Creepy - Brooding & Closing Day

Episode Date: May 22, 2025

Brooding***Written by: Elliott Gish and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Closing Day***Written by: J.M Stefan and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. He presents brooding, written by Elliot Gish, and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. We were getting to be like strangers again.

Four years of dating. Two of cohabitation. Talk of buying a house and having a kid and even tentatively marriage. And then we woke up one morning to find that something had shifted. We rolled over, looked at one another, and found ourselves, unsure. We stopped kissing. Accidentally touching each other in bed or as we passed in the hallway became not an everyday delight, but embarrassing. A faux pa.

We felt strange about seeing one another naked and hid behind towels and dressing gowns. The end was nigh. You knew it, and I did too. Although neither of us knew why, we didn't talk about what was happening. What was there to say? That was how it was the day the package came. Someone left it at our door and rang the bell. But by the time I opened it, there was no one there.

Just a flat gray of wet spring morning. In a small cardboard box on the soggy welcome mat. No labels, no return address. I picked it up and brought it inside, placing it on the kitchen table. You squinted down at it, then up at me. You were only a few sips into your first coffee of the day, and therefore, a little stupid. What is that? You asked.

The urge to respond was something sarcastic reared inside me, a snake about to strike. I held it at bay as best I could. It had always been easy for me to bite my tongue around you, to curb my tendency to be cut. or cruel in the name of humor. That it no longer felt easy was a symptom of this thing that was happening, this falling out of love.

A package, I said. Did you order anything? You shook your head, leaning closer to examine it. It was a little battered, with tape wrapped around it in all directions, as though whoever had sent it had been very worried about the box opening in transit. Maybe it isn't for us, I said. But there was our name scrawled in an uneven hand on the top of the cardboard. The ink slightly blurred from the damp in the air.

It could be from my mother, I said. Which was a silly thing to say. My mother had never sent me a package in her life. Oh, or your aunt, the one in Florida. I think we should open it. You didn't tell me not to, but the look you gave me was, skeptical at best. I didn't like it. I got a box cutter from the closet and sliced carefully through each layer of tape, liking the snick-snack sound of the blade. Despite your disapproval, you leaned

forward again as I opened the flaps, revealing a dense white layer of packing peanuts. Beneath them, my fingers found something smooth and slightly warm. I pulled the object out, carefully and slow. It was oval, pointed just a little on one end, and hard. Its shell was a cream color, but as I held it up to the light, I thought that I could see a hint of minty green beneath the surface, a kind of shimmer that came and went as I moved it. It was small enough to fit snugly in the palm of my hand. It's an egg, you told me, and you were right.

Who the hell would send us a little? an egg and why. Why on earth you thought I might have answers to either of those questions I did not know? Instead of answering, I used my free hand to shuffle through the packing peanuts, looking for some kind of explanation. I found one, in the end, at the very bottom of the box. A small scrap of paper rolled tight and small like a cigarette. I handed it to you, let you unroll it.

Keep it warm, you read, your eyes. narrowing. Body heat is best, but if that's not possible, a soft nest beneath a warm lamp will suffice. It was such a non-explanation that I laughed, as I always do when confronted with the absurd. And you scowled, as you do when you stumble upon a thing that cannot be explained. That logical brain of yours. So useful for your work. So bad for things like this. You bawled up the paper and threw it back into the box with more force than the situation called for. Put it in the green bin, you told me, and wash your hands after. Who knows where it's been?

I didn't put the egg in the green bin. It was pleasing to hold, an unusual color. I liked the mystery of it, the questions that rose in my mind when I looked at it. I didn't want to throw it away. I thought less of you for telling me to. There were so many things just then That made me think less of you The mess you made of the morning crossword

The way you always remade the bed after I'd make it Your insistence on leaving the house 30 minutes early for every appointment These traits had, at one time, endeared you to me Now that this strange sea change had begun I found myself hating them all I took the egg to work tucked it down the front of my shirt. It was odd to feel it there,

and I worried often that it was slipping. Several times that day I slipped my hand up my front to make sure that it was still there, stroking the smooth surface to reassure myself. The more I touched it, the more I realized that it was not so very smooth at all. Its shell had a faint pebble texture, like the skin of a lizard.

Its warmth seemed more pronounced. I wondered if that was, my body heat, or if there really was something beneath the shell, something growing. God knows what I looked like that day, sitting in front of my work computer with my hand up my own shirt, like a pervert probably. I brought the egg home with me at the end of the day, keeping it on my person as I threw together an uninspired dinner. We still ate together, you and I, but there was no joy in it anymore. and I knew that the day would come when you would make your excuses and start bringing your meals to the study. There were only so many silent meals a person could stand.

As you ate the last bite of your salad, I pulled the egg out of my shirt and put it on the table between us. The light in the kitchen had changed, making the green tinge more pronounced. You looked at it and stopped chewing. You didn't throw it away, you said. It was somewhere between a little. a statement and an accusation. Neutral in content, not in tone. No, I said.

I think there might be something in it. All the more reason to get rid of it, you told me. I mean, I think it might really be alive. I held it up to the light again, the way my grandmother used to do with eggs. I felt that I could see, through the shell, the faint suggestion of something solid, like there's an animal inside of it, ready to hatch.

Maybe we should bring it to the bird sanctuary, then, you said. They'd know what it is. They have incubators and things there. It would be a better place for it if there's actually something in there. You were right. You were, on paper, utterly correct, and I knew it. But I hated the way you said it to me, the riptide of impatience that ran beneath the words.

It had been a joke between us once. Your practicality versus my impracticality. Your brain full of facts and mindful of feathers. At some point, it seemed. It had stopped being a joke. I followed the instructions, I said, cupping the egg in my hand again. I liked the way it filled my palm.

I kept it warm all day. You should hold it. There was that skeptical look again. But after a moment, you held out your hand. I put the egg into it with exaggerated care. struck by a sudden vision of it falling and breaking on the linoleum. I saw the way your fingers curled around its oblong shape, the way your eyes widened at the heat of it.

It's heavy, you said, more to yourself than me. Your hand bounced up and down slightly, weighing it. Warm, too. Maybe there is something in it. You sat there for a moment, in quiet contemplation, looking at the egg in your hand. I saw your fingers curl again, worried for a moment that you were going to crush it. But then, you smiled.

It was a smile, as startled as it was pleased. The smile you wore when something had unexpectedly delighted you. You had smiled at me like that once, like I was the most surprising and fabulous thing that you have ever seen. It made my chest ache. Suddenly, to see it again. Let's keep it for a day, I said. Just a day.

Then we can take it to that bird place you were talking about. Your yes, when it came, was slow and uncertain. But it was still a yes. We made a nest for it, as the note had suggested, out of dryer lint and old washcloths. The egg fit neatly into it as it had both of our hands. its shell turned gold by the light of the old Tiffany lamp we'd placed beside it. I'd found the lamp at a garage sale years before,

and though I loved its stained glass shade with its pattern of lilies and dragonflies, I had always worried about how hot it became when I turned it on. But now that heat was useful. It would keep the egg warm through the night, so we wouldn't have to worry about rolling onto it and cracking it in our bed. We lay next to one another for a long time that night, not touching, very conscious of the space available to us. Your side was the right, mine the left.

Over the last few months, we seemed to have detected the exact middle of the bed with mathematical precision, and took great care not to let a single toe stray over that invisible line. It didn't feel right to get that close to one another. We had also taken to wearing full sets of pajamas, instead of shirts and underwear. yours had all the buttons done up that night right up to your chin not a glimpse of skin i wonder what it is you said still looking at the egg you had already taken your glasses off so you had to squint it can't be a chicken or a duck it's too big for that goose eggs are that size i said but i've never seen one with that kind of color that hint of green i tried looking it up at work today but i didn't find anything that

looked like it. I didn't tell you that I had been pleased not to find anything, that I hadn't wanted to find anything. I didn't want the mystery to be explained. You wouldn't have understood that. Things with no explanations bothered you too much. You stayed upright in bed a few moments, staring toward the dresser, before finally laying back and closing your eyes. I lay back as well, but kept mine open. I wanted to watch the egg for a bit before I fell like. asleep. I fancied now that I could in fact see something beneath the shell. A strange shape. Something more than a yoke. Something moving just a little. A creature. As I watched, it seemed to move. It could be ours. I thought suddenly, our creature, our child, or our pet. If it hatched and

if you didn't succumb to this need, you felt to get rid of it, if you felt the same way about it as I did. It was a strange and thrilling notion. It reminded me of all the discussions we had had about children, once upon a time. Because the light was still on, I could see your expression clearly when I turned to look at you. You were curled on your side,

your mouth slightly bowed in a frown, a line between your brows, seeming to signify some troubling dream. You always scowl a little in your sleep. It had been endearing, this oddity, when we first began sleeping next to each other. Suddenly I found it endearing again. I reached out and touched a fingertip to the line, tracing it very lightly. You stirred slightly, but did not wake.

You took the egg with you to work the next day. You didn't tell me you were going to do this. Didn't say anything about it. In fact, I just... saw it bulging in your trouser pocket as you sat and ate breakfast. It's unmistakable shape distorting the line. It made me smile. You might want to tuck it under your shirt. I said pouring myself a cup of coffee. That way you won't sit on it. Your hand snaked into your pocket. I could imagine the feel of the shell beneath your fingertips, that slight and surprising grain. It's just for today,

you said. We can take it to the bird sanctuary tonight when I get home. You didn't explain your sudden change of heart, your desire to keep the egg with you, but I understood. I felt it too. It feels nice, I said. And you looked a question at me. If you put it down your shirt, I mean, it's right against your skin that way. Like holding a baby. I had expected you to scoff at me, as you so often did these days when I said something that struck you as nonsensical.

But no, you drew the egg out of your pocket, looked at it for a moment, then slipped it down the front of your button down. I saw your expression change as you did so, curiosity turning to surprise, then pleasure. You were right, you said. This was not a sentence I had heard from you in some time. It made me suddenly giddy. As you left that morning, you kissed me goodbye. It was sudden and awkward, our mouths dry and not lining up properly. But it was still a kiss.

And it startled me, so I nearly shied away from you. The curve of the egg was barely visible beneath your shirt and neat gray blazer. When was the last time we'd kissed? I couldn't remember. It had been weeks. No, months. That was nice. I said for lack of anything else to say. and you smiled.

It was, you agreed and leaned in for a second kiss. This one went smoothly. I didn't even flinch. All day at work, I thought about the egg, the way you had it tucked beneath your shirt like a woman carrying a child. It reminded me suddenly of that time a year before when we had taken in a friend's cat when he was on vacation. The cat had been very small and painfully shy,

spending most of its time hiding beneath the living room couch. But I came home one night to find you sitting with it curled in your lap, purring ferociously as you ran your fingers down its spine. You were whispering to it, little babbling nonsense phrases in a voice I'd never heard from you before. Your expression in that moment had stopped me in my tracks. It was all tenderness. Your face so raw with love it almost hurt to see. Then the cat had seen me and scuttled away, and your face had settled into a more ordinary expression. as you turned to greet me. I never caught you at it again,

but it had been lovely in that moment to see how carefully you handled that delicate creature. The gentle movement of your hands, the way your eyes shone with affection and delight. Perhaps when you look down at the little lump beneath your shirt, your face would change in the same way, become consumed with love and devotion. The thought made me smile so wide,

and so often, that my boss suspiciously asked, me what the hell I had to be so goddamn happy about. I didn't tell him, of course. It's no one else's business. I must admit that I thought, too, about your skin touching the egg. Once, I had touched you as intimately and casually as it did now. It was impossible to think of it and not remember the specific textures of your body,

the way you smelled beneath your clothes. By the time we both came home that night, something had shifted between us. Neither of us said anything, but when we met each other's eyes over the dinner table, we knew. The air between us no longer felt thick with the smell of despair. When you passed me the salt, I let your fingers brush mine. When I started humming a song that had been stuck in my head all day, you didn't sigh impatiently, but began to sing along very softly. Our continents which had drifted so far apart, were drawing.

back together again. The egg was still beneath your shirt. You told me that you had not moved it all day. I'd like the feeling of it there. You can take it now, though, if you want, you had said. But I knew that you did not mean it, that you wanted to keep it close to your heart. I told you that it was fine. I did want to see it, to hold it. But it had been so long since I had seen you this way. The worry lines on your forehead smoothed a little. Your eyes warm. and close, instead of cold and far. I wanted to see you like that. I wanted to keep it for as long as I could.

After we had loaded the dishwasher and put away the leftovers, you asked if we could watch a movie. The simplicity of the question almost brought me to tears. Yes, I said as we settled on the couch, not touching, but also not pressed against opposite arms either. As the opening credits began to roll, You reached into your shirt and pulled out the egg, cupping it in your right palm. You let your arm rest on the seat between us.

With your left arm, you reached over and took my hand, placing it palm down on top of yours. The egg lay between our hands, cradled by both of us together. It was so warm it seemed to pulse. So did the places where our skin touched. You did all of this without looking at me. But I looked at you, saw the little smile playing. at the corners of your mouth. Warmth trickled down my spine like water.

We aren't going to take it to the sanctuary, are we? I asked. I knew the answer, but wanted to make sure. You didn't reply for a few moments, your eyes following the action on the screen with every sign of absorption. Finally, you replied. No, I was thinking. I was thinking that it might be nice to keep it. you know when it hatches, whatever it is.

We could raise it together. It could be. Ours, I said. Between our hands the egg trembled, as though with joy. That night, as though acting on some unspoken signal, we went to bed in T-shirts and underwear instead of pajamas. Your foot brushed against my shin, and you didn't move it. My hand strayed to your side of the bed, gently stroking the skin of your belly.

It felt just like I remembered. The line between us seemed to be fading away. On the dresser, the egg lay in its nest, something stirring beneath the shell. We bolted awake before our alarms went off the next morning. The sky had only just begun to turn gray. It was a noise that woke us. A scratching, a cracking, the sound of something trying to get out.

The Tiffany lamp was still on. By its light, we saw a zigzagging fracture in the shell, deepening even as we watched. We both called in sick. It was the only thing to do. Carefully, you retrieved the egg from the top of the dresser, bringing it in its nest of lint and old cloths to the bed. You placed it on top of the blankets right on that invisible line

that had kept us apart the last few months. Cross-legged, you leaned over it and reached out to take my hand. It's happening, you said. The excitement in your voice made you sound like a child. I felt like one, eager, nervous, full of a whirling and bottomless energy. I clutched your hand tightly, crushing your fingers a little. The egg, its colors subdued in the pale morning light, seemed to shiver. The crack in the shell deepened and darkened, radiating outward slowly,

until suddenly it burst with a blossoming violence as though it had been kicked apart from the inside. A flood of foul-smelling liquid drenched the nest. Bits of the shell shattered and fell apart. Tattered shreds of membrane stretching between the pieces, spotted with clots of blood and thick remnants of the greenish yolk. I felt a word rise in my throat as I looked down to the thing that lay panting in its nest. Its body shivering amongst the fragments of egg. Our creature. Our baby. The thing that came from the egg was not a bird.

It did not have wings or a beak or furrow. feathers. It was a sickly pink, like skinned flesh, and glistened with mucus. Its writhing limbs seemed twisted as though they had been put on the wrong way. And they ended in blunt nubs, like protruding bone. There were no eyes on its head, only crumpled dents covered its skin. Its face was all soft, wet mouth open and gasping like a landed fish, a purple tongue extending past its lipless edge, tasting the air. From its throat came a terrible sound, a gulping, a choking, as though it were trying to breathe but could not.

You were still holding my hand. I looked up at you and saw on your face my own horror mirrored back. My grip relinquished your fingers one by one. You put your hands together to scoop the thing up. Gray flecks of lint clung to its raw and sticky flesh. It writhed against your fingers. palms making that awful noise again. Its tortured limbs kicking against you. As you brought it closer, I caught it scent and gagged. Like something caught in a drain. Like something buried at the bottom

of a trash heap. Like something dead. This thing could not be ours. I tried to imagine that choking, wiggling thing nestled in between us or curled up on our chests asleep and I gagged again. What do we do? I asked, meeting your eyes. You didn't look away from its thrashing movement in your cupped hands. Your expression too complicated for one emotion. You raised your hands even higher until the thing was directly in front of your face. It choked again and gurgled, something bubbling in the back of its throat.

A stream of grayish sputum dribbled out of its mouth, wetting your palms. Your gaze moved slowly from its struggling form to my face. Our eyes met and held. I saw it then. Your face painfully tender shining with love. Your knee nudged gently against mine. And I knew in an instant what you were going to do. All you needed was permission.

I could give you that. Okay, I said, and I drew in a shuddering breath. I put my hand on your leg, squeezed, nodded. Lips parted. You put the creature's gasping hands. head into your mouth and bit. Creepy presents. Closing Day.

Written by J.M. Steffen and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Ruben Lens. Wearing his freshly clean, customary black suit, white shirt, and black string tie, ran the handheld carpet sweeper around the barren concession stand and the popcorn machine. Empty but glistening from the stale residual oil. in the brushed metal popper. The concession stand, once filled with milk duds,

snow caps, dots, and other sundry and colorful candy boxes, was now empty, with dust collecting on the empty glass shelves. The theater's smell was still in the stale air, a unique mixture of worn carpet, candy and buttered popcorn.

For Rubin, the sweet, Otherworldly odor provided a gentle nudge into a cinematic fantasy world, as real as any. Even if only it lasted two hours, Ruben emptied the carpet sweeper, a mechanical cockroach, he thought, into a plastic garbage bag. He tied the garbage bag shut. I walked onto the main theater floor. Ruben dimmed the lights earlier.

Several of the yellow incandescent bulbs outlining the walkway were burned out, illuminating a spotty path from the rear bank of the seats to the front row. The big burgundy velvet roped curtains were open, exposing a small, dull, silver screen. Ruben loved to stand on the side of the entrance leading to the theater floor, fantasizing that he was on the screen. John Garfield, but Ruben, not Humphrey Bogart, but Rubin, not William Holden, but Rubin. He learned a week ago that the last lifeline to his beloved Emerald Cinema was severed. Chapter 7 bankruptcy came fast, forcing the sale of all assets and demolition of the building.

The last remaining bastion of classic cinema gone. Ruben saw it coming for the last five years, but looked anyway. Not believing it would ever happen. Twenty years. Running the projector. Cleaning the theater, including the bathrooms, making sure the concession stand was fully stocked and operational. Taking out the garbage. He would miss every minute of it.

Ruben loved watching the patrons. He followed one or two of them home over the years, but they never returned. Those days were over. It was time to move on. Literally. Tonight. He should have left when he learned the property went into receivership. That was a smart thing to do.

But the Emerald held him in its grip until the last few hours. The duffel bag was packed and the bus station was only two blocks away. Ruben walked through the left exit and around the dark corridor to the back of the theater and then out to the green dumpster, dragging the garbage bags behind him. Darkness came early in December and it was just after twilight. The alley was bathed in brown light. Shadows dark and heavy, spilling on the cracked asphalt pathway. He opened up the top of the dumpster and tossed in the garbage bag.

Even in winter, the dumpster smelled of death. He used the last of the bleach yesterday. Such a vile mortal stench, an insult to the timeless, immortal beauty of the films appearing on the screen twice a day. He glanced inside the dumpster, stared a moment, and then let the top slam shut. Ruben lit a cigarette before walking back into the theater, ready to turn off the lights forever. As he exhaled, he noticed a movie reel box propped next to the door, wrapped in thick brown paper, the top covered in thin snow. Rubin looked up and down the dark alley, seeing no one.

Surely he would have seen the box when he walked outside. It would have certainly kicked it over. Leave it, he thought. Just leave it and go. You have to go now. But Rubin stared at the box. No recipient, no return address. Just plain brown wrapping paper.

He flicked his cigarette into an icy puddle. Brush the snow from the box. Put it under his arm and stepped into the theater. Once inside, Ruben climbed the stairs to the projection room and opened the box, revealing a half-full standard 35-millimeter reel. Against every impulse to leave for his bus station, Rubin decided to watch the film. He was finished with his work, and all that was left to do was turn off the lights, lock the doors, and leave, and forever.

Ruben switched on the projector, loaded the reel, and set the film in motion. He sat in the projectionist chair and watched the screen come to life through the projectionist portal. At first, the film was just overexposed visual noise, which lasted about two minutes. Confused, Ruben turned to switch off the projector and removed the reel. He glanced at the screen again, blinked and shook his head. He saw himself as a child and in his parents' backyard wearing a camera. cowboy hat and a gun holster chasing a squirrel he stopped took game at the squirrel with a silver

cap gun small white puss of smoke drifted from the barrel he chased that squirrel throwing his cap gun at it as a squirrel darted up the tree the film burst into overexposure just as it had started then more images. Ruben as a teenager, with a girl walking down Fifth Street, a block away from the high school. Ruben wore jeans and the girl wore a plaid skirt and a white blouse. Rubin leaned forward. He remembered her. Louise Butler. How old was he? Fifteen, maybe? The overexposure returned. Fated and then Ruben saw himself walking down Fifth Street again. This time he was accosted by three grease balls students wearing baggy jeans and tight white t-shirts with cigarette packs rolled into their sleeves. The biggest one, Clyde Farquess, grabbed him up by the collar and punched him in the face.

Ruben went reeling backwards, falling on his back. Clyde stood over him with his fist clenched. The other punks were laughing. Ruben saw Clyde mouth, if you ever go near her again. Ruben rubbed his jaw, remembering the incident as clearly as if it had happened minutes ago. The pain in his nearly dislocated jaw, his swollen, bleeding nose, the embarrassment and humiliation. And then he smiled, remembering Clyde's body being found six days later, stamped to death, rotting in a muddy rat-infested ravine dense with cat-tails. The screen faded to black, then showed

Rubin his early 30s. He walked slowly down to Long Barath in West Hollywood, his head down, trying to conceal his tears. No way he passed the audition. Two of the young actresses actually laughed in him. All this way to Hollywood, all the expense, all the time spent rehearsing, all for nothing. Ruben shuddered, feeling a dark chill. The screen went white, then cut to an isolated area in Griffith Park. The camera descended from above, ultimately revealing two dead girls, all of 20 years old. Ruben sat up and leaned forward watching the screen.

His cell phone rang, causing him to jump. The screen went white with static. He stopped the projector and looked at the number. An unknown caller. He swiped his phone. Put it to his ear and said hello. Static on the other end, but then a little metallic voice said. Beware the ending.

The phone went dead. Ruben looked at the film reel, about three quarters finished. Should he start the reel again? Or just destroy it? Ruben saw himself following Clyde Farquess from a distance down the dirt road. Grainage ditches on each side. He saw himself pulling a large knife from his coat pocket. Trot up to Clyde, put his hand on Clyde's shoulder.

Clyde turned. Robin plunged the knife into Clyde's chest, stabbing with rapid ferocity. Blood sprang like a blooming red rose from Clyde's white terned. t-shirt. Clyde fell forward and Ruben saw himself stabbing Clyde one final time in the neck. Ruben looked around and slid Clyde into the ravine. Clyde lay face up and the muddy runoff, water half covering him. Rubin stopped breathing. No one was supposed to know about this. The film faded to black again. Then Griffick Park materialized at sunset. That. Ruben waited for the two actresses from the audition behind a large oak tree.

When they were a few paces from him, he emerged, stepping onto the middle of the path, holding a knife. The girl stopped, looked at each other, and started slowly walking backwards. Rubin caught the blonde girl first, grabbing her by the hair as she turned to run. Ruben drove the knife deeper into her back. The blonde girl fell face first, her mouth moving, eyes bulging and confused. The dark-haired girl, the one who laughed at him first, scrambled up the path. Ruben caught her by the ankle, forcing her to the ground. She turned and Ruben sliced the knife across her throat.

Dark-haired girl gasped for air. blood pouring from her mouth and neck. He stood, straddling her, watching her dying. Ruben closed his eyes, bile rumbling in his stomach. He stopped the projector. A quarter of an inch was left on the reel. Ruben sat back in the chair and started the projector, leading forward. A street bum.

Griseled in wiry. His nose broken and bent. approached him in the back alley, behind the theater. Ruben saw the soil belligerent man tug at his arm. Ruben saw himself jerking away, but the ragged man persisted, tugging at his jacket. Ruben pushed him, causing the man to fall backwards, but the filthy man got up in charge. Ruben pulled his knife from his pants and stabbed the man in the face and neck, rapid fire. blood spurning.

The man turned and leaned against the dumpster, slowly sinking down towards the asphalt. Ruben threw the top of the dumpster open, grabbed the man's upper legs and hoisted him over the side, hearing a muted clunk as a man's skull hit the greasy metal floor. Ruben stopped the projector. It wasn't his fault. Felt the animal wouldn't leave him alone

The bum smudged his suit coat sleeve With grease and filth when he tugged on his arm An eighth inch of the film remained on the reel Ruben started the projector He tried to swallow his throat dry Beware the ending Rubin saw himself emerging from the theater confronted by the police

He ran And a shot hit him in the back of the the leg. He turned and lunged forward, pulling a knife from his pants. He saw himself hit by around squarely in the forehead. Back of his head sprang brains and skull fragments. Last of the film snaked through the projector, rotating slap, slap, slap on the take-up reel. Rubin sat in the darkness. I will not end like this. I am in control. I am the master. I am the of my fate all of them deserved it he cocked his head and listened sirens in the distance but closing Rubens stood took off the take-up reel from the projector pulled

his lighter from his freshly pressed suit pants and lit the phone the cellulose exploded in flames burning his hands he dropped the reel stomping on it to kill the fire seconds later the carpet smoked and caught fire the flames fanning out in a perfect circle the walls started smoldering the sirens grew closer rubin rushed down the stairs as the projection room was completely engulfed in flames the fire spread through the dry theater rubin walked toward the entrance seeing three squat cars roll up he turned and ran through the the fire towards the screen. The burgundy curtains burst into flame. Rubin stood on the small stage that spanned the screen, silhouetted by the smoke and flames engulfing the theater. Stage and screen ignited, fire racing up Ruben's pant legs. He raised his arms and looked towards

the balcony. Not John Garfield, but Ruben, not Humphrey Bogart, but Rupert. But Rubin, not Humphrey Bogart, But Ruben, Matt William Holden. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Shererlight licensing, or with written consent from the author. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.