Creepy - ASMR

Episode Date: September 27, 2021

Just listen...***Written by Mark Towse and narrated by Megan McDuffee***Content warning: Self harm***Bonus: "If you look for him, you'll find him" written by Her Creation***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Listener discretion is advised. Presence. A. S.M.R. Written by Mark Tauze and narrated by Megan McDuffie. Cassie was a loner, all right, kept herself to herself, and her eyes pinned to the floor. Always dressed in winter uniform, regardless of the season, long sleeves, low hem, and shoes that looked impossibly heavy. Looking back, aside from the occasional glance in the school corridor,

and the time I made the mistake of breathing in as she walked by. I can't say I ever paid her much attention. She just wasn't part of the clique. I do remember the one time our hands touched on the way to class, and we got one of those static charges that lit her face in a way I'd not seen before. It might have been her idea of some form of connection, perhaps, but I sure as hell didn't need any more fans. There were enough kids already circling.

and fussing. Safe to say, I felt nothing for her. As much empathy towards the girl as I did my hairbrush, perhaps less. That sounds harsh, but the brush I'm talking about is gold-plated, heavy and ornate, and a present from Mum for good grades. Can't bear the sight of it now. I used to spend ages on my hair in front of the mirror, making sure all the tats were out, applying all sorts of products to maintain

Sheen, then I'd work on my skin, giving it the full treatment, followed by lips and eyebrows. It was a long process, but the regime was critical. People noticed if you weren't on top of your game, the important ones anyway. I was slipping fast, though. The dark circles under my eyes were getting heavier when it was becoming a struggle to conceal them. My hair was getting brittle, too, duller even, and not to mention the headaches. They could sense it, the others in the group, my decline, like vultures they gathered, offering false sentiment and pity, especially Beck, next in line to the throne for homecoming queen.

God, she looked amazing the other week when she came to visit, skin as smooth as butter, and deep blue eyes surrounded by the whitest of whites, like some of the same. Something from a TV advert or magazine. No question. She's the prettiest now. It wasn't just my looks. I was the smartest girl in school, too. The full package, Mom used to say.

But it was to be expected. My dad, a high-flying lawyer, and Mama CMO at a startup with a body that could still turn teenage heads. The Wilson's. The perfect family. The pressure was becoming a little. Extraordinary, though, that one vein in my head ceaselessly drumming towards a seemingly unreachable crescendo. Once, in class, I fell asleep at my desk, awoken by Cassie poking a rolled-up piece of paper into my palm. She smiled, but I gave her nothing.

It was only in the corridor that I unfurled the note to find a time and a link to a website. The letters, ASMR, scrawled underneath. had gushed about it before, she swore by it. She told me she was getting eight hours straight and waking up every morning feeling like a million dollars. She looked like it, for sure. Anyway, I tried the link, but it was just some guy making popping sounds with his mouth as he fumbled around with a bit of bubble wrap, churned my stomach rather than giving me what she referred to as the tingles. Just some freak, cashing in on a fad and the endless casket. of vulnerable folk.

I doubt desperation has inspired many fruitful pursuits, but I figured I'd give it a try. Exhausted that night, I remember crashing on the bed, taunted by drowsiness, like an unreachable oasis in the desert. It was only 7.56 p.m., but my body felt impossibly heavy, as though it somehow skipped a night's sleep,

like that jet-lagged feeling I had after the family trip to Montreal. After retrieving the note from my pocket and grabbing the laptop and earphones from the bedside table, I rolled onto my side and positioned the screen a few inches from me. I remember having second thoughts as I typed out the link, feeling so tired that I could possibly drift away of my own accord. But that was how I felt previous nights too, and sleep had still managed to evade me.

Besides, we had gym class the next day. The use of makeup would be minimal, and people would surely notice. I plugged in my earphones and hit return. The first thing I heard was who I assumed to be her father bellowing from downstairs. It was tinny, but loud enough for me to make out. You bring me another beer, girl, or you know what'll happen. The screen showed what I assumed to be Cassie's bedroom. Drab walls, not so far apart, and impossible to tell what color they used to be.

The bed was shoved against the far wall, covered with a duvet that might once have been white. It gave me a cold feeling just by looking at it. Not an ounce of personality. No posters, photos, fluffy cushions, or anything to indicate comfort and homeliness. Dirty, too. Not like mine is. Was. Mom was always so meticulous about cleaning my room. It was as though I could smell poverty in her house,

just like that time I got too close to her in the corridor. It made me feel a sharp pang of pity, but it dissipated quickly as the urgency for perfection took over. She came in at 7.59 p.m., closing the door behind her. You're already here, she said, her face lighting up as she skipped over. to the desk, much like the way it did when we accidentally touched. The dim light of her room made her eyes appear even more sunken and exaggerated the mustache growing above her top lip. Part of me wanted to reach out, to connect, to try to understand her.

Ashamedly, though, the bigger part wanted to sleep, and the whole idea of becoming embroiled in her story made me even more exhausted. I am. What do we do now? Get comfy. She replied, I replied, deep breaths. I remember thinking it was the first time I'd heard her string more than one word together. She didn't appear nervous as she did at school. In control was how I would have described her. She positioned herself behind the small desk at the bottom of the screen. Next to her laptop, the one with the smashed screen that she used for school,

there was a microphone and a gray plastic bag. Close your eyes. She whispered, but I heard it was best if you watched, too. That comes later. Close your eyes. And I did. I let my head fall against the soft but uncomfortable pillow. We're going to start by giving you a makeover.

Her voice was low and soft, soothing. Nothing special, just a basic self-care routine. We'll begin with a little hydration. cream. There was a rustle of what I assumed to be the plastic bag. It will feel cool, but nicely so. Just relax. It sounded as though she was twisting a lid back and forth, perhaps three or four times, accompanied by a soft popping sound from her mouth that was far from unpleasant. She was repeating the letter T, rapid fire, or at least it sounded like that. But then she started leaving longer gaps. To me, it felt as though time itself was slowing. And I went with it. I felt at ease,

mellow. What followed sounded like hands rubbing together, quickly at first, but gradually slowing. It continued for some time, until she softly uttered, I'm going to apply this now. Light touching of the microphone followed, but I swear to God, I felt the soft touch of fingertips running across my face. I knew I was on the ride until the end. Just a bit of foundation now, she said, tapping against something that again induced a rather pleasant effect. More brushing against the microphone followed.

And then I felt them. The tingles. We'll apply some blusher now. More of that gentle popping with her lips and what sounded like something soft, gently stroking against the microphone. I have to make sure we get an even application, she whispered. Let's just add some of this blush cream. We have some raspberry and light dusk.

Let's mix them up a little. More tapping followed, and my body started to feel even heavier. I don't know how much time passed until she spoke again. How do you feel? Fantastic. And I did. More tapping followed. It felt as though something was drumming against my skull, but again, not unpleasantly.

It was a soft rhythmic sensation that seemed to be emptying my mind of anything but that moment in time. To brush your hair now, she whispered into the microphone, accompanied by another short and sharp rustle. I assumed she pulled out a brush and was working. at her own matted mess, as what sounded like static, initially fed through the earphones. Eventually, it settled into something much softer in uniform. I remember smiling at the comfort it brought, a blanket of security, as I imagined myself in

front of the mirror, running the bristles down the length of my fine, golden hair, sunshine leaking through my bedroom window, and bringing in the scent of Jasmine. I was me again, eyes bright and ready. to take on the world. It started from the top of my scalp and dispersed across the rest of me like a low, electrical charge. Mild euphoria is how I would have explained it, aroused, and relaxed at the same time. The image of my reflection filled my mind as the surrounding furnishings faded to a cosmos of blackness. It was just me, floating, not weighted down by anything, by anyone. I felt free, untethered, as though all the negative energy had been released into the darkness around me, sent off, never to return.

But I was far from free. I was in her world now. She made more of the popping sounds, eventually slowing them down until I wondered if the next one was coming. You can open your eyes now, she said. As my vision adjusted, the first thing I noticed was the markings on her arms. She had rolled the sleeves up to reveal skin, covered from wrist to elbow, in scar tissue. Some of the wounds looked recent. Remnants of dried blood, surrounding raised bumps. Some were faded and old.

The floaty feeling was already leaving, replaced by a heaviness that made me feel as though the bed was swallowing me. Cassie, what? I hate you. Her thick eyebrows met in the middle, framing narrowed eyes, but ones that still somehow monopolized the screen. Don't you know that, Athena? I fucking hate you.

I remember trying to push myself up, but I couldn't move, not even a finger. My heart had already picked up its pace. More tingles made their presence known, but the kind that warned you to run. to get away all you can. I had nothing. It has an energy, Athena.

Hate. All this time, couldn't you feel and smell it? Haven't your headaches been getting stronger? The drumming in your head while you're trying to get your ever-so-precious beauty sleep? What? What heart? The day our hands touched in the corridor. Didn't you feel the surge of energy?

We're connected, Athena. Hatred is the bond. And now, without all the noise, without your swarms of adoring fans, it's just you and me. The signal is strong. All this time, I was trying to move, but it felt like I was trapped within a cloud of heaviness, as if she somehow put me under hypnosis or induced some form of sleep paralysis. My heart was thumping against my chest, and the pressure was. becoming unbearable. I focused all my efforts on moving an arm, but I had no sensation at all.

I think you did feel it, Athena, but your ego still brought us together. Shear desperation to hold onto your crown. Tonight, though, you're with one of the peasants, and you'll share my pain. As I watched Cassie pulled the scissors from the bag, I remember not feeling a drop of saliva in my mouth. Swallowing hard, I tried to remove the lump from my throat in preparation to scream. The funny thing about real fear, proper gut-wrenching terror, is that it's generally uncharted, and you never know how you'll react until it's on you. I wondered if I'd be able to scream, or if anyone would even hear my cry. My new mom would likely be downstairs, making tea and sipping on a glass of red. The stereo was thumping out what she called the classics. I guessed Dad

would have been in his study, headphones on and listening to opera, preparing for the big case he had coming up. But just as I was about to release, I felt fabric at the back of my throat, could taste its bitterness even. Cassie's cheeks bulged as she forced another sock into her mouth. I coughed and spluttered, my eventual scream redundant, a muffled rasp that brought water to my eyes an immediate regret at not releasing sooner. She began to lightly run the blade of the scissors across her mangled wrist, and I could feel its coldness across my skin. Blood pumped impossibly fast in my ears, and I thought I was going to pass out. I remember hoping that I would. Let's play a game.

Even though her mouth was stuffed, her voice was crystal clear through the earphones. Can you guess what I'm writing? I prayed for footsteps up the stairs. I prayed to hear Mom calling that dinner was ready. Concentrate! I even began to think that perhaps I was having a nightmare, that the ASMR had worked and I was in a deep sleep. The taste, though, the tickle of...

fibers at the back of my throat and the sharpness against my skin. It all felt so real. They were letters. I knew that much. We used to play it at school, using perfectly manicured nails on each other's skin to write secret messages, or sometimes just for kicks, because it felt nice. Not with her, though. A. T. H. She was spelling my name. Always excluded. Her voice screamed into my ears. Delayed, perhaps by a second, possibly longer. The pain finally exploded through me.

Every nerve ending, screaming in protest. The room started to spin around as I studied the impossible hole in my wrist. She continued to wriggle the blade back and forth, causing vibrations of agony to work their way up my arm. Moving her face closer to the screen, she searched me with her eyes. I could hear the blood whooshing around my body, and I began to feel even woozier as I watched some of it spill from the wound. You're not going to die. Not yet. Her voice spoke calmly into my ears.

It's called a cry for attention, one that wouldn't have gone unanswered if it was Princess Athena making the call. She creased her face and worked the blade in some more. Christ, even your name sent shivers down my spine. The pain fired up again, but eventually dampened to a dull stabbing. Perhaps my body finally entering shock mode. It felt like I was in a dark tunnel with something else, something evil that had my scent. Narrow walls trapped my shoulders and prevented movement. All I could do was wait.

I could even smell the dankness, the misery, and I knew that it was coming from her, too. A representation of her life forced onto me. Minor relief washed over me as she brought the scissors out, but the dripping blood that trailed across her desk added further granularity to a scene I could no longer put down to a dream. She stared into the camera and smiled, menacing grin that looked even. more inane with her cheeks stuffed. Your skin needs a little more sheen, Athena. Have you not exfoliated recently? The dreaded rustling of the bag followed. Until that day, fear was unknown to me, always so protected usually, carried above real life on my chariot of ego by friends and family.

The only horror I'd witnessed was in movies or on the news. But as I lay there, Unable to move, to cry for help. It felt like I was getting more than my fair share. The only things my body seemed capable of were the basic functions of keeping me alive, and I'd already started to wonder how long for. I can't do it anymore, Athena. I've tried, as you can see, but it's not enough.

Nobody listens to my cries. It didn't register at first, what she brought out of the bag next, Perhaps again, in the way my body reacted to the pain, it was my mind trying to protect me. The hooked handle, the dullness of the silver, the holes on each side with the raised metal, there was just no way. Unlike with the scissors, I felt the pain immediately as the greater ran down the side of her face. I screamed internally, deafening cries that I know only she could hear.

Pain manifested in a series of pulsating and blinding white lights that felt like little bombs going off inside my head. She continued moving the greater up and down, veins popping from her skin and muscles tense with effort as she ripped away with ever-increasing intensity. I could feel my skin tearing, giving way, but not easily. Metal teeth piercing and chewing laboriously the softness. With teeth clenched, she brought the greater down the side of her face once more, and we moaned in unison. Even with my face feeling like it was on fire and through my futile silent screams, I saw the lone tear escaping down the side of her cheek, the one that wasn't already a mangled mess of red and hanging skin. Finally, she stopped, folding across her desk in a quivering wreck of sobs.

My body was becoming infested with agony, but it wouldn't produce a single tear. I could see the raised mess my face had become through peripheral vision and could feel the stickiness oozing down my throbbing skin. At that moment, I prayed I would make it out alive, sure that she had no intention of leaving things there. When Cassie lifted her head to admire her handiwork, even she winced at the result. Moving her face close to the camera, she took out the ball of twisted socks and rasped.

How does it look? They heard footsteps then, and I was filled with hope. I remember thinking it must have been mum, wondering why I'd not come down for dinner. Cassie arched her neck as though she could hear it too, her breathing quick and shallow. They could no longer taste or feel the fabric in my mouth. I swallowed once, then screamed as loud as I could. until my voice croaked. And then I heard the knock at the door

and thought it was over. But then I wondered why someone would knock if they heard me screaming. Cassie, the voice in my ears said. It was the same gruff voice I'd heard when I first clicked the link and realized it was her door, not mine. She sighed, brought a knife out of the plastic bag,

and held the blade to her throat. As I felt its sharpness digging into my skin, I tried to scream again. But this time, only a garbled rasp emerged. I genuinely thought I was going to die. My life flashed before me. The endless soire is in small talk. I saw my parents' face looking down at me, getting further and further away as I was lowered into the ground.

Such high hopes, too. Cassie looked back towards the kids. camera, her face a watery pink miss. Sorry, was all I could think to say. I watched her bedroom door slowly begin to swing inwards, offering its moan. Not tonight, Dad, Cassie said, and then the screen dropped out. Mom had to get Dad to drive, as she'd had more than a couple. My scream woke her from a wine-induced nap that, according to Dad, had become all too

frequent of late. I spent a few weeks in hospital, and the doctors did what they could, but even with access to all the specialist equipment that Wilson money could afford, they couldn't perform miracles. I'm not sleeping well. Sometimes I wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, unable to move. Often, I don't even have to be asleep to hear it, the sound of my flesh being ripped and chewed to pieces. It sure gives me the tingles, though. The whole thing is taking its toll on my parents, too. They try, but I see the disappointment in their eyes, possibly resentment even. This was a cry for attention, but a Wilson isn't supposed to cry.

I thought about telling the truth, but who would believe me? And besides, the damage was already done. Mom brushed my hair today. they even started to do my makeup. I saw her beginning to crack, though. I heard the quiver in her voice. She ended up leaving the room in tears halfway through applying my lipstick. She looks so tired and old these days.

I've become nothing but a burden. Have I grown as a result of what I went through? Have I started to embrace the more important things in life? Fuck you! When society revolves around how someone, looks and how wide their smile is on Facebook and Insta. What hope is there for me now? My so-called entourage will be here soon. They used to come to the house a lot, but their visits have become infrequent. There's another in the group now, Bethany. She's pretty, meek,

and mild with it, but I doubt for long. Beck's looking great. I've seen the way the others fuss around her, too, Bethany included. She's taken my... crown and she knows it. The bitch. I fucking hate her. I'd like to. Muffled voices float from downstairs. They're here, I think. Propping myself up, I get ready for the farce. The door creaks and I think of Cassie. Sometimes I try to imagine the fear her creaking door must have evoked. I can't bring myself to be angry with her. Athena, you look gorgeous. Beck sings, the other's mumbling in agreement.

How have you been, my darling? Small talk ensues, gossip really, punctured with conversations about TV shows that I haven't been watching. Usually, Beck sits close to me on the bed, resting a smooth hand sympathetically on my shoulder, but the last time she did that, she snapped her hand away as a charge crackled between us. Beck nods, you're not missing, At school, I mean, just got to get exams out of the way, and then... Prom. I finish.

I'd already lived it out in my head multiple times. Before the incident, of course. Are you coming, Athena, to prom? Bethany asks. The nerve of the girl. Or perhaps just plain dumbness. I shake my head, keeping my eyes fixed on the newly formed cobweb in the corner of the room. Once perfection slips, it seems to slip quickly.

Book me in for the Halloween parties, though, yeah? Beck sighs her fake sympathy. I don't even know if I'll make it to prom. Bloody revision has got me to not sleeping. She steps closer towards me. Can you see my bags, thee? I hate it when she calls me that. I want to rip her fucking throat out.

There are no signs of any bags, though. only flawless skin and those eyes so white against an olive complexion. A little, yeah. I knew it. If I look like this now, what will I look like in a couple of weeks? Cassie was right. Each time I see Beck, the hate-induced energy builds. It's always been there, simmering away.

But now the sight of her makes me feel like my head might explode. Do you remember the girl that cut her? her own throat, I ask. Not something one forgets, Thee. Wasn't her name Tracy? The ignorant bitch replies. It was Cassie. Well, before all that, she helped me out a little, with my sleep.

Have you heard of ASMR? It's a fad, Thie. Liz sent me a couple of weirdos to try, but it doesn't work. That's what I used to think, but I promise you, I'll help you sleep like the dead. What's that? Beck says, beginning to sniff at the air around her. That awful smell. I maintain my smile, a nod,

wrapping her up in my little ball of hate. I'll FaceTime you tonight at 9 p.m. Give you the works. It's giving me one of my bloody headaches, she comments, rubbing at her temple. I let myself sink down until my head is on the pillow and I'm staring at the cobweb again. I think I need to rest now.

See you at nine. No, Beck, yeah? I guess. She mumbles on her way out. Hushed chatter begins as soon as the door closes, even a titter of laughter. They focus on the fly, buzzing its frustration at being trapped and the spider that makes its way toward it. I can't go on like this.

It isn't for me. But if I can't be queen, she won't be either. Your bonus episode. Creepy Presents If you look for him, you'll find him. Written by her creation. Everyone here knows about him, though only some of us know how to find him. Our general understanding of him is fragmented,

with each person carrying a discrete piece of information, some tips or advice. Or maybe they'll carry some anecdotal evidence, like when the kid who sits next to me in math class swears his cousin's girlfriend's brother saw him, but only after he did this one specific thing you've never tried. He's a staple in our town, though few have actually seen him, or perhaps those who have just rarely returned to tell the tale. He's just a man,

but that doesn't stop children from whispering tall tales to each other about him, about how he can grant wishes, like a genie. But not. I heard he can make Santa give you the best toys for Christmas, Sandra claimed on the kindergarten playground. Her eyes wide and full of the uninhibited wonder that belongs only to small children. I heard he made an iPad appear out of nothing.

My best friend Jimmy insisted in the fifth grade, flapping his hands with excitement. I heard he got it. The mallayed, Paul cackled as we changed into our gym clothes on the first day of seventh grade. I'm in eighth grade now, and all of us could still talk about him just as much as we did when we were just little kids. When our only concern was if Miss Peters would let us out to recess on time. We talk about him like we know him, but not like a friend. More like our cool, distant cousin who rides a motorcycle or is in some band.

or that kid from sleepaway camp we were best friends with one summer but can now barely remember or that substitute teacher we had that one time in first grade who brought her snake to school our parents though they don't talk about him anymore they know it's safest to keep their mouths shut one kid lost is enough to scare the rest of the grown-ups into silence and it said that Tommy Baker was lost to him. Kids, though, even older kids like me, were curious and usually not about the stuff they teach in school. Before I found him, I was a loser.

Girls turned their noses up at me. I didn't get nearly enough allowance to buy things I wanted. I had no friends except for Jimmy. I was just a curious kid. down on my luck with nothing to lose. So I went looking for him. Go to that part of town, you know, the place where your parents would kill you if they ever found you there.

Walk up and down the street three times, said Sandra rolling her eyes as she looked up from her book. If you look for him, you'll find him. What street? I asked. She shrugged. Leave me alone. I'm reading. I asked every kid in class with no answer.

Not until Paul. It doesn't matter what street dumbass, he said shaking his head as if it were obvious. He thought he was real hot shit because he was captain of the school of cross team. But he lost a lot of popularity when he got braces last year. Even Chelsea broke up with him, and they practically been dating since third grade. Pick any street in that part of town.

Go after dark. Oh, and don't forget. Bring a pocket full of change. Some kid I'd never even talk to found me in the library later, tapping me on the shoulder to whisper, Jingle the change in your pocket every six steps. Before walking away, back into the graphic novel section,

Jimmy had me over to play games later. Once you've walked up and down the street three times, turn away from the corner and drop a penny, he said over the rapid clicking of the buttons on our controllers. It's got to be face up. Don't know how you can make that happen. But I sure should know you don't want to find out what happens if it doesn't. Do not kick over his cup.

My older sister insisted over dinner that night. Her tone hushed while our mom got up to refill her wine glass. Missy said that's what happened. to Tommy Baker. She's a pathological liar, so I wouldn't believe anything she says, but still. Once I was confident that I knew how to find him, I did exactly as I was told. Jimmy covered for me, seeing I was coming over for a sleepover. But really, I emptied the last 20 or so coins from my change jar,

stuffing my pockets full of the loose change. I walked out the front door as soon as the sun started to dip low under the horizon. and down to the area I was strictly forbidden to ever set foot in. I chose a random street to turn on to, walked up and down the sidewalk three times, jingling the change in my pocket with every sixth step. When I made it back to the corner, I flicked a penny out of my pocket behind me.

I held my breath as it hit the ground, bouncing a couple times before settling flat on one side with a metallic ringing sound. I turned around to picture. it up, relieved to see it fallen face up. Bending over, I pinched my fingers around the coin. As I straightened my back up again, I saw him in the light of the street lamp on the corner. I knew it was him because he hadn't been there before, hadn't appeared until I picked up the penny. He looked just like a normal guy in a pair of frayed jeans and a gray sweatshirt,

sitting on the sidewalk with his back propped up against the fence behind him. His legs were bent and drawn up close to his body. One arm wrapped around them, the other arm outstretched and clutching a worn paper cup in his hand. He had shaky brown hair and his head was down, face resting against his knees. At that moment, I realized I had no idea what to actually do once I saw him. I just stared at him for a few long moments until he moved. Honestly, it scared the shit out of me. Without looking up, he just shook his cup, the coins inside rattling loudly.

Hesidently, I shoved my hand in my pocket and plucked out a few more random coins, a dime, a nickel, and a quarter, and tossed them into his cup along with a penny, not wanting to get too close. He brought the cup closer to his body, folding his arm around. his knees to match the other one. He covered the top of the cup with his hand. My coin's still inside. And with that, I left, racing to Jimmy's house to tell him that I'd found him

what had done. His mom was surprised I'd come over alone after dark. But she ordered us a pizza and we played games all night. When I got home in the morning, my coin jar was full to the brim. Soon, I was visiting. visiting him almost every day. The next time I saw him, I got close enough to see he had things other than change in his cup. Some small trinkets.

Something that maybe looked like a locket, a baby tooth. I tossed five bucks in his cup and came home to a birthday card for my aunt with $50 tucked inside. She hadn't sent me anything for years. A week later, I dropped my lucky eraser in his cup and got an A on my science station. test, even though I hadn't studied at all, and Mr. Roberts' test questions were impossible. I threw a piece of candy in his cup a few days later, and despite eating all the sweets I wanted on Halloween, I came back from the dentist with no cavities. I returned the next day, cradling one of my most prized possessions in the palm of my hand. Reluctantly, I pitched the

trinket. My dad's favorite monopoly piece, the boot, into his cup. Later that night, my dad came into my room and sat on the edge of my bed while I slept, even though he died when I was only six. He told me he loved me, that he hadn't stopped looking out from me just because he was gone from this world. I thought it had all been a dream until I found a pair of his work boots in the corner of my room the next morning. I plucked a few strands of Sandra's hair from the hood of her sweatshirt and went to visit him a couple days after that. I planned on asking her to the eighth grade dance, but I wanted to make sure she'd say yes. I wrapped the stolen hair up in a rubber band, then placed the bundle carefully

into his cup. I waited from to accept the offering like he always did by covering the top of the cup with his hand. Instead, he shook the cup loudly, the coins and various items inside clinging against each other. For a few seconds, I stood there, frozen, until he did it again. The tinny metallic sounds coming even louder as he continued to jerk the cup around over and over again with growing intensity. Loose coins shot up out of the cup with each agitated motion and crashed under the sidewalk. I took a step back, losing my footing on the curb behind me, tumbling down onto the street as he lifted his head from his knees. I scrambled backwards across the pavement on the palms of my hands, and that's when I finally saw his face. I wouldn't have recognized him if it wasn't for

the massive pink birthmark that covered his left cheek. The one I'd always thought looked almost exactly like the country of Brazil. We were studying world geography when he went missing last year. I didn't really know him because he was a high school kid, but had seen his face printed on the missing person posters that littered the neighborhood. He was Tommy Baker, but he was different. Instead of the piercing green eyes, I'd seen so many times on those posters or on the news. Two nickels were lodged deep into his eye sockets. red and inflamed. The edges were kicked with blood, dark and dried.

Tommy, I stammered, but he didn't respond to his name. Just went on rattling that cup and staring me down with his shiny silver glare. A menacing smile came across his face as he got off the ground and started the chase. I jumped to my feet and ran as fast as my feet would carry me. The jarring noise of jingles. change close behind me with each panicked lunge. The awful sound stopped several blocks before I made it home. But I was only convinced I was safe once I was back inside my room.

Covers pulled up over my head as I paned and weas trying to catch my breath. Call me crazy. But I went back again the next day. I had to. Because Sondra never came back to school. I made a new bookmark for Neathe. The block letter spelled out, Will you go to the dance with me?

Its shape cut out a bright green construction paper and carefully laminated with tape. I tried to find her on the steps of the quad eating lunch, or in the library with her nose tucked in a book during breaks. Her parents released a desperate plea for any information for where sender might be, and I figured he could help. He had helped me before.

With a bookmark tucked in my back pocket, I performed the ritual all over again, up and down the street three times, rattling the change of my pocket every six steps, penny dropped before bending to pick it up. The figure appeared, just like it always had, with the knees tucked close, one arm wrapped around them, paper cup in the other hand, face down, forehead resting on the knees. But something was different this time. His hair was no longer shaggy and brown, but instead bright blonde and long, perfectly combed with a sparkling headband neatly tucked behind the ears.

It was not his hair. It was her hair. Sandra's hair. She wept miserably, a guttural moan rising from the pit of her stomach. But when I called her name, she stopped immediately and responded only with a violent shake for cup. Before Tommy Baker was him, there was another, and now he's taken Sandra. He's no longer him. He's her. And the kids of the town picked up on the change almost immediately. Maybe she'll get Price an iPhone so he can get rid of that piece of shit he calls a cell phone, said Paul. His brace

is whistling as he snickered, punching his lacrosse buddy in the shoulder. I bet she could get my mom to finally let us play the new Grand Theft Auto, said Jimmy, as he pulled me into GameStop, a hopeless attempt to cheer me up, and Sandra said nothing. She'll never say anything again. Just a forceful shake of her cup. I think of her often. Not just her, but Sandra. And what she said to me the day before I first found him, if you look for her. him. You'll find him, she said.

Irritated that I'd bother her during her favorite chapter of her favorite book. I was happy just to see her face, even if it was crumpled up in annoyance. She laid her book flat on the table, face down, as she added. But that doesn't necessarily mean that you should. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told you. on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions.

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