal, could recognize one another as a disconjoined twin might recognize his estranged brother. This theory he'd once shared with Aaron, his buddy in the parking garage across the street,

who sometimes brought him an extra joint if his wife had rolled two. Maybe if things got boring, Keith would mosey over and listen to Aaron talk about how this was that parking garage from the movie Fargo. Yeah, that one. Keith's purview extended past the parking lot to the lot on the river. Before he could chat with Aaron, he had to do a full lap. So he unlocked the parking gate and made his way toward Zone 2, as he thought of it, there being no official designation for the other lot.

Just beyond the fence, on the walking pit, path, two dog walkers intersected. He could barely hear them talking over the gusting wind. Beyond them, the pattern of city lights created a vast, upright circle, as if a city-scale Ferris wheel. Hey, your dog. Tooth. Gnarly.

Keith couldn't hear the answer, but both dog-walkers peered into the mouth of the larger dog. The dog had a Mike Tyson neck and the teeth of a Komodo dragon. Suddenly, it snapped at the Samaritan, who shrieked and jumped back, tugging her own dog. Was it Keith's imagination, or was she cradling her hand? Was that a shadow, or was it spilled blood? Keith thought to call out, but just then, the woman and her woolly dog disappeared around a stone wall. The walking path wound its way through the blown-out rubble of a century-old mill explosion. the guy left in the other direction.

He'd waited too long to say something now, and he tried to put the incident out of his mind. Zone 2 was large as the parking lot but not black-topped. 26 shipping containers sat there on the hard-parked gravel in seemingly haphazard arrangement, but who was he to conjecture about Steve-door organization? Perhaps those angles were necessary for easy lifting. Last year,

One year into the job, how time flew, he'd gone container to container and checked the contents of each. It was a thrill to trespass, even if he'd never been explicitly warned against such action. But shouldn't a guard know what he was guarding? Not much of anything turned out, though he had repurposed the ninth shipping container, empty but for cardboard boxes. Now, he contained a lawn chair in card table, a battery-powered space, heater, three blankets knit by his grandmother, a French press plus water heater plus coffee grounds, and of course, his tarot decks. Not even Aaron knew about his secret digs.

For Aaron, God love the guy, was what you'd call a talker. Maybe he'd bring a deck and give Aaron a reading, for old time's sake, to give Aaron something to blab about. Keith flipped on the space heater imprimed in the heat. He allowed his hands to drift over the decks. The wild deck seemed to thrum, so he scooped the deck into his pocket. As he did so, his finger lagged, and without his intending, he flipped the top card. A cicada with twin infinity signs at wing root. He peered closer at the image. This deck was relatively unfamiliar to him, having been hand-drawn by an artist he'd met at the farmer's market. On weekends, if he was feeling bold, he'd set up a table and offer three, five, and ten-dollar readings. No cash sales. It freaked him out to make a physical transaction

after so taxing a mental one. Not like the old days with the carnival. Nostalgia nearly polaxed him. Unlike Mara, he'd only done the summer route around southern Wisconsin in northern Illinois, not quite daring or desperate enough to go snowbird in the winter, one patch of their breakup quilt. The infinity signs at the cicada's joints were coins. The card was the two of pentacles. It signaled inevitable change, perhaps as indicated by the pentacles in manners pertaining to the Almighty Dollar.

Get a new job? Fat chance. Maybe the Wells Fargo Tower would relight due to mechanical malfunction. He tried not to get hung up on the accidental card flip. It had been years since he'd read for himself, since Mara, truth be told. And back then, he'd had the fortitude not to overanalyze.

And being honest, he'd had Mara to sue them. Keith went back to his rounds. He did not think of Mara, who'd broken up with him four years ago, or of their time together, under the string bulbs. There were no streetlights in Zone 2. It was dark except for motion lights, half of which no longer functioned. He shone his flashlight into dark corridors. He mounted the containers and tried to remember what was in each.

Museum prints, salt lamps, King James Bibles, unmarked wooden crates, walked past container three and thunk. He lingered. No other noise, but still. Had something gotten inside? An animal maybe? Trapped and weak from food? God forbid a homeless person.

Suddenly, he wished for another argument on the path, even a dog bite, anything for a bit of company. But this was why they paid him the big bucks right. heroic confrontation with the unknown. To prove his resolve, he blew on the metal, then rubbed the spot with his beanie, for doubtless the container was dangerously cold. Finally, quietly, he held his ear to the wall.

Thunk. Sure enough. Thunk. He removed his key ring and paged through the keys. Thunct! This one made him jump out of his skin. Nonsensically, paradoxically, he twisted to check his surroundings. Alone, alone except that his cocoon of silence had been cracked open,

and the oral violence of the city was being sucked inside. Minneapolis, carnivalesque, and the jangling, off-melotic symphony of engines and car horns in beeping crosswalks. He found the key labeled three, slipped it into the lock. The door opened outward, heavy and rusted. Warm air swept over him. He forced himself to speak.

Anybody in here? No answer. Only a flat, black expanse. But no, not flat black for, wasn't that a pinprick of warm orange in the distance? Which was to say, at the back of the container? It occurred to him that it was stupid to go in alone. But he quashed that cowardly impulse.

What if there was a person in here? Could he leave them to freeze? And if it was nothing, well, then he'd at least have a good story to tell Aaron. Keith flicked down his flashlight and stepped through the door. Slowly, carefully, he scanned the container. Empty, nothing. Currogated walls and corrugated ceilings. cobwebs, except that his light caught an object near the far wall, a stick, or was it a shepherd's crook?

But that was preposterous, only his mind reaching for sense. One step closer as if to accompany him, a gust of wind rattled the container, and the stick, which was no stick, blew across the floor and clattered against the wall. shh-thunk. The relief that swept him seemed altogether too extreme for the circumstances. What was he so keyed up for? It was only an empty shipping container housing a bit of trash. Mystery solved. No dead animals, no dying homeless. But what was the damn thing anyway? The stick was amber colored with gray motling. Spines long as his fingers ran up and down. Either end was curved and socketed.

If he didn't know any better, he would say this was a leg. Dissected, perhaps hollow, but a leg. Of what? In insect, surely, but one that would be the size of a border collie, at the very least. His hair stood on end. Dread bloomed inside his stomach until he was merely an inflatable dread doll wearing a skin suit. He almost turned heel and ran.

Except he didn't, because the other part of him, the rational part, was wondering to what extent his reticence, his fear, was Mara's staining influence. How long would he allow her memory to poison every reminder of those two magnificent summers? Tonight he decided would be the end. Something about the cold and the bright lights and the lonely city allowed him brutal honesty. Yeah, he was still hung up on a girl who'd broken up with him four years ago. Yeah, it was pitiful. But he'd seen things during those carnival summers. The ashes of a dead shaman worn around a contortionist's neck,

a woman who birthed twins from two different fathers, like a cat, how on full moons a miniature diamond mind appeared on an orangutan's back. and once in the curl of night, sharing a smoke with Sybil Cynthia. He'd passed the joint to a traveler from a far-off land. The traveler kept her pet on a leather leash, a dog with a horrible disease, no doubt, but for all the world appearing as a massive centipede and that she swore was from another dimension.

These memories reclaimed his courage. just another deformed dogleg. In the opposite corner, he spied what appeared to be a vast hole. Thank God he hadn't accidentally fallen in. Carefully, as if the leg might spring suddenly back to life, he stepped over it and peered down into a vast shaft. A ladder went down one side of the shaft.

He shined his light, couldn't pierce the bottom. Swallowing his fear, he flipped off the flashlight. A light glinted down there. Yes, a lantern, flickering orange, which meant, of course, that someone else had been here, recently. In the container it was suddenly very dark and very quiet. Could he really be considering this? It seemed, from a certain perspective, exceptionally stupid.

He considered recruiting Aaron to come down with him, or at least to keep watch from up top. But as the thought flitted across his mind, he knew that if he left now, he would not be able to come back. This entire thing was too weird, by far. If it's even still here. This idea bubbled from a deeper part of him, and wasn't it correct? It felt like a commandment. Screw it. He slipped off a glove and reached his naked hand around the tarot deck, paused, could not help but think that Mara would not be happy with him making decisions based on the cards.

But Mara had no power over him now. Keith closed his eyes. He pulled the top card off the deck and held it out in front of his face and opened his eyes. The image was that of a caterpillar at branch tip. Its powerful body bent in motion, its six yellow eyes slidded in concentration against the obvious danger of the sharp sticks comprising the card's foreground. Wands then. But how many? Six. Six of Wands. Rising up. Victory. Six of Wands was all about having overcome the odds. Could there be a more obvious sign? He stuck his flashlight between his teeth and stepped under the first ladder rung.

The shaft was wide enough for an elevator. He flipped the flashlight off and popped it back into his pocket because it had begun to hurt his teeth. After what seemed like several minutes, the shaft brightened perceptibly, and he realized this was the light from the lantern. The walls of the shaft were no longer metal but stone. Nets and ladders and handholds wove and contingent. confusing protrusion. Roots tickled his face. By the time his feet struck the stone flagstones, his hands were begging for reprieve. He peered up the shaft and could not see the aperture.

The way forward was a stone corridor. Those orangey lanterns were hung every 50 yards. He could walk with both hands stretched out and not touch the walls. Yet the walls were smooth from touch, and so was the floor. It appeared as if many other people had walked this corridor before him, huge crowds or many travelers over long years. But that didn't make sense. Had the people been holding their hands high to rub so far up the stone walls? Surely not.

And who would be making such a trek anyway? Perhaps this had been a freight corridor for mining. Huge bundles drug through so hard. often they'd shaped the walls. He imagined those white bag silos and, and then what? They were pushed up the mine shaft. He shined his flashlight at the ceiling, smooth up there too. A pit in his gut, heavy, as if he were a rotten cherry. But what was there to dread? A wall, a path? He pushed onward, refusing to dwell because if there were someone down here with him, he hardly wanted to be caught out in this creepy hallway. Perhaps it would be prudent to make his presence known.

Yell his name. Call out something official and or friendly to ward off risk of vagrant-constructed booby traps and shadow-lurking hermits armed with centurial shotguns. But he could not bear to make noise in this silent place. Between the next two lanes, lanterns, there was a doorless opening. He turned into a room that proved to be as vast as a gymnasium. It should have been cold in such a cavern, but he was warm with his jacket on. He unzipped. The zipper echoed. Lanterns of that orange hue hung the walls and warmed the white linen beds, stretching off into the distance. He pressed the nearest mattress, California king size or larger. firm but comfortable, hotel beds, their purpose beggared belief.

Who slept here? The answer was in the second row. An amber boulder lay on that bed. Curled against it was a smaller rock, the size of a doberman. He recognized, if dimly, that he was only using the word boulder to keep himself from totally freaking out. The boulder had six legs, and so did the rock. No, only five. The small one, the baby, was all curled backwards like a prawn.

He felt like laughing. Heat emanated from the walls, baking him in his winter gear, and with the heat came a sound, a certain sliding, a certain skittering, as if of tiny spine. brushing against stone, a sound that encircled him as surely as the heat. Then it stopped. He found himself running across the vast room, autopilot of fear. There were three doors. Part of him wanted, needed, to see if any of the other beds were occupied. And to kill this impulse, he fled through the middle door. A sign above the door

displayed a circle, perhaps a pool. It was not a pool. It was a ring, a one-ring circus, truth be told, and in the center of the ring lay a human corpse. A rodeo clown was his first instinct, what with the overalls. The popper of a bullwhip lay an inch from the clown's nose like a dead snake. The whip handle stuck in the dirt at ring's edge. Whoever had been wielding the whip was not in attendance. They'd gone wherever the crowd had gone. He ventured closer to the body.

He'd been wrong again. This was no clown. This guy was dressed like a lion, tail and ears and mane. The body. Those words like a personal blessing shook him into a semblance of sense. The body. He had to get out of here. Find a body.

Call the cops. except when he turned to leave, he was confronted with no clear entrance or exit, but rather, count him, 13 doors. He was reasonably sure he'd come through one of those four, on that side. He might pick the one with the smoothest stone, evidence of traffic. This might lead him back to the main drag, where he could simply climb up the ladder. But what if that wasn't the right direction, and he only went deeper? Too risky.

What better option did he have? He shuffled the tarot deck, Mittens' pockets stuffed, and mouthed the question, Where should I go? Flip the top card, a cocoon suspended above a nest of swords, seven blades below, and another sword from which hung the cocoon.

Eight of swords. To be trapped. Powerless. How appropriate. And yet the amber cocoon, uncanny, dangled from that solitary sword. Its separation seemed to suggest intrepidity, a choice, at least, in the matter. He counted doors from where the eighth sword pointed, finger landing on one of the doors he'd suspected in the first place.

Eureka, in less than an hour he vowed, he would be telling this story to Aaron over a fat joint and a cup of burnt coffee. At first, he thought he'd made the right choice. He traveled a smooth stone corridor indistinguishable from any previous. Periodically, when the walls steamed and the skittering came, there also emerged a terrible stench. Though he'd stripped to his undershirt, he used his balaclava as a breathing mask to block an odor reminiscent of squashed ladybugs.

The hallway petered into a doorway, unlike the other portals. This entrance was of standard proportions. Despite this familiarity, its appearance grew a pit in his stomach, for he did not recognize it. He was well and truly lost, except for the tarot card's indication. Keith broke the threshold, no lanterns now, and his flashlight pierced the blackness only enough to see his boots, until he turned a tight corner and popped out on stage. He instinctively crouched against the stage lights, against the implication of being on display. Then the lights flickered, as if a moth had flown too close.

In this shiver of his surroundings, he understood that he was alone. His eyes slowly adjusted, the light revealed itself frail. but bright enough to see that the seats in this theater were filled, if unoccupied. There was a crowd in attendance. It was only that they were dead. And this time he couldn't pretend them boulders, for what boulders came to the show? A fashionable couple sat in the front row, visages smooth, their carapaces shining amber, their mandibles like tiny arms hanging below their teeth spines.

He wore a hat and trench coat, four claws in Oxford shoe, and two in leather driving gloves. She, with a pink ribbon tied on her thorax, and opera glasses held up to bulging red-gold eyes. A family set a few rows behind, the mother in a cardigan in long skirt. Baby nymph cradled in her arms. father has loosened his tie, and the oldest nymph wore dad's jacket, and dozens of others, as still as skyscrapers. Keith could not figure out exactly what to do, how to sort all this out in comparison to the rest of everything he had ever experienced.

The world was now running to carnival logic, a dark paradox of truth, A reflection of the world that was even stranger, even starker than what Mara had once exemplified. But no, not her. He would not give her any shrift, especially not now. Rather, the matter at hand. Though the exception of an impending show was palpable, the stage he occupied was empty. However, there were two other stages, and he walked to the nearest. This audience had a show to witness.

The stage was composed as a human suburban home, Tudor style, he thought it was called, with the black trim and white siding. In early 2000's maroon Chevrolet Lumina sat in the driveway. He knew the car. His parents had owned one just like it. The driver's side door was open. The corpse of a human housewife was frozen in the act of removing groceries from the trunk.

Her family waited for her. Hubby shriveled in a rocking chair. Their son posed alongside a rat terrier. The boy's sister jumped rope. Their faces. He did not look at their faces, but their bodies were wired for motion. The wife's wire led from the trunk to the front door of the house. Her daughter's line ran down the driveway, where it made heartbeat lines in the air. Boy and dog made parallel lines to the mailbox and back. Father remained. And there was another theater. Too far away to make out details except that the desks were filled and a teacher lectured at the front of the class. Keith had no urge to go closer to that classroom. In fact, he thought he would rather do anything else. He thought that he might just spring back the way he'd come, and why not. He'd only gotten as far as the empty stage before he began sneezing, a world-stopping half-dozen conjured by the onslaught of the crushed bug stench. The scent memory, ripping him back to the harlequin beetles that had each summer engulfed his childhood home. Then simultaneously came the warmth.

The feeder was suddenly balmy, sweat, beaded on his forehead. Just as the skittering began, began, that sound behind the walls. The room shook. Keith held onto the stage. The audience collapsed into heaps, the actor's wires keeping them aloft. From all around him now, and when it halted, it was like cicadas ceasing their song. He stood there in silence, in stillness, in heat, feeling not alone. Not at all. He'd spent all night walking an abandoned road. It had led here to this defunct production, to this graveyard.

But new highways would have been built since the disaster. New bridges, perhaps to the surface and to elsewhere. To darker, deeper places, immune to icy drafts. To those places, beneath the city. city where the cold could not reach. Creepy presents, Broody, written by Josh Chivall

and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. The haunting had started just after Chris turned 30. He had never been clear on what he wanted in his life. At school, he had chosen the subjects his friends wanted. At university, he had chosen the degree his parents wanted. For a career, he had chosen the first company that accepted his CV.

But Lacey knew exactly what she wanted. She was affectionate, sexual, clear on her motivations and up front with her desires. She didn't want children. She wanted independence, freedom, and a successful career. From the moment they met, she took the lead. That was why he married her. And then, in their quaint semi-detached on the South Coast, the haunting began. It was Chris's 30th birthday, and the couple had settled into bed to watch a movie.

Lacey had forced a birthday boy to choose a film. So he picked the first one he came across on streaming. About a single father battling to keep his two kids safe, when a rogue alligator. later invaded their house Lacey was thoroughly disengaged throughout but Chris had been captivated by the desperate father heroically protecting his children facing down imminent death giving up his life for something greater something worthwhile it struck to the core of Chris's heart that night unable to sleep he revisited the film over and over in his mind for the first time alone in the dark he heard it a baby crying

faint and muffled it was quiet soft a peculiarity that distracted Chris from his thoughts gentle sobbing acted like a lullaby and Chris soon drifted off to sleep in the morning Lacey countered that she hadn't heard of thing, and joke that perhaps their elderly neighbors had miraculously reproduced. It was probably just a dream, she theorized. Like he always did, Chris agreed. Probably just a dream. But as he drove to work, it happened again.

Mindlessly following the brake lights ahead, he spotted a mousy young lady that he recognized from the tills of the local Tesco. She wrangled a push chair in one hand in the lead of a husky in the other. Her little boy clinging to her sweater. That's when he heard it. A baby crying. Clearer this time. As though it were in the car with him.

Chris slammed the radio off, but still the sound persistent. He closed all the car windows, frantic. But the baby still. cried. All day, Chris struggled to focus at his desk as the gentle cries continued in the background. His colleagues tapped away, oblivious. Chris stared at his screen. His fingers paralyzed on the keyboard. He thought about tumors, strokes, all the ways his brain could betray him. When the woman next to him went for a coffee break, she left her computer and unlocked, broadcasting the wallpaper of her two smiling toddlers.

The baby cried louder, harder. Chris thought he might throw up. Did nobody else hear this? That night he laid, his eyes ratcheted open as the baby invaded his ears. Lacey slept peacefully beside him. There was no way he could tell her about this affliction. She'd think he lost his mind. This became his torment.

The cries of this phantom baby, louder and louder, every day. So much seemed to make it worse. The baby aisle at the supermarket, playgrounds and schools, cafes and restaurants. Every time he saw a parent and child, the baby cried louder. clearer. I have a broken heart. Desperate. Chris stopped sleeping. He struggled to eat, to work, to put one foot in front of the other. His mind and body were crumbling under the perpetual weight of the sound, tormenting him, twisting him into a man he barely recognized. Four days later, though, the fog of sleep deprivation and terror.

The solution presented itself as he stared at his own haggard face in the rearview mirror. She was there again, struggling along the pavement in the rain. That girl from Tesco with the two perfect children. For the first time in his life, he experienced certainty. He would have to find a baby of his own. Seducing Lacey wouldn't be the issue. convincing her to have the baby would be. There was no way she would willingly have this child.

Several times he forgot to put a condom on, but Lacey was sharp and responsible, and she caught him every time. He tried in a public park, getting caught up in the passion of the moment. But as soon as he failed to produce the foil packet, Lacey shut him down. down still the baby cried sneakier now he pierced a condom with a sewing needle but when

he stretched the latex around himself the pimpricks tore and the latex snapped the next time Chris pierced a single home and the condom held together until he had climaxed inside of her but when he pulled out and left a stream of cloudy seaman trickling down her vulva. She headed out immediately for the morning after pill and swore off condoms. Instead, she started taking the contraceptive pill. Undeterred, undeterred. Chris gifted Lacey a pill dispenser and swapped out the pills for identical vitamins. But when her period started suspiciously early, Lacey had the contraceptive implant fitted in her arm. Still, The baby cried.

The nights were the worst. The sound was relentless, piercing. And he was alone in this hell. Lacey slept beside him. Enough was enough. Chris climbed out of bed and retrieved a knife from the kitchen. He gently tugged the bed sheets from Lacey's body and pressed the tip of the knife into the small bump of the implant

and the soft flesh of her inner arm. Lacey struggled and moaned still. have asleep. Determined, Chris drove the blade deeper into her arm as blood spurred it onto the bed sheets. The violence of it made him sick, but he couldn't stop now. Raising a Pilates-toned leg, Lacey viciously kicked Chris in the face, her heel shattering his nose as he fell with a hard thumb to the floor. Knife skittered away under the band. Lossed. Loddy. Lossed. to him. His face and eruption of fluids and misplaced

cartilage. Chris grabbed Lacey's foot with a blood smeared hand. He poured it all out as she twisted in his grasp. The baby heard every waking moment. The thing cries, the desperation,

the need. Almost incoherent, rambling with pain and fear. He admitted everything he had done. on her hands and knees. Lacey sobbed. Without packing a single item or saying goodbye.

Chris left their home the next day for a grotty single bedroom flat, damp and stinking of years of cigarette smoke. The best he could manage on his meager savings. The threat of police and prosecution was enough to put any thought of reconciliation out of his mind. Lacey said something about therapy. But he didn't need therapy. He needed a baby. Unable to focus at work.

His dismal performance quickly led to a series of damning disciplinary meetings. And then one afternoon, fueled by the unending torment in his head, Chris put his fist through his colleague's screen, erasing those two smiling toddlers. Jobless, loveless, and soon to be homeless. He stopped eating, bathing, sleeping entirely. And still, the baby cried. Something had to be done.

In the morning, Chris waited until the plumber living in the flat below had left his van unattended. He snuck outside and raided the tool collection, retrieving exactly what he needed. Back in his flat, Chris stripped and perched on the edge of his bed. his ribs jutted beneath the pale skin. Shadows formed in the hollows of his pelvis. He extended the rusty Stanley knife and wiped the blade on the corner of a grimy sheet. He pressed the tip of the blade

into the top of his scrotum and held his breath. The skin was tougher than expected and much more elastic. He knelt instead and flatten his scrotum against the bed. gritting his teeth as he put all of his strength into driving the night downwards. With an audible pop, the tool penetrated straight through both sides of his flesh and cut into the mattress. Blood soaked the sheets. Hot and thin in a rapid flow. He tightened his grip on the handle, tears spilling into his open mouth and began hacking down his own scrotum,

separating the tender skin. He saw in at the jagged incision. His vision, blackening at the edges of the baby screamed. Chris Bride himself open until two exposed testicles fell onto the bed. Gassly white, pudgy, covered in small red veins. The sensation of the bed sheets on the raw organs was unbearable. With a trembling hand, Chris maneuvered the blade of a pair of wirecutters around the tendons, attached to his naked testes.

It was sickeningly easy to separate them from his body. Chris vomited into his mouth and swallowed hard. He cupped his hands at his crotch, watching as they filled with blood that ran over his thighs, his feet. He'd done the right thing. thing he knew. As he lost consciousness, he reveled in the freedom. Such a small price to pay. He a won't baby. Two days passed in a haze. He bundled an old t-shirt against his crotch, past caring about infection. A fever came and went. He dreamed of swimming in a vast ocean. Babies like fish pulled out his ankles beneath the surface.

he must have thrown up again, although he didn't remember, because when he finally came to it had dried in his hair. Exhausted. He showered and examined his wound, which was surprisingly small for the amount of pain he was still in. But already it was healing, crusted with black blood.

Always, the baby cried. Lacey often left the patio doors open in the summer, and today was no exception. Chris hauled himself over the fence, moaning under his breath when he caught his groin. He slipped through the open doors to move silently through their home, following the sound of Lacey's sweet voice as she sang in the shower upstairs. Two months later, a delivery driver pulled up in the front of the house. He carried a large box up the neat front path through the manicured lawn

in the freshly painted door. Chris answered the door with a smile. He looked fit, well-rested, a man reborn. As he signed for the package, sound of a crying baby echoed from inside the house. The delivery driver's ears pricked. But Chris didn't react to the noise at all.

He simply took the parcel and closed the door. door with a nod. In the spotless kitchen, Chris opened the box with a rusty old Stanley knife, long forgotten by its previous owner. He pulled out the brand new baby mobile, admiring the moons and stars dangling from the spinning frame. The baby's cries intensified and Chris checked his watch. He took a container from the bottle warmer and removed the lid to dissolve two chalky towel. into the milky mixture. He'd once dreamed of creating a nursery in his home,

and this room still gave him so much pleasure. He'd worked so hard to paint it colors he knew she liked, decorated with pictures of her favorite animals. Teddy bears lined the walls, each one, a present for every time she'd been good. Lacey slouched against the bars of her playpen, which was really a training crate for a large breed dog. But Chris hated calling it that.

Playpen sounded so much sweeter. Her pretty eyes were vacant. Pupils dilated. Mouth it gap. Drewl staining the neck of her pink baby grow. Chris crouched to open the door and cradle his baby in his arms, as she sucked eagerly on her bottle. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair.

She was so precious to him. She would never know the enormity of her gift as she drifted into a chemical sleep. Chris only heard silence. 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. stories told on this podcast are done so through creative common 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 stories author.