Creepy - Apartment Maintenance

Episode Date: May 8, 2023

It's just a job...***Written by: No One of Consequence***Bonus Episode: "Pandora's Antique Box: Take a Number" Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content Warning:  mention of sexual assault***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea 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.

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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. Apartment maintenance. Written by known of consequence.

I've been out of the army for a few years, and I'm struggling to get steady work. It doesn't matter that I was honorably discharged. Being kicked out because of a personality disorder tends to close a lot of doors. Never mind, it was a bullshit, excuse to kick me out. According to command, I wasn't being a good little soldier. It was my first time in a combat zone and I was having some issues. I thought that was normal. Nobody cared enough

to try finding the root cause of what was making things difficult for me. All they wanted was their problem child gone. So they chalked it up to a personality disorder I didn't really have. It conveniently ignored my sleep issues, what I assumed at the time was insomnia. As soon as I got out, I went to the VA about it. They issued me a sleep study, diagnosed me of sleep apnea, and then denied any and all claims I made for disability. It was obvious they didn't give a shit about me or veterans like me. So to hell with them.

Life's too short to deal with that kind of crap. I hope they all drown in paperwork. Every business within five square miles of my family home has a copy of my resume or a filled-out application. In the meantime, I've been doing odd jobs for family and friends for money. Mowing lawns, minor household repairs, some building projects. I barely make enough to make my car and phone payments. But I'm lucky that my parents aren't charging me for rent, utilities, or groceries. I feel like a pathetic piece of crap for having to rely on them this heavily.

But my savings have dried up. The only good thing about getting deployed to a combat zone was the amount of money I was able to put into savings. You don't get paid a lot as a private first class, even with combat pay tacked on to the base salary. However, all meals and drinks were provided for me while there, so there wasn't a lot to spend my money on. On top of that, there aren't a lot in the way of ATMs. You shouldn't trust anyone to run your credit card. For most of us, there was only one way to get cash. Every major forward operating base had a financial center,

and once a month we were allowed to pull $200 from our pay. The rest of the money sat in my bank account. Since I had no bills to pay, and no one else had access to my account, I built up my savings. That's been my only saving grace. While I was over there, I spent most of that $200, was on cigarettes.

We had two locally owned shops on base and a carton of smokes was only ten bucks. Between that and bootleg DVDs at the weekly bazaar that came out to us, that's how I spent my money. It seemed like a waste. I had to trash those discs before coming back. On the upside, they only cost me a buck apiece. A friend of the family pulled a few strings at her job and got me something to tie me over until I can get something more substantial.

It's far from the greatest, but I'm sure as hell not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The Eldridge Apartment Group, or EAP, is a company that manages apartment complexes all over the city. I'm told they aren't limited to this city. That doesn't concern me right now. What does is the slightly higher than minimum wage pay

in the sit-down with my new supervisor at the park on Belleville or the P-O-B. Carlos has been at the job for a long time, and he's not much for grandstanding. The complex we work is as ghetto as it gets without actually being in the ghetto. Truthfully, I think the ghetto has better places than this dump. The cops come out here every other week, and usually to haul someone away in cuffs. Calling the P.O.B. a shithole will be giving it a compliment. The general rule for complex is one maintenance worker for every hundred units.

The POB has about 200 units, and now counting me five maintenance workers. My understanding is this place is so decrepit that it requires extra workers just to handle the amount of crap that needs to be done. Work orders for repairs reach into the 40s on a daily basis. There's a lot more to this job than I thought there'd be. It's not just unclogging toilets, replacing light bulbs and fixing AC units. Every morning we spend an hour walking around with a five-gallon, bucket and grab her to pick up litter. The residents know how horrible this place is and have no problems tossing cans, wrappers,

and cigarette butts on the ground. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I was back in a third world country. It's a lot of work, but I'm learning how to do a lot of useful things. Now I can even do more minor repair projects for friends and family. With better, I won't be winging it anymore. I'll actually know what the hell I'm doing for a change. I get a great sense of pride from that. Not only are they getting quality work,

but I'm saving them money because I charge less than half what it will cost a higher professional. I've never been able to charge family full price. Seems disrespectful, even with my financial situation. I've always voided two kinds of repair work, electrical and plumbing. Those are two fields I'm very uncomfortable with, and for good reason. Messing with electricity when you don't know what you're doing can result in injury for not only me but the residents. It could cause a fire,

pop the circuits, blow the main breaker, and short out appliances. One of the biggest issues we deal with is water damage, and it almost always has to do with bad or damage plumbing. I know nothing about replacing sealing or repairing pipes and water lines.

One wrong move, you can spill water all over the place. It takes forever to clean and dry out. On top of that, if you don't do a good enough job mildew and mold could set in. That brings out a much bigger nightmare, and I don't want to be responsible for that. I've been here for a week now, and the guys have told me a lot of stories that make me want to set fire to the entire property.

Some of the residents are notorious for one thing or another, and I've been given a heads-up about the worst of the bunch. In 409 is a rather obese, 40-year-old woman that dresses like she's a petite 15-year-old. No male is allowed to go into her apartment alone because she'll always try to seduce whoever comes into a repair. And she's not known to take no for an answer. On top of that, she'll make a formal complaint with the EAP about the employee sexually harassing her. 513, 802, 919, and 1201 will always smell like weed and far from the good stuff too. Thankfully, my allergies act up this time of year and my nose has been too.

stuff to smell the stinky weed. Apartment 1507 is by far the worst story I've been told. About three weeks before I was hired on, the single resident at that apartment was found dead. He drilled a hole in the wall above the bathroom doorframe, slipped a rope through it, and hung himself. The truly nasty part of the story was how the man was found. The apartment manager had been receiving complaints from Building 15 regarding a bad smell. She went back there with Carlos, unlocked the door, they both jumped back with screams.

Something small and dark darted out of the door, running right past them for the grassy area behind the building. The resident of 1507 had a small white dog, and Carlos knew this. It's a thing that ran out of the apartment hadn't been white. That's when the odor hit his nose. Carlos grew up in the heart of the ghetto, and he was familiar with the stench of a decomposing body. They went into the apartment with covered noses and found what was left of the old man in a literal puddle on the floor. He'd been hanging for so long that his head detached from his body. Poor dog gave parts of his owner to survive.

There were a total of eight apartments in building 15. Four were still occupied when they discovered the dead guy. They've all moved to other apartments since then. Being the curious person I am, I asked why the resident killed himself. No one knew for sure, but the gossip was that there were allegations of pedophilia at his church. Supposedly, it led to his wife leaving him a year ago, and that's when he moved into the P.O.B. Cops paid him many visits during his residency, but no arrests were ever made. 1507 had been untouched by the staff since the day he was found, but the authorities have been in and out of there.

They've done everything they need to. Professional cleaning crew is taking care of all the decomm, Now it's our turn. No one wants the contents of the apartment, and it's up to the maintenance crew to throw everything out in order to prep it for a new resident. Thankfully, there are more than a dozen vacancies, so no one's going to move in anytime soon. The crew has even started referring to it as Dead Guy's apartment. Of course, as the new guy, I'm elected to clean out the apartment by myself. No one else wants to do it, and they're needed elsewhere. On the upside, I can take my sweet time with a clean-up.

That means lots of smoke breaks and listening to music as loud as I want. They wanted to give me the shit job, so I'd do a shitty job. In this hellhole? Who's going to care? Carlos told me that if I found something in the apartment I wanted, it was okay to keep it. A couple guys on the crew had already been through there and kept some stuff. So much for none of the staff having been in there. A complex rented a large dumpster just for this.

apartment and I was going to need it. I have never seen so much crap in one place before, but at least it doesn't stink like liquid dead guy. I can't imagine how horrible that stench was, and I can live my life happily without knowing. That doesn't mean the place doesn't stink, but it's more tolerable than liquid creep. I smoke inside the apartment just to give my nose something pleasant to enjoy. I know the deconts. I know the decontoroughed. comp smell is gone, but every once in a while my imagination flares up, and I swear I smell it. There's lots of paper strewn about mixed in with all kinds of crap. I keep my eye out for any money, but only coins pop up.

I'm not afraid to pick up every penny I found. I've got one of those five-gallon water chugs at home, and every coin I find here ends up in, surprising to see how much an inch of coins can add up to. Don't judge me. I'm broke. After filling up a garbage bag, I lean against the wall and light up the smoke. As I jam out to some five-finger death punch, I surveyed a living room. This is day two, and I'm nowhere near done with this room.

I still have the kitchen, bedroom, closet, and bathroom to get to. There's about a foot-deep pile of random crap on the floor of every room, and I'm not even halfway through this one, going over the poor life choices that have led me to being here. A cold chill slid this up my spine. It's so sudden I'm unexpected that I dropped my cigarette. Fear ramps up for no apparent reason and my eyes go wide. There's something in this room other than me. It's creeping me the hell out.

I slowly turn around to face the open bedroom door, expecting to see a spectral form in the doorway, but all I see is darkness. It's a bright, sunny day outside. but that room is shrouded in shadows. I didn't pay much attention to it before, and I can't remember if the door had even been open. The smell of burning paper jolts me out of my creeped-out state.

My fallen cigarette is burning some of the trash, and I quickly stomp it out. As soon as I'm sure it's out and won't burn the damn apartment down, I grab one of the full trash bags and take it outside. I toss it into the large dumpster and light up another small. Yeah, I smoked too much. That really freaked me out in there. The last time I felt anything like that was when I was a kid

and a bunch of us were playing tag in a cemetery at night. I hadn't seen anything spooky that night either. But I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was there watching me. That feeling stayed with me until we jumped back over the stone wall and headed home. I tell myself that it was nothing. My imagination was getting the better of me like it usually does. The only reason the guys told me what happened to the former resident was to freak me out. I never went in for the whole ghost and haunting stuff.

I was a realist. That's someone that got caught up in superstitions and hocus pocus. The voice calls out from inside the apartment and my eyes grew wide again. There was no one else in the apartment. I'd have seen someone went in there in the last few minutes. I hear the voice again. and this time I clearly hear it calling my name. Slowly approaching the open door, I look inside and jump when a voice calls from me again,

much clearer this time. I left my damn walkie-talkie inside and Carlos is calling for me. He's trying to alert me it's time for a lunch break, and I'm more than happy to leave. I almost don't want to go inside to get the radio, but I silently berate myself for being a bus. Going in, I grab up the radio, acknowledge Carlos' transmission, and looked at the open bedroom door. Instead of seeing the room beyond shrouded in darkness because the shades are drawn, I see a solid white door that's firmly closed.

Before I give my mind a chance to fill with impossible explanations, I beat feet out of there, locking the door before going to the shop. We get half an hour for lunch, and I don't have to clock out. but we do have to put our radios on to charge during that time. There's a gas station hot dog with my name on it, and I need another pack of smokes. Something tells me I'm going to need it the way my day is going. While I'm at it, I buy a $5 scratch-off ticket

and some quick picks for the powerball. I probably shouldn't waste my money on crap like that, but dream every poor person is that more than enough money to take care of themselves. I do a lot to get me out of this crap situation I'm in. I've even gone so far as to do the math. All I need is $7.3 million to live out the rest of my life. That averages out to $500 a day for the next 40 years. Well, the way I spend money, I could probably get away with $250 a day,

but it gives me plenty of wiggle room. If I ever do win the lottery, I don't want to be one of those pathetic losers that's broke within a year or two. Seriously. How the hell do people do that? Is the lottery winnings come with stupid pills? I inhale my hot dog and wash it down with a highly caffeinated zero-sugar soda while sitting in my car. Parked under a tree in the employee section of the parking lot,

I enjoy a chance to recline back, relax, and have a few smokes. I've been a smoker for years, and I still can't say what's so satisfying about having a smoke after eating, but I do enjoy it. I may be a bit of a chain smoker, but with a life as miserable as mine is, vices are the only thing keeping me somewhat sane. I take the time to scratch the $5 scratcher with a quarter I found in the dead guy's apartment. With ten chances to win, I've lost all hope after the ninth number doesn't match. Scratching off the final chance, I don't see a number, but one of those odd symbols that

indicate an automatic winner. Winning on the last chance almost never happens. I quickly scratch under the symbol to see how much I won. The prize is $2, but that doesn't make any sense. The smallest prize any scratch-off ticket can dish out is the price of the ticket itself. Looking at the rules on the back, I see the symbol is a times 10 winner. I just turned five bucks into 20, which means I can actually buy a round tonight when I meet up with friends at the bar. It sucks when you can't contribute and friends take pity on you.

I'll never turn down a free beer, but it still sucks. Getting back to 1507, I go to put the key in the door, but it swings open at my touch. I know I closed and locked this door. And I've got the only key there is. I nudge the door completely open with my foot and look around. The inside is as I left it, which isn't saying much. As far as I can tell, the only thing different is a roaches that scurry across a small space of visible floor I made earlier. They hadn't been so noticeable with every square inch of floor covered by crap.

Just seeing them makes my skin crawl. Before putting out my rubber gloves and resuming my trash pickup, I go to the bedroom door. As with the front door before I started this morning, the only clear space of floor in the bedroom is behind the door. ignoring the nervousness I can't shake, I push the door open. It's harder than the last time I came in here. Some of the debris must have fallen in the door's path. Shoughing hard, I finally opened the door enough to get through. The room's dark, but not nearly as dark as I'd seen earlier.

I don't waste any time and going straight for the window and pulling back the curtains. Bright sunlight floods the room, and I feel instantly better. Looking over the mess, I feel it's even worse in the front room. But that could be because there's more furniture in here. Something near the ceiling catches my eye and I can't help the audible gulp. They told me the guy hung himself, but seeing the hole above the door sinks home in the truth of it. I've seen more than my share of death, but that was combat. And it hits a lot different here.

I spend the rest of the day in the living room. Fill another 10 bags of trash, found a pocket full of change, and made a clear path from the front door to the kitchen. It'll be a few more days before I get around to tackle in that small room. With all the garbage bags in the dumpster and the clock reading 450, it's time to lock up and head to the shop. As I grabbed the front door handle, I randomly looked behind the door. I don't know why I bothered to look. I just do. There's something back there I never noticed before.

I also don't know how anyone missed this. Hanging on the hook on the back of the door is a jacket. Typically, when we're working in an unoccupied apartment, we keep the front door open. Management doesn't want us running AC and empty apartments, and since it's relatively cool, the open doors help against uncomfortable warmth. tentatively, I grabbed the jacket off the hook and bring it out to the light. It's an old leather jacket, well worn in and in decent shape. It's faded in certain spots, but it doesn't look trashy.

The inside is soft and comfortable. The best flannel shirt I've ever had. Given it a few hard shakes, I try to dislodge any bugs that may be inside. When none come out, I turn it inside out to make sure. There's nothing that I can see, so I decided to try it on. Oddly enough, it fits perfectly. That I test out my ability to bend and flex my arms, I do what any person does when they try on a new jacket.

I put my hands in the pockets. I come into contact with something in the pockets and immediately take my hands out. I hadn't expected there to be anything in them and feeling something startled me. Trying not to be such a wuss, I put my hand back in the pocket and feel some kind of paper inside. Figuring it's more flyers or losing lottery tickets, I take out the contents that throw on the floor. What I pull out is made for more than just paper. And it's green. Cash.

Folded it up and slightly crumpled. I unfold the bills to see singles, fives, tens, and even a few twenties. Reaching into the inside pocket, I find even more bills. There's $83 in the jacket. And for the first time, I'm glad I got stuck with the dead guy's apartment by myself.

If the others found out, I found money they'd be pissed. I'd feel bad about it, but it wouldn't stop me from putting the money in my pocket. finder's keeper is the rule here and i'm glad to adhere to it that and snitches get stitches but that one doesn't come into play movies often i rushed to my car and toss in the jacket before clocking out carlos said i could keep anything i wanted that doesn't mean i want anyone to know that i did i'm the new guy and i'd catch so much crap for wearing dead guy's jacket plus most of them are catholic and superstitious so they'd hassle me about some bad mojure or whatever. After cleaning up the house and getting a quick bite to eat, I meet my friends at the bar down the street.

It's kind of a neighborhood bar that's been there as long as I can remember. But I'd never been inside until I got back from the military. Ever since that first time, I've come up here with my friends for a few beers and to shoot this shit every Friday night. Occasionally we'd shoot pool or throw darts, but most of the time it's just us sitting at a table, smoking up a storm and complaining about whatever's going on in our lives.

Dan usually grumbles about his job in the poor state of the medical community. These biggest issues stem more from politics and bureaucratic nonsense, mostly because he has a governmental job. Theo has a tendency to complain about the dumb stuff his kids get up to, and when his wife gets annoyed with him for what he refers to as nothing in particular, we all know it's a load of crap, but this is a safe space and we respect each other enough not to point that out. My biggest complaints range from the crap I went through with the Army and VA to having so much trouble finding a job. At least now I get to talk about my new crappy job.

Believe or not, we do occasionally have positive things to say, but not very often. I do mention my winning scratch-off and order a round for the table. Got a love happy orange sheet beer. Of course, I tell them about dead guy's apartment and the weird vibes I've been getting. They even seem to get creeped out by my seeing that open. door that wasn't really open. I knew Theo would get creeped out, but not so much the other two. Lee urges me to be careful.

He says there are things in the world that can't be explained by science, and if what they say about that guy is true, there could be some otherworldly things going on in that apartment. I'd been counting on these guys to tell me I was being a wuss over nothing. Instead, I get a lecture about hauntings being a result of psychic scarring, another creepy stuff. For as long as I've known, Lee, he's never talked about stuff like this as if we're real. He's more into science, computers, and sci-fi stuff.

He doesn't like horror or anything scary when it comes to movies, TV shows, and books. Unless that's something like aliens, if it's considered horror, he won't touch it. This night has not been as helpful as I'd hoped. But there's plenty of beer. One day comes around and the workday starts, always does. As a group, we drag our feet while patrolling for litter. None of us are overly enthusiastic about it.

A big surprise there. At one point, I just stopped walking and staying in the same spot for five minutes to smoke a cigarette. Once I'm done, I dropped the butt, ground my shoe into it, pick it up with a grabber, and congratulate myself on a job well done. Carlos gets a laugh out of it and asks to bum one off me. The rest of the day progresses with assignments being doled out. two of the guys are prepared to make another two are working on getting an apartment ready for rent

Carlos is going to be on roofs working on AC units me I get to go back to 1507 and clean all day I expect something strange creepy to happen but nothing does same with the next day Wednesday isn't so lucky I've gotten into the kitchen and seriously want to just drop a lit match and a pool of lighter fluid on the floor.

There's so much nasty crap on the floor, like a handful of lollipops that melted to the linoleum floor in a heap. I try to pry it off, but the nasty mass won't budge. My frustration level maxes out and I kick at it with my boot. Oh, that had been a huge mistake. My foot breaks the sticks of the lollipops free and does nothing to stop my feet. foot from connecting with the baseboard underneath the cabinet. My boot hits the board and keeps going, making a giant hole.

Like a damn broke. Bugs of all shapes and sizes flow out and a gut-wrenching movement that has me dry heaving as I run out the front door. I flail about trying to get the bugs off me. So much profanity comes out of my mouth to make a sailor blush. I do this long and loud enough gets people's attention. Thankfully, Carlos is one of them. He'd been on his way to check on my progress when he heard my ranting.

There aren't any more bugs on me, but I swear I still see and feel him. Carlos grabs me by the shoulders to get my attention and ask what's going on. He visibly cringes when I tell him. Being the big guy he is, Carlos has to prove that he's not afraid of some bugs and goes inside to see how bad it is. Less than a minute he comes running out screaming like a little girl. He's got less of the bugs crawling on him than I had, and he's rolling around on the grass as if he's on fire. I thought I'd been swearing, but I'm a choir boy compared to the things coming out of this man's mouse. Once he's finally satisfied that he's got all the bugs off him, he gets to his feet and gets on the radio.

We stand there for ten minutes smoking when Eric finally shows up with a box of bug bombs. We pry open the bedroom window, shake the cans vigorously, and toss him into the two points of egress. It reminds me of my time overseas when we raided a building loaded with insurgents. We close up the window and lock the door. I spend the rest of the day on sunny rooftops with Carlos working on AC units. Every once in a while, the memory of those disgusting things crawling on me comes back, and I involuntarily shiver. It doesn't go unnoticed, but Carlos doesn't say anything.

At the end of the day, we're back in the shop putting tools away. Eric couldn't keep his mouth shut and told everyone about the incident. They re-g-a-g-gaw me for a while and Carlos tells him to knock it off, but it didn't entirely stop him. At one point, I swear I'd feel something crawling on my shoulder. As quick as I can, I grab whatever it is, crunch it in my grip and throw it off. Eric yelps in pain because I nearly broke two of his fingers. Serves him right.

It's Thursday now and the crew is still making comments about bugs, but doing in such a way as to not be considered harassment. Some days you want to light your coworkers on fire. And this is one of those days. Leah has promised me many times over the years that I wouldn't do well in small and closed spaces, so going to prison isn't in my best interest. Deciding to skip finishing the kitchen today,

I'm going to start in on the bedroom. In the process, I come across something that will help me get back at the crew, knowing how superstitious they can be. At the end of the shift, we're back in the shop putting tools away when one of the guys notices a square foot mirror hanging on the wall. It hadn't been there this morning, and none of them know where it came from. I casually tell them I found it in dead guys' apartment, and they all freak out.

They start talking about curses, bad omens, and souls being trapped in mirrors. Pretty much all the typical superstitious idiocy that comes with recent death in mirrors. I laugh my ass off how seriously freak they all are. At least I do until Carlos comes into the shop. He is unamused, but understanding about me getting them back for the bug harassment, I pick up the mirror and return it to 1507 before leaving for the day. Opening the front door, I walked through the open bedroom door

and placed the mirror back on the wall where I found it. I don't know why I bothered to put it back. The stupid thing is just going to end up in the dumpster. anyway. My mind must have been on autopilot. But I step away from it and see a shadow behind me in the reflection. The world around, but all I see is the blank white wall. My imagination's getting the better of me again. Or that's what I'm telling myself. The front door slammed shut and I jump at how loud unexpected it is. Did the guys follow me back here to screw with me more? I figured they'd lay off after their reaction to the mirror, but I guess I was wrong.

There's very little light in the apartment, but enough for me to see there's no one in here. I planned on being quick in and out, so I hadn't bothered to turn the lights on. Reaching for the door now, about hear someone call my name from the bedroom. Did I leave my radio in there and Carlos is calling for me again? I swear I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached. reluctantly I start going back to the bedroom and the voice calls out to me again I freeze in the middle of the room

there's an obvious difference between a voice on a walkie-talkie and one coming from a person's mouth this doesn't sound like it's coming from my radio and I'm pretty damn sure I put it on the charger before coming back this way rushing back to the door I pull on the knob with the door as an opening the lock isn't engaged and nothing's blocking it

on this side. The skin at the back of my neck begins to crawl as I feel a presence behind me. I was hoping someone's out there holding the door closed, but I'm beginning to suspect I pissed off their guy's ghost. I once read the ghosts gain more power the more attention to give them. This thing's holding the door closed, and I don't want it to gain more power. Refusing to turn around and look whatever's behind me, I keep pulling on the doorknob. It gives a little and the door opens a crack

But I lose my grip and it slams closed again Panics gripping me as I feel whatever's in the room getting closer In desperation I plant a foot on the wall next to the door Hold the knob with both hands and pull as hard as I can Brilliant light fills the room as I finally get the damn door open I pull with such force that I fall backward landing hard on the ground That horrible presence I felt is gone but only for now.

I don't bother locking doors I leave. If I wasn't so desperate for money, I quit this lousy job and let someone else deal with whatever the hell that was. I can no longer claim it's just my imagination getting the better of me. Maybe Carlos knows a priest I can consult with. Reluctantly, I show up for work on Friday. During the litter patrol, I asked Carlos if you can spare one of the guys to help me with 1507.

Unfortunately, there's a large workload for repairs and active apartments, and he can't spare anyone. I want to tell him what happened yesterday, but I don't want to sound crazy. Any time a veteran starts talking about anything that could be considered remotely disturbed or delusional, people start claiming it's PTSD. I really hate it when people assume I have that when I don't. There are plenty of vets out there that suffer from. but I'm not one of them. I like to consider myself a level-headed, moderately intelligent person.

More than anything, I want to believe my imagination screwing with me in 1507. But I can't shake the uneasy feeling in my stomach. After what happened yesterday, I need to be smarter when I'm in there. That entity or whatever disappeared when the sunlight filled the room. So, I just have to make sure there's always light. First thing I do when I get to the apartment is wedge a bag of garbage between the front door and the door jam. Instead of letting this easily defeated attempt to keep the door open be my only action, I remove the pins and the hinges.

Placing the door against the wall outside the apartment ensures the thing can't keep me from getting out. I do the same thing with the bedroom door as well, and lean it on the opposite wall. Today I drag the couch out of the apartment over at the dumpster. One of the things we do around here is break down furniture before throwing it in the, into dumpsters. Saves on space and helps prevent the trash from overflowing. I like to break things down with the sledgehammer for a couple of reasons. It's a great way to work out some aggression, and it lets you find money that manage to fall in

the cracks. I don't always phone cash, but every once in a while they come across a bill or two. The most I found in a couch was a ten, but it's money I didn't have, so I was happy. It's the little things in life, isn't it? I start off with cutting away the fabric, and as I tear it away, something metallic skids across the asphalt. It's a key, but smaller than the average key. Not like those tiny ones they have for TSA-approved locks,

more like the key for a fire-resistant lockbox. As far as I've seen, there isn't anything like that in the apartment, and even if they had been, I'm sure someone already took it. Although, no one seemed to notice this. this nice leather jacket I'm wearing when I was hanging on the door. My curiosity gets better of me and I go back inside. Half the bedroom is littered with religious flyers and saints cards, but nothing a lockbox could hide under.

I debate whether to look in the kitchen cabinets or not when something catches my eye. The air vent above the bed. It's a good thing I trash the couch first because it was a toss-up between the couch and the bed. Using the flathead screwdriver, I unscrew the vent and pry it loose. Sure enough, there's a black metal box in the vent. It takes me a minute to maneuver the box out, while I'd I manage it without jamming up my fingers. Plopping down on the edge of the bed, I put the key in the lock and pop it open.

The inside's an old notebook. One of those thick five-subject spiral that I haven't seen since I was in high school. Opening the first page, it quickly becomes clear that this is a little bit of the same. is a journal of a very sick individual. I can't stop reading. And the more I do, the more nauseous I get. Allegations of pedophilia weren't far off, but from what I read, I didn't actually act on the desires he had.

I light up a cigarette to comb my nerves. This guy would target a teenage girl, follow her around, learn her schedule, and work up a bio. He kept meticulous notes and records, going so far as to somehow knowing when his target was on her period. He'd stock a target for four months before moving on to the next one. There are several pictures in the spiral, all surveillance-style photos. That'd seen similar pictures when I was overseas and we got target packages for missions. Dead guy even went so far as to plan out when, where, and how he'd abduct his target.

He somehow managed to keep himself from ever actually doing it. I skip over the entries about what he'd like to do to them. My stomach isn't strong enough for that. I'm so glad this sick bastard killed himself. If I had known about this when he was still alive, I'd have killed him on principle alone and slept well afterwards. I skip over the majority of the middle and get to the final pages. Towards the end, his urges were getting so strong he couldn't hide

him from his wife, especially when their daughter turned 15. Apparently his urges didn't mind a little incest, and I close a journal. I'm able to read any more of this filth. Putting it back in the lockbox, I take a deep drag off my cigarette. I've always known there's evil in this world, but never have I been this close to it. No wonder there's a malicious presence in this apartment. I breathe out, letting the smoke escape my lips. It catches something in the air in front of me, forming a shape.

I jump back with a shriek when I see a face and the smoke grinning at me. The bathroom door slammed shut, and the bedroom door that I removed gets slammed against the doorway. I should have taken it outside with the other one. Picking up the lockbox, I hurled it at the window. praying all the horror movies I've seen are wrong. Instead of bouncing off the window that somehow become unbreakable, the metal box smashes through the glass. Glancing back, I see more to the ghost than just a face now.

My dropped cigarette is burning the trash it landed on, filling the room with smoke. I launched myself out the window, just missing the lockbox in my landing. The ghost screams out at me as the entire. entire apartment is engulfed in flames. Thankfully, the other residence building 15 relocated before I got here. I may lose my job because of this. But I've got one hell of a story for the bar tonight. I'd say it's fair trade.

For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, Pandora's Antique Box, take a number, written by known of consequence, and narrated. by Michelle Kane. Hocking the front door, I loudly exhale with relief.

It has been a long day for me. I normally don't get a lot of customers in a day, let alone that many in an hour. Half the people didn't even buy anything, and I didn't get to spend time getting to know any of them. Thankfully, none of them were referrals. The last thing I ever want to do is neglect a referral. What is really getting to me is the people who did buy an antique in the last hour. As I said, I didn't get to know any of them, so I had no idea how to steer them to a specific item, though that last lady deserves what she gets.

She had been rude, impatient, and discourteous not only to me but to my other customers. Happily, the metronome she purchased will do a lot more than produce. a steady pulse to help her musical rhythm. My Latin still isn't where it needs to be to outright read the catalog cards for my items, but I got the gist. Item 19038 had simply been labeled Metrono. So few of my antiques are given ominous names, even though they all deserve it. From what I gleaned, it is a level two enchanted item. It'll take about it. It'll take about it. a week or two, depending how often it's used, for the effects to take hold. I think it drives the user insane. Something along the lines of making them hear the... At odd moments. It could be all

moments. I honestly couldn't tell. I'd have to go over it in more detail to figure it out, but I don't have the energy. If I really want to know, I can just read about it in the Chronicles. Turning away from the door, I find the shop oddly darker than it was a moment ago. The lighting in here is always muted. There aren't any fluorescent lights in the ceiling because it would completely change the atmosphere. All the light in here comes from the old lamps with shades that give off a yellowish glow. They may not be very bright, but they provide enough light to see everything in the store easily. In this moment, I'm lucky to be able to make out the general shade.

shapes of things. As I make my way through the antiques, one lamp seems to be brighter than the others. It sits next to a high-backed chair that I've never seen before, with black leather, clothed legs, and oddly shaped arms. It's definitely something I would have noticed before. It looks anything but comfortable and gives me the creeps. I know it wasn't delivered recently, So where did it come from? Something moves from behind the chair. With as tall as the back is, it easily hid the six-foot-tall-person. Hello, Leanna.

The voice is deep and weathered, like a man that smoked way too many cigarettes. I have been dying to meet you. There are a lot of questions going through my head, but I don't ask any of them. No one who came into the shop today was that tall, and the back door is bolted shut. Like the chair, I have no idea where this guy came from. I consider picking up something heavy to swing at him, but that could be very dangerous in here. The safest thing I could use is my pen, but I'd have to be up close and personal to stab him with it. My uninvited guest can sense my tension, because the next words out of his mouth are,

I mean you no harm. Please, have a seat. He places a stool a few feet in front of the mystery chair. It's the one I keep behind the counter, so I don't have to be on my feet all day. It also happens to be the one item in the shop that isn't an antique or mystical in any way. Unlike cash register isn't mystical either, but it is an antique. Aside from appearing out of nowhere and being completely shrouded in shadow, this person has to be. hasn't done anything ominous. Things appear out of nowhere in this shop all the time, but not like this. The only thing that's remotely close to this is when I get inventory deliveries. I've owned this shop about a year, and I still have never seen who delivers my inventory. There's just a knock at the back door, and a crate is sitting there by the time I open the door. I decide to sit down, but I ask if whoever I'm speaking to could introduce himself and come into light.

I like to know and see who I'm talking to, especially in these unusual circumstances. Not that I've had a lot of circumstances like this. Forgive my rudeness. My name is Abidon, and I was an associate of your grandfather. He steps into the light, and I kept my first guy. clear look at him. The black suit is impeccable with a shirt and tie to match. What skin I see is an odd burnt orange, but not like the color you get out of a box of crayons. This is more like the skin of an orange that was dangled a little too close to a fire. There even appear to be scorch marks. He doesn't wear shoes because his feet wouldn't fit into them, not with as thin and long as

they are, not to mention the insane nails on them, slightly curved and pointy. His hands share a striking resemblance to the feet. After I came to terms and accepted the truth about Pandora's, I figured this day would eventually come. This can be no other than the devil, Grandpa Lucas made his deal with. He described him as devilishly handsome, and I truly get the joke now. Aside for, for you, from his coloring and the horns poking through his fire yellow hair, I can see a moderately handsome face. Instead of running for the hills like any rational person would do, I sit on the stool as he takes up residence in the chair he obviously brought with him. Out of all the demons in all the world, this one is the last that would want to do me harm. As long as I keep selling

my cursed antiques, Abadon's arrangement. with Grandpa Lucas is intact. First off, I would like to commend you on a job well done. You acclimated to these unique circumstances rather well for someone of your generation. I take it as the compliment it's meant to be, which only proves what he said. Someone else my age would probably get offended. As I see it, there are way too many snowflakes out there, and I like them about as much as Gen X does.

I would also like to congratulate you on your new business model. Selling to victims for the purpose of revenge is quite inspired. You've become a bit of a hero to my faction. I don't know what that means, and I make the mistake of saying so. Abidon is candid with me and explains that he runs the section of hell where people who die by using cursed objects are sent. It used to be that a lot of those people weren't all that bad and hardly deserved being tortured for eternity. Thanks to me, those who really do deserve it are receiving their just desserts, and it makes his demons happy.

Take Chef Maurice, for instance. In life, he had drugged and raped a number of barely legal women in his employ. His reward for such treatment was a sandwich press that ultimately got him cannibalized by his staff. Now he resides in hell where he gets red-hot pokers shoved into his spine to paralyze him, not to the point where he can't feel anything. He's simply immobilized. From there, he is continuously sodomized with a wide variety of things that I'd rather not know about. After several hours of this, he is flayed alive and forced to eat his own skin after it's been cooked over an open flame. The surprising, not to mention disturbing, part of that is even after the skin is removed, Maurice still feels everything that happens to it. I can't even imagine that. Not only watching, but feeling stripped.

of your own flesh, sizzling over an open fire, then having it shoved into your mouth, forced to chew, swallow, and digest it, all the while feeling what's happening. Truly mind-boggling, but deserving for that loathsome pace of shit. After that lengthy, disturbing explanation, Abadon continues,

I understand that you've been morally strove, with your work. Not all cases are as clear-cut as Chef Maurice. There have been times where the customer is one you believe is deserving of the old business model over your new one. Well, I've brought you something to help with this trouble. The light next to Abedon gets brighter and illuminates something that hadn't been there a moment ago. Or at least I hadn't noticed. At this point, I'd believe either, but it doesn't really matter. It's one of those taken number ticket dispensers on a stand. Today is probably the only day I would have needed it. I don't exactly get a lot of customers in at the same time. Of course, as it is with everything in this place, there's more to it than meets the eye.

Abidon hands me a small royal purple book. It's just like the tomes and the chronicles and my inventory list, but about half the size. Once someone takes a number, the first available page in the small tone will fill up with information. Name, age, profession, and something called alignment will be at the top. Everything after will be a brief biography. It's been a while since I last played D&D, but this basically sounds like a character sheet generator. The only difference is it's about a real person instead of a made-up character. The entire purpose behind this is to give me insight on the people who come into my shop. It takes me a while to feel a person out, but this will mainstream the process and prevent

me from misreading people. No longer will I have to wonder if I just helped a good person in a bad situation or screwed over an innocent. Well, that, and it'll help me provide more fitting items. I can't wait for the next douchebag to walk through my door. I've got some choice nasties I've kept locked up in the display cases. I'm talking level four or five items that I can't leave lying around in fear of some unsuspecting customer picking them up and activating them.

Think of them as live hand grenades, but they'll do much worse than explode. Hello, Leona. My hope this eases your mind, Leanna. I'd hate for you to lose any more sleep. I know your first sale weighs heavy on you still. Leonardo had been a duchy hipster who impatiently coerced me into selling him a typewriter. He ultimately ended up in hell dimension of his own creation and according to the Chronicles is still being tortured. That's not what bothers me about selling him the typewriter. The thing that has weighed on me is that,

I sold a cursed antique without knowing what I was doing. I hadn't even officially opened the shop, nor did I understand what the antiques really are. I could have easily sold the typewriter to someone that didn't deserve to be ripped apart and mended only to be ripped apart again. That uncertainty is what makes me so cautious, and makes me take an hour or so to get to know a customer. Now, don't get me wrong.

I'm not going to stop getting to know my customer. customers, I will continue to talk with them, get them to open up to me, and eventually trust me. Having a character sheet will only help the process along. This is probably going to be my second favorite item in the shop, just behind the shopkeeper's pen. I thank Abidon, and he departs without using a door. He said his goodbye, shook my hand, and all the lights came back up. As I blinked against the sudden brightness, he simply wasn't there anymore. The next day, I open the shop and move the number dispenser next to the door. While I wait for someone to come in, I sit behind the counter and go over my financials.

My laptop looks out of place on the counter, but I've long since stopped worrying about that. I have my pocket ledger open and work to compare my handwritten entries to the online statements. Being this responsible makes me feel like a real adult and in a good way. After a while I hear the bell over the door ring. Immediately I pick up the landline, pretend to be listening to someone on the other end. All the while, I have the small purple tome in my other hand open to the first blank page. After a few seconds, the page fills itself out. That always trips me up, even though I'm used to it by now.

Her name is Darla Ben's, 35 Live-in Nanny with an evil alignment. Those four things already paint quite a picture, but I read through the bio quickly. According to this, she works for a very wealthy family, and she has designs on the father. Recently, the wife passed away in her sleep. The official report claims she died from mixing champagne with a few too many strong sleeping pills. The truth is, Darla poisoned the unsuspecting woman to get her out of the way. What I read next chills me down to the bone. She's already started slipping small amounts of heavy metal into the children's food.

I can't imagine killing anyone to get a man especially children. A tall blonde in designer jeans and a tight sweater clicks her heels on the floor as she strolls up to the counter. I mumble a few things into the phone, making it sound like I'm talking to a customer about a special. order. Quickly, I skim the bottom of the page and see a list of interests followed by some possible appropriate antiques. I've already got one in mind, and sure enough, it's the first one listed. I end my phone call and ask how I can help her. I would have detested this bitch, even if I hadn't read her bio. She's one of those self-entitled cunts that loves to look down on everyone, and it has nothing to do with her being a foot taller than me in those heels. Of course, she's looking for

something for herself. A selfish bitch like this wouldn't be shopping for anyone but herself. How the hell did she get a job as a nanny? Darla has a fondness for creamy jade and small animal statues. I direct her to a bookcase full of small statues, and she immediately zeroes in on the jade. tiger. I hate this woman so much. I'd spend an entire dinner with Abadon while he tells me about his work, then listen to Darla talk. Looking up item 19302, I see the suggested price is $500. So I tell her the price is $1,500. After five minutes, we settle on $1,200, and she smirks at talking me down. Oh, I am going to enjoy reading about what happens to her tonight in the Chronicles. In the meantime, I grab the card from the catalog and read over the description.

The Jade Tiger is one of the fastest working antiques in the shop. Most things take at least a couple days for people to start feeling something, but not this one. It's also a lot more straightforward than most items and affects exactly one, person, the one who identifies as owning it. Once Darla falls asleep, the tiger will wake up and grow to full size. The description is unclear as to the tiger's appearance, so I have no idea if it will look like a real tiger or still be jade. It will then proceed to grab Darla by the back of her neck with its teeth and drag her away. No matter how loud she screams or how close anyone is, is no one will hear or see her or the tiger. It's also unclear how the tiger gets her out of the

house, but it will. Once outside, Darla will be carried to an isolated place and slowly eaten. Oddly, this part is very descriptive. The tiger will start with her feet, ripping off her flesh and muscles until it gets to the bone. Then it moves higher. Darla will be able to feel it all, even try to fight against the enormous cap, but nothing she does will stop it. The tiger will eat every morsel all the way to her head. After stripping her scalp, those powerful jaws will crack, open her skull, and scoop out the brains with its tongue. Darla will feel all of it, right down to being digested, broken down with stomach acid, and being a shit out. I hadn't even seen that part coming. It reminds me of what Abidon said was happening to

Chef Maurice. I thought that would be the end of it, but it's not. As the tiger digests, it will gnaw on Darla's bones and break a few to suck out the marrow. After everything is consumed and expelled, the tiger will disappear, leaving Darla's skeleton behind. That's still not the end for the murderous nanny. She will still feel everything that happens to her bones, and eventually her spirit will be driven insane. Once she gets to the point of becoming a poltergeist, she'll be sent down to Abidon. I'd say that was a good sale. 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.

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