Creepy - Be Careful What Your Kids Watch on Youtube & On The Matter Of Shoes

Episode Date: February 22, 2024

Be Careful What Your Kids Watch on Youtube***Written by: Blair Daniels and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***On The Matter Of Shoes And Waiting For Them To Drop***Written by: Thomas C. Mavroudis and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents.

Be careful what your kids watch on YouTube. Written by Blair Daniels and narrated by Michelle Kane. My kids watch a lot of YouTube. I'm not afraid to admit it. Sometimes I need a break. Sometimes I need a cook dinner. Sometimes I want to hide in the closet for

15 minutes and cry my eyes out. You know how it is as a parent? Anyway, a few days ago, I put my kids on YouTube and walked away for a bit. I don't want to name specific names to incite a lawsuit here, but let's just say it's a very popular channel that follows the lives of several 3D animated toddlers and their families. Let's call it Bobo Pumpkin, but anyone who has kids, knows exactly what channel I'm talking about. Anyway, I put the TV on and walked away. As I prepared dinner, however, I heard some strange audio coming from the TV. It sounded like The Wheels on the Bus song,

the specific version from Bobo Pumpkin I'd heard dozens of times, except weirdly distorted, like it was being played back at half speed. The Wheels on the Bus. I left a half-chopped onion on the counter and walked back into the living room. But when I saw the TV, I was shocked. Some cheap rip-off channel, with a name and a language I didn't recognize, had stolen the audio and video for the classic Bobo Pumpkin Wheels on the Bus song. Except, presumably, to avoid getting caught by YouTube's copyright filters,

they changed it up. They had changed the audio to half-speed or similar, making the voices low and distorted, almost demonic. They'd messed with the video in multiple ways, too, turned it upside down, switched up the colors, the bus was pink, and the kid's skin was blue, made two mirror images of that intersected in the middle. These changes didn't happen all at once, but sequentially, a few seconds of upside. down, then a few seconds of weird colors, etc. When I finally got over my shock, I immediately grabbed the remote, flipped it off. The kids didn't seem to care one way or the other, but I was thoroughly creeped out. A few days passed.

I kept a closer eye on the kids while they watched YouTube, but the video didn't come up again. I assumed that was the end of it. I was wrong. On Tuesday, after putting dinner on the table, I called to the kids. Johnny, Amelia! I called. Dinner's ready. No response.

These kids never listen to me. Johnny! Amelia! Where are you? Silence. I charged up the stairs, ready to yell at them for not replying to me. When I poked my head in at Johnny's bedroom, He wasn't there. Amelia wasn't in her bedroom either. My heart began to pound.

Johnny? Amelia! But then I heard it. The horn on the bus goes, beep, beep. That distorted half-speed audio from the video, coming from my bedroom. I burst into my room, and sure enough, I think, I found both of them sitting on my bed, watching that cursed video from my TV. Johnny! Amelia! They didn't move.

They just stared at the screen, eyes glassy, bright colors flashing all over their faces, almost like they were hypnotized. I grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. They slowly turned toward me, sleepy, almost, like they were just waking up. Didn't you guys hear me? I asked. Amelia shook her head. Johnny just stared. Come on, dinner's ready. But as we sat down to eat, a horrible feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

That night, after the kids went to sleep, I uninstalled the YouTube app from both TVs. There was plenty to watch on Disney Plus, and there was even that new Bobo Pumpkin show on Netflix. They'd just have to live without it for a while. After cleaning up downstairs and locking up, I took a bath. I sunk into the warm water, taking deep breaths, entering relaxation mode. But only ten minutes later, I heard something coming from the other side of the door. Music. I strained my ears listening. It was muffled enough that I couldn't make out the singing, but from the pitch, I knew exactly what it was.

I got out of the tub, wrapped a towel around myself, and burst into the bedroom. The horn on the bus goes, beep, beep. I ran over to my phone charging on the nightstand. Sure enough, it had a YouTube open and was playing the video. I stared in horror as the blue-skinned bus driver slapped his hand on the horn. Beep, beep, beep. I grabbed the phone and turned it off. It must have went off by accident.

Emerald must have tapped the phone, and they'd been watching that video so much it was probably right on my feed. Our cat Emerald wasn't in my room right now, but the door was ajar. She could have gotten in, played with my phone, and accidentally opened YouTube. Right? It was really unlikely, but I don't know. told myself those lies anyway. I couldn't go down that path spiral into fear. I had done it too many times as a single mom. Heard a noise in the middle of the night, found a stray footprint in the yard, saw someone I didn't recognize walking down the street, glancing at my house,

freaking out every time. I was not going to lose my shit over a Bobo Pumpkin video of all I dried off, got into my pajamas, and checked the kids. Then I turned off my phone, put it on airplane mode so it didn't even have internet access and went to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and glanced at the time, 3.17 a.m. I got up and used the bathroom, then decided to take a quick look at the kids. I'd check on them sometimes just to make sure everything was okay. As soon as I got in the hallway, though, I saw something was terribly wrong. Both of their doors were open.

My heart began to pound. Johnny, Amelia! I ran to their rooms. Their beds were empty. Oh, no, no, no, no. I ran down the stairs. Johnny! Amelia! I screamed.

They didn't answer me, but I also didn't see any evidence of a break-in, kidnapping, anything. Where are you? As I made it out to the foyer, I froze. The basement door was ajar. And in the darkness, on the walls of the stairwell, I could see flickering blue light. What the hell? Our basement wasn't finished,

but we did have a few things down there, an old sofa, some boxes of toys, an old TV with an N64 and Super Nintendo that we sometimes played. Johnny and Amelia liked to play down there. Maybe they got up in the middle of the night and couldn't sleep and went down there to play. And I opened the door and stepped down onto the first step. The wood creaked beneath me. Johnny? Amelia! I called. Nothing. My heart pounded. I felt weak, sick. I charged down the stairs, my hands slipping over the banister. Halfway down, I heard it. The daddy's on the bus go, I love you.

That distorted half-speed audio from the video. I ran down the stairs. Johnny and Amelia were sitting there on the cold floor in front of the old TV. It was playing the video. What the fuck? The TV down here was. only connected to cable. It had no way of connecting to the internet, no way of getting YouTube. Johnny! Amelia! They didn't move. I watched in horror as the upside-down daddy gave his son a hug.

And then the video flipped back up and their skin turned bluish-green. I love you. said the warped, distorted audio. Static rippled across the image. Johnny and Amelia stared at the TV, barely moving. The bright colors reflecting in their eyes, their mouths hanging open. Hypnotized. I ran over to the plug and yanked it out of the outlet. The TV flickered off with a staticy, womp sound. They slowly turned towards me.

You're not supposed to be down here. It's the middle of the night. I shouted. Sorry, Mommy. Amelia said, Why, why do you watch this stupid video? They didn't say anything. How did you even get it to play on here?

Amelia got up, then Johnny. Without a word, the two of them started up the stairs. I flicked off the lights and ran up after them. I put them back to bed, then I went back to my bedroom and tried to fall back asleep. but I couldn't. There must be some sort of hidden message in the video, some sort of weird, covert hypnosis, something to make the kids keep replaying it.

I'd read articles that the actual Bobo Pumpkin channel itself was addictive and over-stimulating, with its earworm songs and bright colors. Maybe this corrupted version was like that, but on overdrive. Or maybe it was some hidden whispering or images that imprinted on the viewer's subconscious. I grabbed my phone, open YouTube, and played the video. I studied it, staring at the grainy compression artifacts,

the switched colors, the smiling 3D family with their oversized heads, and perfect smiles. But there didn't seem to be any sort of horrible, images or audio added. The song had been slowed down, and the video had been edited to be upside down, color swaps, all kinds of things like that, but nothing stuck out as sinister. After five watches, I turned the phone off and went to sleep. I hoped that would be the end of it.

I was wrong. In the morning, while the kids were still sleeping, I unplugged all of the TVs. I crept down the hall past their closed doors and headed downstairs, completely disconnecting the TV in the living room and the basement. They couldn't watch that stupid video anymore. But unfortunately, the damage had already been done. I heated up their breakfast and called for them. Johnny, Amelia!

They didn't come downstairs. Calling them down from bed only worked about half the time under normal. circumstances, and they were probably super tired this morning. I started up the stairs to wake them up for school. But when I opened their doors, my heart dropped through the floor. Amelia was lying there in bed, but she wasn't asleep. Her eyes were open. She was staring straight up at the ceiling. Her pupils jittering back and forth, as if she were watching something. Amelia! I screamed.

I grabbed her shoulders, gently shook her. Amelia! Nothing. When I burst into Johnny's room, it was the same thing. He was lying there on his side with his eyes open, staring straight at the wall. His pupils moving slightly back and forth, as if he were watching something projected on the blank wall. Johnny! It's been five hours now.

It took them to the ER. The doctors have no idea what's wrong with them. They haven't spoken. They've barely even blinked. They've just been staring straight ahead, eyes jittering as if they're watching some invisible video I can't see. And just a few minutes ago, for the first time today, Amelia made a noise as she lay on the hospital bed next to her. Her brother, she was humming, a slowed-down version of wheels on the bus. Creepy presents, on the matter of shoes and waiting for them to drop, written by Thomas C. Maverdus and narrated by J.V. Hampton-Bansant. We bought the house in August and moved in the first weekend in October. It was a couple of those hot October days, the kind that stay warm into the evening, deceiving you into thinking that summer wasn't over. Even the trees clung tightly to their leaves.

It was important for us to unpack, sort things into their place quickly, as our major order of business was decorating the house for Halloween. We couldn't lose any more days. We are holiday people, and the joy for us of homeownership was hosting parties and celebrations throughout the year. After too many years stuck living in a small apartment in the city, paying someone else's mortgage, we came upon this unpassable opportunity, our dream home. home, in a dream neighborhood.

The only catch was it was in a city an hour away. Not even a city, but a college town, in the center of an agricultural county. At the right time a day, presumably between midnight and 3 a.m., the commute was just under an The road, the highway, was a major route, but only two lanes, and the 65-mile-per-hour speed limit slowed to 25-mile-per-hour at the intersections of a handful of one-stoplight towns. It was congested around the clock with semis and farm equipment as well. not to mention the upcoming five months of winter storms of blowing snow and ice-honed blacktop that would enhance the drive time. Regardless, we were committed to making that circuit palatable.

By Monday after supper, which we predicted was rarely going to be before 8.30 p.m. I made the final adjustments to the Halloween village. Configuring the display of spooky ceramic shops and houses on the buffet was the final stage, equivalent to topping the Christmas tree with a star. They had been in storage so long, we had forgotten how majestically charming it was when we flip the surge protector switches on to its illuminated glory. Lights blinked and flickered, witches and bats rotated around their posts, stuttering at first, then gliding smoothly.

We were gleefully startled by the sound effects of cats in the decrepit barn and laughter in the sinister fun house, The flashes of lightning and roar of thunder from the haunted mansion was perfect. Everything was perfect. Only an hour or so later, when it was time to shut down the house for the night and go to bed, at the village, there was a translucent, static little figure. Child size, indeed, it bore the likeness and appeared like a child in a vintage photograph costumed in a sheet as a ghost, but as though intentionally smudge from the picture, an attempt at erasure.

It was nearly as silly as it was unnerving. Prior to this home, we often wondered if we could live in a house occupied by a ghost. It seemed impossible, really, but not entirely unlikely. It did prevent us, say, from buying a house much earlier in our life adjacent to a park, that was once a cemetery. What would we be able to accept? That was the true discussion. Now we would have to answer.

What could we do? Was there anything to do? Not initially. Not at that moment. We left the first. figure alone, let the village stay on for the night, and went to bed. Not entirely assured that we hadn't made a very poor decision after all. In the morning, early, much earlier than we had ever routinely gotten up because of the

drastic commute, the sound of percolating coffee mingled with the soft digital noise of howling wind, creaky stairs, and hooting owls. I stood where the little figure had been, before a bungalow, cheerfully decorated with black and orange swag, candy corn lamps on the white picket fence, and a witch flattened against the chimney. Nothing was out of sorts. No cold spot, no cold spot, no tingle of electromagnetism. On the ceramic house's front stoop was a candy holder in the shape of a sheet ghost, arms outstretched with a cauldron-shaped bowl.

I squatted to the floor, turning off the lights, and a scream cut through the house. You have several reactions to something like that. Pissing your pajamas is. one of them. Vomiting is another. Of course, your own scream happens. Yelling, cussing is added. You might fall. You might bash your head on the table. You'll probably do both. The rest of the household follows suit. It is the only natural response to something unnatural. The scream does not last, but it seems to linger longer than it does. The event replays, echoes for a span that feels infinite.

Questions erupt from everywhere. What was that? What happened? Are you okay? answers are difficult. Answers will continue to be difficult. We are apprehensive to turn the Halloween village back on that evening, but we do it anyway. Likewise, we do not want to turn it off the following morning. We don't.

We don't turn it off. for days until we forget, simply forget, what happened. Then, the switches are flipped, and we remember, we expect the shock of that horrid sound. Our hearts flare, our guts cramp, our bladders slacken, and nothing happens. Nothing happens the rest of the season. Christmas tide comes, and we are nervous to assemble the Christmas village.

We do it anyway. And when we turn it on, nothing happens. When we turn it off, nothing still happens. New Year's comes and goes. The day after Epiphany, we take down the tree. the wreaths outside, and the village. Nothing happens. Lent begins, Easter is over,

and we don't see the erratic spirit again. We accept that what we experienced was a fluke. It makes us oddly saddened. But, then, we finally see it again. shuffling through the fiberglass insulation in the attic. It's June, and the attic is a furnace. We heard the common noise of rodents up there, squirrels, raccoons, or possums having babies. Maybe some type of bird?

We go up to evaluate the situation. examine the damage and disarray. Only the ghost is there, and a cache of animal bones. Some are bones from animals that would not normally be discovered in an attic, a horse's skull, for example. If it weren't for the assortment of bones, we would be, happier to see our ghost once again. On our way back down from the attic,

I touch the horse skull, and the ghost screams. We injure ourselves in a multitude of ways, concussion and broken wrist included. After we recover, and sometime after that, as we approach our one-year anniversary of settling in the house. We conclude, it's only a scream. With anticipation and readiness,

we can be completely happy with the ghost. Decorating for Halloween, we try as best we can to prepare ourselves for the frightful event. You ultimately realize you can almost prepare for nothing. Preparing is but an exercise, a set of experiments based on patterns that don't actually exist. The ghost is not interested in the Halloween village.

It is, however, quite upset in December when we play Bing Crosby's white Christmas vinyl on the new turntable for the first time. This occasion, we had a house full of holiday revelers, many having finally made the exorbitant drive after justifiably declining so many invitations. One couple, we even plied into staying the night. No one exactly takes the screen. seriously, all the drink and merriment perhaps, yet a sobering awkwardness descends on the party

that propels all homeward earlier than we hoped for. The following day, we see the ghost behind the Christmas tree, and then we don't see or hear it again until the spring. We get used to its biannual tantrum, as used to something like that as one can get. Still, we are always on edge. In our fourth year in the house, we are surprised by a third outburst.

This scream simply and quite horrifically peels out of nowhere, for no reason at all, in the middle of a blistering cold February night. We are actually unable to get used to the scream. We start casually looking at home listings back in the city. The next time we see the ghost, peering from the den bathroom, we wearily wait days, days. for its unhappy, nerve-shattering expression. The days become weeks, and the weeks roll into months, and the scream never comes.

But we know it will. It always does, exactly at the moment we think it won't. And even then, it doesn't. come. Six months, then seven months. We don't hear nor see it for ten months. We take out a high-interest loan to get out of the country for a special vacation, a much-needed two weeks away from the house and from the neighborhood. And we wonder if the ghost screamed when we left. Did it scream at all while we were away?

Back home, we wait and wait, and nothing happens. The massive build-up of tension is difficult for us to contain. It spills and splashes here and there. We become more tense with each other than ever before. There is a constant edginess cultivated in the house that we feel, I feel, might be mitigated with a scream, with a violent primal vocalization. The tension verges into paranoia. We think each other sees the ghost but won't tell. tell. We think we hear the beginning of a screech, a note that never follows through.

We believe each other hears something, something different, something new. Everything is a secret. Nobody comes to the house, and we never invite anyone over. At some point, we isolate ourselves from each other completely and take meals individually. Each one of us becomes a ghost in a seemingly lonely, empty house. The truth is, we still wait for the scream, which we know has yet to happen. Only it will come. It must come. When we hear that scream, everything will go back to normal, and we can be a household again, even if one of us has to do it.

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