Creepy - Burnt Meat Shaped Like a Hungry Flower & Wiggles, My Protector

Episode Date: August 25, 2022

Burnt Meat Shaped Like a Hungry Flower***Written by: S.M. Fedor and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Content Warning: Body Horror, Self-Harm***Wiggles, My Protector***Written by: u/deadeyes_eathearts and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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 books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Burnt meat shaped like a hungry flower. Written by S.M. Fadar. And narrated by Cole Burkart. Your body is on fire. Amelating neurons flood the mind with endogenous opioids to numb the pain. The brain soaps. in that warm bath and for a merciful fraction of a second, a fleeting, incalculable moment,

your mind finds peace. It won't last. The calm is like attempting to capture a ghost in a photograph, out of focus, grainy, filled with ill-defined shapes and colors, a presence lingering, always at the edge, of a frame. The irony being that you could be mistaken for that ghost, haunting society. Isolated in an alcove amongst rusted dumpsters.

You stand tucked in a liminal space between twin buildings of brick, concrete, and glass. Squinting your eyes against the glare of the sun's reflection, you can glimpse the wilting phytis sat next to your desk

on the fourth floor. This walkway is where the smokers come to light up while sipping coffee and office paramour's gossip flirtatious innuendo. They, however, stick to the brightness of the sidewalk. Your peers are 20 feet from you, yet worlds away. Few venture into the shadowed belly between. You pull the citirate away from your wrist, skin torn thin from life's stomach. demands. Beneath the surface, the veins appear purplish blue, so pronounced you to pluck them like those threads on an old sweater and discard them into the consuming air. A circle of ash remains upon your wrist, remnants of burnt leaves and dead offerings. You lean your face close to the mark,

purse your lips, and blow, feeding detritus to the wind. The wound revealed you survey the latest potential star added to the collection. The latest shame you'll hide behind cuffed long-sleeve shirts from co-workers. The center of the wound, where the tip of the cidarette pressed against the flesh, is a mastido's kiss offset by an embossed white ring at its borders. It is a small blemish, the burn a half-measure, the mark, unlikely to last, Unlately to be remembered, just like you. Nighting, self-flagellating thoughts flutter through your mind with the ease of a butterfly.

Self-hatred trails in the wake like seeds of pollen. Your thinking betrays you again. Any reprieve the burn offered comes to an abrupt end. So brief. The quiet moments diminish in the length the harder you try to hang on to them. Grains of sand raining through a clenched fist. The dark mind compels you to see things, hear things, a horror movie you can't pause. It is impossible to escape from your own skull, so you're forced to experience the whole great horrid show.

A kaleidoscope of swirling colors and incandruish shapes swarm. corrupting your vision. Streaching, dissonant noise, deafens your ears. The concrete foundation of the building across from you splinters, exploding with fractal designs. An invisible jackhammer repeatedly strikes the bricks, the steel against stone reverberating through your bones.

Like a canvas overladen by volumes of paint, the wall seems to peel in long, syrup strands. Reality separates from the surface with a gentle, wavering bow, before violently collapsing inward under its own weight. Buried deep within is an understanding that the buildings are not crumbling, that this is another hallucination, that it is your fragile grasp on reality that falters. But this knowledge only exacerbates the buzzing flies of anxiety and dread whispering secret truths in your ears, that life is excruciating in brightness, incomprehensibly hard and filled with violence. Your body convulses. Acute anxiety, the doctors called it,

like it was a hideous newborn in need of a name. They say the wave passes in seconds. That's what their charts and studies show, but their knowledge comes via old books and secondhand tales. They do not have firsthand experience. The truth is it never passes, because it never ends. You are being attacked, and the assaults come from within. From your own thoughts, from intense emotions you can't place.

Therapists would hold up charts of round yellow faces, some smiling, others winking or wide mouth. A primitive precursor to emojis designed for a five-year-old, yet you'd failed to identify their meaning, to see yourself in those charts. Feelings were a concept you couldn't grab. even while drowning beneath their whirlpool vortex. Your body shakes involuntarily as those nameless emotions stampede across your soul.

Ravenous beasts devouring rational thought and defecating manic dreams. Disparate thoughts careening on a tight-looped racetrack, jockeying for position. Galloping, blurring with motion, it becomes impossible to tell which thought leads and which follows. Breathing exercises do not work. Walking does not work. Meditating does not work. Those techniques they've taught you are false promises for release. The only option is to fight fire with fire.

A cigarette, your weapon of choice. Your fingers shake as you reach into your pocket for the pack of smokes. The first drawn tumbles to the ground as it escapes your grasp. The second attempt reaches your lips, and the lighter's flames swiftly follows. You draw hard against the filter, the sickly sweet tobacco smoke filling your lungs. The cherry glows bright, the paper's edge receding in jagged charcoal lines. You thrust the searing tip against the tender flesh of your left arm. skin broils beneath scorching flame.

You roll the tip back and forth in small, concentric circles, slowly, gently, tenderly, declaring that there's self-care and love in the process, even if others decry it as destructive. A smile. The first real smile of the day by sets your face as the patchy, of skin cooks, blackening in a marriage of burnt flesh and ash. The initial screams, the dark visions, the things cline at your subconscious. All those are intangible without shape or meaning, shorn by endless chaos and violent static. But the burn, the burn you see clearly.

This one act you have control over. This pain is real and true. You can trust it. Put your faith in it. The art of burning is a ritual. Raw and full of primal magic. Your meat is a sacrificial offering. Transmute the anguish and confessions spiraling within and externalize it.

concentrated to a small point of charred skin. You press down harder with a citaret, pleading with every last ember to cook flesh. In coming days the skin will swell and blister, forming a pottet of translucent skin. Yellow serum pools within the bubble until it tears away, leaving an abyss of the flesh. As weech's pass, skin regrows in a lattice of scar tissue that will last the rest of your life. A cosmetic flaw, perhaps, but it need not matter. For in that moment when flesh and fire kissed, life had meaning and order. Your former lover used to run their fingertips over the scars that speckled your upper arm and shoulder.

Those they call Doe Spots Bleached circular marks Reminding them of childhood Of Bambi The stars on your lower body Healed darker Dotting down your leg

Let an abandoned pirate map Promise me you won't do it again They'd asked Silence was your answer You'd wrap another cigarette From the pack of Paul Malls Mandeling the package in the process You haven't enjoyed smoking in years.

The only reason you continue to smoke was to have an excuse to be prepared. Like a junkie, you tell yourself just one more hit, then everything will be fine. From behind a veil of watery eyes, you fumble the cigarette to your lips. Teeth audibly clack as you clench the filter, securing the stick in place. You glance about to ensure that no one bears witness to your shame. The lighter takes three strikes to work. Your thumb is red and raw from rolling the cheap striker so often. With the cigarette lit, you cough a sigh of smoke, knowing that relief is on the way.

You puff quick syncopations, flaming the fire hot and arc it towards the middle of your arm. The motion dies mid-air, frozen in awe. The skin on your arm moves, undulating like latex and melted rubber. It stretches and deforms, bubbles, twists, and expands. Near your inner elbow, five protrusions arrange themselves in lines, centimeters in height. Similar shapes arise near your wrist. Ridges of small black bones. The shapes pushing against the skin, stretching it thin like an inflated condom. The pain is delirium-inducing, and it is delicious. Better than any flame. Its rapture becomes your sole purpose for existence.

The bones fused together, creating new forms. Clod fingers nestle into palms and arms. As your flesh tears open to birth these growths, a mixture of blood, pus, and amniotic fluids seep from the wounds. Polluted rivers run down your arm. The claws open and close, testing the air like a newborn. Tentative at first, then self-assured. The growth on your elbow grabs the hovering cigarette, removing it with ease from your trembling grasp. The claw hand twirls the citarette until the filter faces inward. It lowers the smoke to greet a new horror emerging from your forearm. Mutating flesh gathers in plump folds like a southern bell's down, a set of pillowed lips that could be mistaken for a Georgia O'Keefe flower,

if not for the sharpened teeth lining the filaments. Its teeth are porous and rough, calcium stalagmites formed from bone dust. The flower blooms to receive the filter. Its lips kiss the cigarette and exhales, breathing in a cloud of smoke that erupts as dyeing. lasers through your skin pores. The mouth takes another drag and exhales the smoke directly in your face. You drop to your knees, shrieking in terror. Oh, warm compression spreads up your thigh as your kneecaps flatten against the asphalt with a malleability of needed clay. Glistening eyes,

embedded in pits of flesh, dispassionally observe as your face contorts in an axe. And Their sclera is perfect and clear, the irises soft baby hues of your youth. The eyelids, formed from bloody star tissue turned animate, moisten the eyes with serum fluid as they blink in their first light. Your chest rives and shirt tears open. Mouths devour fabric and flesh indistriminately. fetal hands assisting the feeding frenzy. The cancerous growths grab on to the untainted flesh and rend it. Chunches of skin and hair churned into meat, thrown recklessly into relentless cavities. As you open your mouth to scream once more, you find even your tongue has betrayed you.

The tongue slithers free, climbing the side of your face, slowly inching forward like a snail. The fimbriated folds, now fringed with tentative claws, pierced the soft tissue of your cheek with the mountain climbers still. The paint muscle ascends to your left eye and laps the tears streaming down like a thirsty kitten. The flowery lips on your arm continues puffing away at the cigarette, while hands shove the last remnants of untainted flesh into chinted.

chattering teeth. They do not stop at the flesh. They dig deeper, consuming the muscle fibers once hidden beneath the surface. The veins you dreamt of plucking have become straws to nourish the new flesh children. The tongue, satiated on your tears, taps against the iris like a bird's beak against a window. Tap, tap, tap, tap. You realize you've not once thought inharmonious thoughts since this experience began. Tap, tap, tap.

Every singular thought and ideation is clear in this moment. Tap, tap. Maybe this is healthy. The path to happiness is acceptance of situations. you can't change. Tap. The tongue burst through your cornea.

Gelatness vitreous fluids squirt into the air, escaping through gaps between the tongue's pink flesh and the bone of the eyes socket. The tongue slethers up the optical cavity, burrowing into your brain. You taste burnt meat, though the tongue is no longer yours. The mind grows silent as the tongue takes up a nest. The mouthflower finishes its citarette, grinding the butt dead against the asphalt with the aid of a thousand contributing hands. The growths ambulate towards the sun-dappled sidewalk and society. They will finish out the workday.

They will finish out your life. Except this, as you tranquilly rest in a calm that can finally last, mind and body as one. Creepy presents, wiggles, my protector, written by user Dead Eyes Eat Hearts, and narrated by Michelle Kane. I never knew of a time where the clown doll was not in our house. My parents received him as a wedding present back in the 80s from a well-meaning, if not absolutely batshit aunt, who was so sure that he would enrich their lives more than a baby possibly could. She was an old spinster, never having settled down, and when news of my impending arrival spread throughout the family like an insidious weed, She was sour at the thought of my mother, throwing her life away.

Babies and husbands, she would say, are not necessary for a life of value. As an adult, I agree with her. But hearing that story as a young child, did not do much to warm me towards her. He always sat in a small chair in the hallway outside of my room, a silent watchman. I hated him when I was little. His glassy eyes were empty and creepy, haunting me when I needed to run past him to use the bathroom in the late hours of the night.

He was a hearty, thick, plastic, and many times I thunked him on the head, watching for any reaction, a narrowing of the eyes, a glistening of the teeth that were bared into a terrifying smile. He stayed there, smiling, and ignoring my abuse.

It wasn't until I was a bit older that I began to appreciate him more. When I had a boyfriend who was insistent on coming over when my parents were out of town for a wedding, the clown watched. He stared as my boyfriend kept trying to climb the stairs, making excuses about just wanting to see my room, though I knew he had more on his mind.

I was resistant and not very into the idea. Even having my boyfriend here was a bit much, but I was never the best at saying no to people, fearing their disappointment in me for having boundaries. My boyfriend, Chase, made it most of the way up with me tugging at his arm until he saw the clown. Chase recoiled and barked out a laugh, asking me what the hell that was. I felt protective of the clown. He didn't do anything wrong, and he was a present. and Chase was being rude, in my opinion.

I crossed my arms and coldly responded that he was a wedding gift to my parents, and Chase at least had the common sense to stammer out an apology and finally let me lead him back to the living room. We sat in awkward silence until he found a reason to go home and left, much earlier than I think either of us had intended.

I climbed the stairs to my room and said a quiet thank you to the clown before going inside and closing the door. My dreams were nice and sweet, and when my parents returned a day later, I was well-rested and happy to see them. This was the first time I had been alone for more than a few hours, and we were all thankful it had gone so well,

though probably for different reasons. From that point on, the clown, whom I affectionately named Wiggles, became even more of a protector for me. Anytime something untoward seemed about to happen, or I felt overwhelmed by a boyfriend, friend, or even my parents, something about him would change their minds or course of action. My mom would be yelling at me about the state of my room, stressed from a bad day at work, and unable to keep herself from being upset about the house in some way or another. She would be red in the face, ask me how I could possibly live in such a situation

die and then thunk. We would both look at each other and then go out into the hall and there he would be, face down on the floor, as if he simply got tired of sitting and wanted a change. She would shrug and put him back before sighing out apologies and requests to just try to do better. I would agree we would hug it out and all would be forgotten. It wasn't until my senior year of high school that things got strange. I turned 18 early in the school year, just at the tail end of summer, and I was one of the oldest in my grade. My introverted nature did not really make me eager to rebel, though I did buy a pack of cigarettes on my birthday, giggling at the novelty before handing them over to my dad, who did smoke. He laughed and ruffled my hair, calling me a weird kid before pocketing them and walking away.

I began to notice that Wiggles' attempt at protection started to get more stripped, less of a last-ditch attempt at protecting me, and more a preemptive strike at anything resembling danger. My mom would come in and chat and start to offer for me to tag along to the store. She would quip about maybe seeing a cute boy while I was out and there would be a bang in the hallway. The small table next to Wiggles would be about half a foot to the door. the side, as if kicked in anger. I would have a male friend over and begin to take him upstairs to see my latest art project, and Wiggles would be ever-present, but somehow foreboding. He would seem cast and shadow, mean in his plasticine form, and my friend would shudder and

ask if maybe we could put him away. Or if I could bring the project down. I would agree, and the friend would go back downstairs, and it would be like wiggles never changed, was never dark. For me, I appreciated the attempts at saving me from things that could hurt me in any way, whether emotionally or physically, but this was getting old.

On the evening of him scaring off my friend, I squatted in front of him and sternly said, You stop this. You can't always do this. They're my friends, and if I need your help, I will tell you. He, of course, said nothing. From then on, he seemed to calm down.

He kept up his practice of keeping me out of trouble, but he was back to his usual method of doing so without being so strict. It wasn't long until my parents had yet another wedding to go to, two hours away, that he ramped up the intensity again. That morning, my mother kissed me goodbye, and told me what food had been prepared, what to do if someone came by, the usual. I nodded and pushed them out the door.

I was quite literally an adult now and looked forward to the freedom that came with not having to go to my snooty cousin Victoria's wedding. Once they left, I raised up to my room, grabbing snacks before settling in to binge Hannibal, free of interruption. The night passed uneventfully.

I ate dinner when I was hungry and went to bed after checking the alarms. It was setting up to be a mundane evening until I woke up at 3 a.m. by the noise of scraping. I sat up, bleary-eyed and exhausted as I tried to place where the noise was coming from

and scrunched my nose in confusion when I realized the sound originated in the hall. I stood and went to the hallway, rubbing my eyes as I did so. What I saw made me shriek and run back to my room, slamming the door. My heart raced and I pressed my back to the door, willing it to stay closed.

Outside, arranged in hearts, were rose petals, all laid out in front of Wiggles's chair, spreading their fragrant musk in the air. With trembling hands, I picked up my phone and shot off a text to my mom, who I was sure would not be awake. Mom, I'm scared. Ten minutes pass, 15 minutes and no answer. I chanced a glance out the door, barely cracking it to avoid being bum-rushed by a doll. All the petals were scattered, pushed aside like someone was trying to clean a slate. I hesitantly took a step out and quietly apologized to the doll for my reaction.

I felt silly doing so when he was the one who scared me, but I, I didn't know what to do. What the hell was this supposed to be? The doll, once again, did nothing. This time, though, I felt the disappointment I so often tried to avoid from boyfriends when I felt when I denied them a kiss or something more. I went back to bed, my fear not subsiding, and spent much of the night staring at the door, before finally falling into a restless sleep.

A chime from my phone woke me up a few hours later. What happened? Are you okay? Barely had the text been received before my mom was calling me and asking frantically what was wrong. I asked her to hold on as I moved downstairs, avoiding eye contact with wiggles as I did so. I didn't want him to hear me. I explained to her the weird events, omitting that I thought it was the doll because that sounded insane, even to me. I could hear my mother's confusion and worried. she promised that they would drive home immediately.

And I was grateful for her urgency, but assured her that they could at least stay for the wedding. Oh, I asked them to race home immediately after. I wasn't that confident in being alone another night. She agreed and made me promise to text her every hour to assure her that everything was okay. I asked permission to invite a friend over, female, so as not to anger wiggles.

And she agreed. I texted my best friend Laura, and she excitedly responded that she'd be happy to stay over and would be here shortly. I cleaned up my mess from the night before and made coffee, something I seldom do. I never liked the way it made my heart race, but the little sleep and fear from the night before motivated me to make an exception. Laura arrived shortly after, and if she picked up on my hesitance to go upstairs, she stayed quiet. I took her into the backyard and swore her to secrecy, and begged her not to try to

send me to the funny farm for what I was about to tell her. I laid out all of the behavior, good and bad that I had witnessed from Wiggles, and though she seemed doubtful, she did believe me in the end. She confessed to hearing stories about my creepy doll, and even further, feeling thrown off by him herself. We sat in silence at the end, brainstorming ideas to deal with him as the sun began to set. My parents would likely not be home. until around 11 p.m., and I was again grateful that my mother, who liked to be in bed no later than 9 p.m., took my fear seriously enough to come home early and deal with the drive so late. We finally went back inside, walking past wiggles and closing my door behind me. We ordered a pizza

and enacted our plan of sharing no personal information while in my room. We talked about superficial things and kept it light as we watched TV and waited for dinner to arrive. While chatting about rankings of pizza places and other fast-food joints, I casually opened my laptop and set my webcam to record. If any other weird stuff happens tonight, I want proof. When the pizza man rang the doorbell, we both sighed in relief and ran downstairs to get it and eat at the table, nothing that would set wiggles off as unusual behavior.

A stocky, pudgy man was at the door when I opened it. His face lit up, and he began to leave. ear at me and Laura. Oh, hey, you girls, home alone tonight. Alarm bells rang, and it was like every after-school special my parents made me watch came to fruition. I stammered out a no, handed in the cash, and even as he kept leering and licking his lips, are you sure? No cars in the driveway. Laura had walked, her house not far from mine. Of all the times for my parents to not be here, this was the worst. I tried to harden my voice as I informed him the car was parked in the garage.

Laura finally spoke up, asking him what business it was of his. His eyes narrowed, and he mumbled something about her being a bitch before finally letting go over the pizza that I had been tugging at, trying to free it from his hand. I shut the door as he glared at her and locked it for good measure. We both had already been jumping and on edge from our talk about wiggles, so this, on top of that, yikes. We tried to hide our nervousness, but dinner was mostly silent.

Only an hour until my mother was hopefully home with my dad, and I would be able to take a deep breath. My parents were not the most physically imposing people, but I trusted them to take care of me and keep me safe from anything, dolls or creepy delivery men. We made our way back upstairs, saying goodnight to Wiggles, as we discussed, not wanting to anger him. No response, as usual, and I shut the door for us to begin our nighttime routine. We were changing out of view of the camera when we heard it. Footsteps on the stairs.

I felt a chill down my spine as I really did. I realized I did not reset the alarm after dinner. I hooked frantically to Laura, and her widened, fear-filled eyes mirrored my own. I called out asking who it was, but got no answer. I grabbed Laura and my phone, pulling us both into my closet, holding the doorknop tightly to keep it closed. I called my mom, whispering out that someone was in the house, and she loudly gasped before telling my dad to drive faster. She assured me they were close, only about 30 minutes out. They left the reception early, unwilling to deal with annoying family members for much longer when they knew I needed them. My heart once again filled with love for my parents,

and I quietly begged my mom to call the police, afraid to make too much noise. She hung up to do so, and I turned to Laura, who had silent tears running down her face. I was terrified, and all I knew was that someone was here and logically breaking into someone's house was not really indicative of good intentions. Ladies. A voice called out and I heard my bedroom door open. Heavy steps echo through my room and Laura has a hand clasped tightly over her mouth and we're holding each other's free hand in death grips squeezing with all we got. I clenched Laura's hand in my own and whispered as quite, quietly as I can. Wiggles. I know it's insane to ask a doll for help, but I promised him I would let him know if I needed anything. And here I was, stuck in a closet, and fearing for the lives of me and my best friend. I knew you were alone. I knew you wanted me to come back. Why don't you just come out and we can talk? More steps as I connect that this must be the pizza man and my heart sink.

He's in my room. My parents are still so far away, and I have no idea when the police will be here. He gets closer to the closet, and the knob begins to turn against my hand when a loud thud from the hallway distracts the pizza man, who blissfully lets go of the knob. What the fuck? We hear, followed by steps back towards the hall. What a stupid fucking doll. Is this what you're into, girly? Pretty weird, but I'll forgive it. A loud noise like something is thrown from the floor into my room. I keep quiet, but I know the man has thrown wiggles and a nonsensical part of me hopes that wiggles is okay. The footsteps come back into the room and grow closer. Her palms aren't slick against each other and the knob it begins to turn. Before a scream breaks us. silence. A thump outside the closet, and I see a pool of blood seeping under the door.

Laura and I scramble back in shock, and I let go of the knob as the door bursts open, still clutched in the man's hand. He's on his knees, his face screwed in agony, and wiggles, sits behind him, sitting up and holding a razor blade in his hand. One from the box cutter, my father uses to open all of our packages from Amazon. Wiggles's smile is still slapped on his face. But his eyes, they're wild, and his painted on brows are narrowed. His hand comes down again, this time on the man's other ankle, and the man shrieks again. Again and again, Wiggles's arm comes down and more blood gushes out, staining my hardwood floors red. Wiggles's body suit is covered in blood, sticky with it, and the smell of copper is making me nauseous.

Laura and I have been frozen in fear, but she begins to shove at my back, urging me to move now while the man is distracted. I vault forward and barrel over the man in the process. He's now on his back, and Wiggles is showing no signs of stopping, looking almost happy about having more area to work with now. His hand swipes over the man's stomach, and I have to look away from my place at the door where I stopped mid-escape. No blade that small should go that deep, slicing skin open like it were mere paper on a gift you are all too eager to open. Laura is now in the hall, and she grabs my arm moving me and pulling me down the stairs and out the door. We run outside as the cop car pulls up and beeline for the uniform officers getting out, we babble and point at the door, and the officers

look at each other before one goes inside and the others stays out to watch over us. Minutes pass like hours, and we're clutching each other and sobbing. The relief at being saved making us break down. The fear is still there, but I'm so happy we got out. I can't bring myself to care too much. Beneath the giddiness, adrenaline, fear, all of it is worry. I worry about wiggles, and I worry about how much damage he sustained from his fall and subsequent brutalization of the man. The officer comes back out, staggering. He stops on the porch and vomits, heaving into our bushes. He pulls the other officer aside once done, glances at us and back to the window of my room, lit from the inside. My parents pull up soon and my mother bolts to us, grabbing Laura and I in a

vice-like hug. She sobs and wails as she too fills the relief of her escape. I let it go on for a few minutes before pulling back and telling her the whole story. Eventually an ambulance arrives, and even though he definitely wanted to hurt us, I hold my breath and hope, perhaps naively, that the man is alive. When he is brought out, it's on a stretcher and covered with a sheet. In the end, the only thing that seems to save us from any kind of charge relating to his brutal death is the recording I had the forethought to set up. The police didn't believe me when I insisted it was Wiggles,

but after watching the recording, they were silent, stunned at what they were witnessing. The police took Wiggles, not letting him be released to me. I begged to be able to have him back, but they just stared at me before informing me that he was evidence, as was my laptop. I got the laptop back eventually. Wiggles is still out there. When I could bring myself to do it, I watched the tape. I vomited watching the brutality of the attack, and I sobbed seeing the fear on both of our faces. Watching the man sneer as he threw Wiggles down, seeing him yank and pull on the door. licking his lips while doing so. I can only be thankful that something stopped him from whatever his plan might have been. I know it's weird and dumb, but I miss Wiggles. I know now why he was trying to protect me and that while maybe his love could have taken a darker turn after the display of petals, it didn't. He saved me and Laura that night, and I will never stop being grateful that my aunt

got him for my parents all those years ago. But beneath that gratitude is always my fear. My terror that Wiggles will escape and be mad at me for not saving him, too. 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 common share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of

this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.