Creepy - Christmas Bells Are Ringing & Anathema

Episode Date: December 23, 2021

Christmas Bells Are Ringing***Written by: Christo Healy and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content Warning: Toxic Relationship / Abuse***Anathema ***Written by: Leonie Rauber and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Find 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.

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

Creepy presents. Christmas bells are ringing. Written by Crystal Healy and narrated by Michelle Kane. I close my eyes against the rising headache, squeezing my thumbs against my temples. It's getting harder and harder each day to live with the. noise, the endless cacophony of hammers and thrills and fucking singing elves. I've begged my husband, downright begged him to move our home further away from the workshop. But he insists that he needs to be there to oversee the work.

He says the elves will get unruly if they're left unsupervised. I believe it, of course, it's not that he's wrong. Oh, no. Those little creatures need to be kept in line. They're a rude, horrible bunch. Oh, it just makes me want to scream. Day after day, I bake endless cookies. It's gotten to where the smell of sugar cookies makes me want to vomit.

But he asks me to keep them fed, to keep them happy so he can keep them working. We need them, he tells me. So I bring them platter after platter of sugar cookies, ornately decorated by my old calloused hands, my carpal tunnel screaming at me. And those elves don't so much as say thank you. They just grab for the cookies like rabid animals, munching and spitting and dropping crumbs all over. If I'm in their way, they'll push me, literally push me.

I'm tired of getting pushed. So damn tired of it. When my husband gets home tonight, I'm not going to ask. I'm going to demand to move further away from the noise. I'm going to tell him I can't be the baker and delivery person for the little monster's cookies anymore. If he wants that to continue, he can hire someone. I've been thinking about it all day, waiting on my moment. I would go to him now and say it now, but he's out there working on that damn sleigh of his,

and with that engine going and the carols booming from the speakers, he never hears anything. I need him to hear me. After what feels like an eternity, I need to be hurt for once. Sometimes I feel like he cares more about those god-forsaken deer than he does his own wife. I can't stand those beasts any more than I can stand those elves. They stink and they shit everywhere.

They snort and kick. Oh, but they're important. Right? They have to deliver the presents. They have to fly the sleigh. All I do is cook and clean and keep everyone happy while trying to deal with the endless fucking noise. Somehow that makes me less important in my husband's eyes. Go figure. This is a man's world, isn't it? I wonder how they're Those elves can say so happy all the time. All they do is work, labor, and eat those sickeningly smelling cookies I bring them. Yet they sing and they laugh, like their lives are filled with nothing but joy. He says they like working, building things and fixing things. It's in their nature. Unfortunately, so is making an ungodly mess. A terrible racket. and being rude as can be.

That isn't his problem, though, is it? I suppose it's not. I keep him fed, too. Sure, he says thank you once in a while and compliments my cooking, but he doesn't lift one of those old fingers to help me clean up afterwards. All I give from him is a single present on Christmas, something made by those awful elves. I'd rather have nothing.

If he ever listened to me, he'd know that. How can anyone listen to anything with that infernal banging and drilling? Why do they always have to sing and cheer and laugh? What could possibly be so funny? Is it me? I certainly feel like a big joke to all of them. I wish the workday would be all. over and he would just come home to eat his roast beast and potatoes and green beans so I can

finally speak to him. The oven dings and I jump out of my skin. I almost scream. Every little sound feels like torment at the stage in the game. I feel like I'm losing it. I pull his roast from the oven and cover it in foil to keep it hot. Then I start on another batch of disgusting cookies. My hands tremble as I mix the ingredients. My eye is beginning to twitch. I just wish the noise would stop. I wish it would ever stop. Even when the workday is over, I continue to hear it. I hear it in my sleep. It never ends. It's torture. The smell of the new batch of cookies makes my stomach lurch. I put a hand to my mouth to keep the sickness from leaving. They have to be sick of these things. They just have to be. My husband calls the elves creatures of habit. They need routine,

sameness, he says. Well, I don't. I need change, and I never, ever get it. I tried to mix things up one time, pun intended, and baked chocolate chip cookies. Now that was a smell I could breathe in. It was divine. They came out perfect, browned just right, warm and filled with melty chocolate, just begging to be consumed. I brought the first tray to the workshop, and the first elf smacked it out of my hand. All of my delicious cookies went all over the floor. They were still warm, so they stuck and smushed. My mouth fell open. I couldn't believe they could be so awful. And the elf said, no, and shove me towards the door. I cried as I hurried back to the kitchen to make more of those damn sugar cookies. When my husband got home that night, I told him,

what happened, and he said simply, you know how they are. That's what I got from him. There was no empathy, no sympathy, no compassion. There never is. There's just noise, and the awful smells of those cookies and deer. Tonight will be different. It has to be. If something doesn't change, I fear I will lose. my mind. There has to be more to life. We just work all year long to do something on one single day, and then we start all over, and we do the same things morning, tonight, day after day, and it never ends. In the beginning, I was okay with it because I loved him, and I thought he loved me. He said he did and I believed it.

When we're in love, we'll hear and believe what we want to, won't we? He doesn't love me, though. I don't know if he ever did. This isn't what you do to someone you love. And to think that at the end of these ridiculously monotonous, repetitious days, my husband expects me to make love to him. The thought of it was as sickening to me as the smell of those cookies. How can he expect to be appealing to me after ignoring my needs and feelings?

He smells like engine grease and deer when he gets home. He eats ravenously like he's been hanging out with those elves too long, and then he thinks I want him? I don't. I don't want any of those. of this. If he isn't willing to change it today, I'm going to leave. I tried to leave once before, and he literally laughed at me. He leaned back with his rosy cheeks, my dinner stuck in his big white beard, and he chortled like I had made some hilarious joke. How are you going to leave?

He wanted to know. Where are you going to go? Don't be ridiculous. I'll see you in bed. Keep the apron on. I walked out into the snow that night. I marched to the barn and tried to get those deer to power that sleigh. I begged them to take me away, to take me anywhere that wasn't here. But they just stared at me and snorted like they couldn't understand. But I knew they could. I knew the commands he used. I started to cry and. Then I heard all those little voices laughing. I turned and saw them all, pointing at me and laughing. I stormed past them out into the snow, and I screamed.

I screamed with everything I had. And the sound was lost in the ferociously blowing wind. There was a snowmobile, but I'd never ridden it. I didn't know how or where I would even take it. I didn't know what was out there. It was overwhelming. It looked like endless snow and trees. It looked like cold and death. The sleigh would have taken me to civilization, to people and safety. The snowmobile just built upon my fear and anxiety. I didn't go up to bed that night. I slept in the snow, hoping I would die. I didn't, though. No, of course not. That was years ago, and here I am, still going, still doing what is expected of me, still listening to that endless noise. I'm part of Christmas, so age will never be the end of me. Christmas magic keeps us immortal. It doesn't stop us from getting old, from getting bones that hurt in the never-ending cold, from getting arthritis and declining vision and

hearing, it just stops us from dying. I don't want to live forever, though, not like this. Who would? It's literally torture. It is maddening and disgusting and without reward, and it's never, ever going to end. Not unless I end it. Why isn't he home? What is he doing? His dinner is getting cold. So help me God, he better not complain about it. I'm liable to turn him into a roast and force feed into those damn elves. When the days go long, my terrible day is even worse, because I still have to go to that empty workshop and clean up the horrible mess, those awful monsters. left for me. Sometimes it takes hours because I'm working by myself, and then by the time I get home, my back and legs are so sore and I'm so exhausted. Then he wakes me at the rise of the sun

to get started on breakfast and the first batch of cookies. I've tried to ask him before if he realizes how long I was cleaning, how late I got in, only to receive a response like, I know, I went to bed horny and without relief. Like I did something wrong to him by cleaning up after his ungrateful, thoughtless employees. I suppose I should have come home and had sex with him and then gone back to finish cleaning. Then I would be a better wife. The truth is, I'm just another employee. Just another animal that will spend eternity trying to please him.

It has sapped the life out of me. It makes me feel like I don't even have a soul. I have no personality. I don't even know who I am anymore. All I know is the noise. I'm starting to pace now. If he doesn't get home soon, I'm going to have to go look for him. I can't just let this go.

Not this time. Not anymore. I can't. Where the fuck are you? Screaming feels good sometimes. I'm trembling with my anger, my pain, my need for freedom. At least it's some form of release. Lord knows the times I give in and do go to that man's bed. I don't get any release.

My pleasure is not part of the equation. It's not on the agenda. Finally, the door opens and I'm so tense, I can't even sigh with relief. The cold wind blows in and doesn't help the already cold food. You're late, I said as he walked in, tracking mud without a care in the world. Why should he care?

He has me to clean it, and he knows I will. If for no other reason, then I don't want my home to be filthy. It's almost Christmas. He says simply, as if that's answer enough. I put his cold dinner in front of him without my usual offer to reheat it for him or cook something else. I need to speak, and I need you to listen, to really hear me. I tell him as he stuffs the icy food into his mouth. I watch the food clinging to that white beard, staining it, and I try not to be sick.

Do you hear me? He just keeps eating. I can't do this. I can't go on like this. I'm serious. I need you to listen. I can't take the noise anymore. If you won't listen to me, then I'm going to leave. Don't ask me how. I'll walk if I have to.

He lifts his eyes then, like he's noticing I'm there for the first time. Maybe you should try the chocolate chip again. He says before returning to his food. That's the final straw. Something in me breaks, and it's irreparable. I walked past him to the counter with an unbelievable sense of calm, and I retrieved the rolling pin. I used to make those disgusting cookies every day of my pitiful, useless existence.

Then I walk back to his chair where he continues to eat his cold dinner, and I strike him across the back of his head. He chokes and coughs roast beasts out under the table, and I strike him again, and again, and again. He tries to get up, to get away, or maybe to hurt me in return. You've hurt me enough, I think. Then I hit him across the face and watch him fall into the table, and I hit him again. This is the most alive. I have felt since I became Mrs. Claus. I cry out and I hit him over and over. His big body

slides to the floor and I just continue hitting him. I look at the terrible mess I've made at the floor and I say, I'm not cleaning it. Then I'm laughing. I'm laughing at my own rebelliousness. I'm not going to clean anything tonight. I'm going to be the one making the mess this time. As far as I'm concerned, Christmas ends here. I drop the roller beside my husband's body, and I walk outside into the cold. Tonight, the wind feels good,

like the sensual caress of a lover. Tonight is different because I am different. I spy the elves eating over by the snowmobile. When they're not eating cookies, they're eating meat, raw meat that they've hunted for themselves. I cringe and disgust and spit into the snow. Then I walk by them into the barn. I toil with the engine on the incredible magical sleigh. I can feel the reindeer watching me as I do this, and I laughed myself again.

They're walking around, seeming nervous and antsy. Maybe they know what is coming. I hope they do. I hope they're afraid. I'm finally going to be rid of their stench and filth. In moments, the fire has started. I ease my way out of the barn and lock the door as the hay catches and the fire spreads, and the animals inside grow frantic. There will be no trips around the world this year. I snigger myself as I walk away, from the burning building. The elves must know that there's something off about me because they stop eating and leave their meal to follow me. They probably think it's something wrong with me, but they're the ones who are wrong. This change in me is exactly right. And once Christmas is destroyed, the magic will be destroyed with it. Then I can lay down and die like everyone else. and finally get some rest, some peace. I let those little monsters follow me into their workshop.

They are looking at me more curious than anything. No more cookies, I say to them. Close the door. They do as I say and approach me with their little knives, but I'm not afraid. I've never been so unafraid. I smile as I select a little. drill and a hammer from their work tables. This time, the noise is like music. The little things

charge me, and I roar and I smash their skulls with their own hammers. I drill through their eyes and laugh as they stab and bite me. The sound of a hammer on skull is like Christmas bells ringing. I find myself dancing in their blood as I stop any trying to flee for the door and smash them. I pick them up and feed them into their machines, crimson spraying the walls. And finally, they're not laughing or singing. I'm the one laughing and singing because in the end, Mrs. Claus is the crump. I'm the one, destroy. When the massacre is complete, I realize that the magic still isn't dead, and I'm still alive. I exit the blood-soaked workshop and revel in the beautiful quiet.

I breathe it in and exhale it slowly. I've waited for this for so long, but I realize it can't end here. even though Christmas won't be coming this year, not from here anyway. The people still believe. They still have Christmas spirit. If I want it to really end, to let me go and set me free, then I have to ruin Christmas for everyone. I can't do that from here.

I need to go to a major city, do something big, make an impact. I need to shatter Christmas Day for everyone. Turn it into a day they don't want to celebrate or even remember. The killing isn't done. This is only the beginning. I head back into the house and bundle up for the weather. Once I have on enough layers, I fit snugly into one of Santa's suits, and I even look like the man. I wear his hat, too, but I don't know.

decide to fill my role to embrace it and run with it. I used the blood-soaked workshop to create a mask, a grump mask. It fits perfectly, and I laugh again. Then I climb on to that snowmobile, and I head out into the world. I should have done this that day years ago when I wanted to leave. I was afraid. I was afraid of the long journey of not making it. But I'm not afraid of anything anymore. I'm a woman on a mission. This time I have purpose and I refuse to fail.

I was just a woman wanting to be seen, to be heard, to be appreciated and cared for. Now I am a monster The monster they created And I am going to turn Christmas to ash A killer has been born I am the grump And I will make sure the world knows it As I ride off into the night

The plan begins to formulate in my mind I find myself laughing again It's good to finally feel alive. And when this is all finally over, it will be good to finally die. Creepy presents anathema, written by Leonie Robber

and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. The first thing you lose is a fingernail. You're hunched up in a dining chair, a slice of chocolate cake on the wooden table before you, next to a half-empty glass of sparkling champagne. A cork pops as Paul yanks it out of another bottle. White foam overflows, pours over your co-worker's hand, spills onto the light gray tiles of your living room.

Paul looks up, making a funny face, and everyone around the table laughs. Except you. You're scrutinizing the nail on your left index. finger. It lost its pinkish color, sticks loosely to your pale skin, moves when you brush against it. You pull at it and a sharp pain cuts through your hand, sharp as Beatrice's joyous laughter to your right, which makes you wince and wish you hadn't invited her. You'll grow deaf before the evening's over if she keeps bellowing in your ear like that. A drop of red wells up from your finger.

Uh, you say, and the chair scrapes over the tiles as you stand. Gotta go to the bathroom. But we just poured the champagne, Eric, says Lisa. Lisa's pregnant, so Lisa's content with orange juice, but you're sure she'd swig the alcohol. if others wouldn't judge her for it. Five pairs of eyes fixate on you for the first time this evening, their owners only hesitantly interrupting their imbibing.

Go ahead without me. You blurt and flee through the corridor of your spacious apartment. It smells of mold in the bathroom. Has since you moved in, and you complained to the landlord multiple times, but the sluggard doesn't care. Blood drips off your finger into the basin, dark red on shiny white. It's not much, but enough to make your head spin.

You turn on the tap and let the water run over your hand. You hiss when it hits the wound, and suddenly your finger is naked. The white nail vanishes down the drain, exposing your fingertip. The digit doesn't necessarily. feel part of you anymore, resembling more of a worm, working itself through red dirt. You turn off the tap. Laughter resound from the living room as your coworkers drink a toast to your 45th birthday. The second thing you lose is a tooth.

Your mother is babbling on and on, but you don't listen. You always dismissed her endeavors to reach out as gossip. She never had anything substantial to say, and today can't be any different. You're sitting in the living room, which you spent hours cleaning after everyone left, thinking the party hadn't been worth it. They only cared about getting drunk on your liquor anyway, which you should have expected. They aren't good for much else.

mm-hmm you say taking another bite of cake leftovers though still acceptable tasted too chocolatey yesterday as well as to-day the cake was the cheapest the confectionery had and it shows you think your mother certainly doesn't mind she chews her second slice intently gaze trained on the plate And, well, now she's dead. She shakes her head. We've been friends since I had you. Can you believe it? She attempts a smile, and you would have noticed her eyes glistening had you paid her any mind. Mm-hmm, you say. This is why your father died, you think.

He was a quiet man, like you, and probably couldn't wait to get away. from her either. But it's been an hour, and soon you can tell her it was great catching up, and walk her to her car, the whole affair of your birthday finally over. You take another bite, and frown when one of the fork's tines brushes a molar, driving a stinging pain through your right cheek. Are you all right, honey? Your mother doesn't get an answer. The cake is delicious. she says. Did you make it yourself? Mm-hmm.

You say, and wince when it tastes metallic. I didn't know you could bake. Mm, you say, swallow and touch the molar with a finger. It's loose, reminding you of when you were five and discovered your front tooth wobbled when pressed against. Eric? Your mother asks. I'll be back. You stammer, and the chair topples as you stand.

You scurry to the bathroom, nearly trip over your feet, slam the door behind you. Red in the basin again when you spit out. Red on white, chocolate crumbs intermingled. Red dripping down your drain. You open your mouth wide, look at your teeth in the mirror. A beating pulse. hammers against your temples as you take the molar between two fingers and pull.

A small jerk, and you're holding it in your hand. Blood gushes out of the hole, makes you dizzy, you spit out more red, your fist trembles, but you force your fingers open. The tooth's crown extends to three strong roots, and blood clings to them. but underneath the red you find sturdy white material, a healthy molar belonging in your mouth rather than in your palm. Eric? Your mother, knocking, can't she leave you alone for one second?

What's going on? You spit again, wipe your mouth, clean the basin, and put the tooth in the cabinet. a shaky breath in a shaky breath out eric you roll your eyes in the mirror a weak attempt and leave to get rid of your mother tuesday arrived and you have to work again you're an accountant a job usually described as boring but you disagree it's the worst job a person could have its numbers and calculating and both books and finances and keeping track of other people's money. Nothing is worse than keeping track of other people's money because they have millions and you have a moldy bathroom. The only advantage is that the wealthy don't notice

when a few of their riches go missing occasionally. Striding over the pavement, you keep your eyes, eyes high. Cars drive to your left, important-looking people hurry past, glancing at Rolexes, their perfumes pungent in your nose. They have it all,

while you must use your position as an accountant to get the money for the emergency appointment at the doctor's office yesterday. And that appointment couldn't have been more useless. Must have

injured that finger. The doctor said, and... Go to a dentist. Rolling your eyes, you secretly thought he slept through the lectures in med school. You turn around the corner, and your destination comes into sight. It's a skyscraper, supposedly. You find it puny, though fitting for the people who work here and the work they do. A law firm, they call themselves, but it's a bunch of children playing court at best.

You don't take off your cap when you enter the bright foyer, not heating the security guard behind his counter who greets you amiably. You don't take off your cap when you exit the elevator on the seventh floor and stroll down the corridor past your coworkers who nod to you with closed-lip smiles. You don't take off your cap because you're hiding that bald spot on your head. Yesterday, thick locks flourished on your scalp. Today, several brown tufts came loose under your fingers, wet from the water in the shower, and clinging to your skin as much as your nail didn't. You wanted to give that doctor another chance then,

but he wouldn't believe in your emergencies anymore. Next appointment in three weeks, you were told. And now you doubted he attended med school at all. The clock strikes nine, and you sit behind your desk. Files stack before you, you sigh. The clock strikes 12, and you eat the salad you bought on your way here. Your commute is a nice stroll Through a park first, through the heart of the city then

Past enormous trees first, past enormous skyscrapers then But you don't see all this You get worked up over how long the kid in the health food store Need to prepare your meal Every time you have to snap at him for his laziness You chew. The salad tastes bland, but you don't want to end up like all the other fat old men, so you swallow. The nail on your left middle fingers sticks up.

Your throat constricts. A tooth cracks under a crunchy lettuce leaf. You wince, squint your eyes, screw up your face. Your pulse climbs to the ceiling. Another tooth? You spit into your hand searching frantically. Underneath green, half-chewed leaves hides another molar. You leap up, dart out of your office through the corridors.

The kitchen has a sink, but Lisa leans over it, chugging something from a flask. You were right, you think, with a pang of glee, but stumble on before you notice her blotchy cheeks, ruddy nose, teary eyes, the way she clutches her stomach. You reach the bathroom, run past the stalls to the basin, spit out, red. Your stomach heaves, you think you'll throw up, you turn and reach the toilet just in time. You sink to the floor, your head spinning like you just crawled off a roller coaster. because in the water mixed with the lettuce and carrots and cucumber are two more teeth the fingernail that stuck up it's gone another worm hangs on your hand

Are you mistaken, or is the skin between your fingers climbing up? And as you sit there, slumped down next to your vomit, too shaken, to reach up and flesh away the sour stench, you remember that three times fifteen makes forty-five. You vomit again. You curse the fact that you don't own a car. You could have driven yourself and wouldn't have had to call your mother to pick you up from the bus stop, but she's happy to do so, smiles when she sees you climbing out of the bus. You can't return the gesture, not even with a fake smile, because you're missing your front teeth, and you don't want your mother to know.

Eric! she calls, but her smile wavers. Oh, Eric, what's wrong? Are you okay, honey? You hate how she still calls you honey as if you were five. I'm fine, you say. You don't want her pity. You wipe your clammy forehead and climb into her shabby ford, letting her babble on as she drives you to the terraced house you grew up in. She is nice in her way, guides you inside, puts you on the brown sofa in the living room. You always disliked its odor of old lady, but you suppose that's what your mother is,

so why should her couch smell any different? She turns on the TV, drapes a blanket around your legs, pats your shoulder. She'll make you a cup of tea, she says, and disappears into the kitchen. As soon as she's out of sight, you toss the blanket to the floor, straighten, stumble past the cabinet next to the sofa that presents photographs of you as a boy. You open the patio door to the garden and stagger over the wooden terrace to the lawn. The grass appears yellowish, a carpet interwoven with weeds. No bed of flowers, but your mother never had a green thumb. the gap in the fence is still there concealed behind the ancient cherry tree its leaves are turning brown now but in summer it bestows many a delicacy

you duck under its branches and enter the pathway into the woods of your childhood home and so you come to me You have trouble finding my house again because last time you were 15. But I make it easy for you and move my little cabin so you can practically stumble onto my porch. You see me sitting on the porch knitting. Your eyes wander over me, my figure, which makes you glad you're forcing yourself to eat salad, my crimson dress. You think it looks like a little bit like a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of my little. I knitted it myself, and I did, though a spell simplified the process. Your gaze drifts over my cabin, the wooden construction overgrown with moss and fungi,

a bird's nest occupying my chimney. It's September and too late for birds to lay eggs, but my house never cared for the seasons, so the animals don't either. A cat purrs on the chair next me, bathing in the flex of sunlight the branches allow to pass through. Suddenly, you're grateful for your moldy bathroom. You approach rubbing your hands, your steps rustling through the dried leaves on the forest ground. I don't look up. Let you sweat. Let you struggle for words. You clear your throat. "'Excuse me,' you say, and those might be the politest words you've uttered in your fleeting lifetime. "'Unpleasant, isn't it, to see ruined what you hold dear?'

"'I say. Your eyes bulge.' "'What are you doing to me?' "'There's a lisp in your words, resembling a geriatric without dentures.' I regard you, the slim body, the unhealthy posture, the too large nose. I'm keeping the promise that I gave you 30 years ago. What? You start, but a sharp cough interrupts your lies of innocence. You wretch, your second to last tooth detaches.

You spit it into your hand, gape as if you haven't grown used to losing body parts yet. What does that mean? You gasp. I don't move a muscle. Watch you fidget under my stare. Only one more tooth to lose. And then...

You'll turn into a frog. You choke. Why? Toads are ugly. I say only half in jest. you didn't know what a snotty brat you were then just as you don't know what a snotty brat you still are and i think you'd make an especially ugly one i was fifteen and now you're three times that age please you say i'm sorry i broke some of your things that age please you say i'm sorry i broke some of your things You don't have to do this.

Broke some of my things? I don't have to do anything. I say. Then don't. Just stop. Why would I? I say. I like frogs. I jerk my chin to the left, pointing at my front door that's a jar.

You step right and take in the interior of my house. It's but one room, one bed with soft blankets, one table with drying herbs, one cabinet with vials of dark fluids, flagons of reddish plants, bottles holding gray pace. You don't know what it all does, and you should be glad you don't. One terrarium. It occupies too much space on the floor. but it's still too small for all the frogs.

You gasp when you discover the lively creatures hopping all over each other, trying to escape. Stop! Your voice almost gives in. I'll do anything. And what is that? I say. What could anyone want?

from you. You throw your webbed fingers in the air. I'm good at my job. That law firm needs me, and I... I haven't seen the world yet. I haven't... No. Tell me not what you haven't done, but what you will do.

You open your mouth, inhale, but that last tooth of yours, a lone survivor in a geriatric in a geriatrics mouth wobbles. Your eyes trail as it descends onto the forest soil. And now you feel it, my magic's surging through your body, reshaping your bones and twisting your cells. You double over. It's too late, you realize. And it's that realization that's worse than any physical pain I caused you.

You're subject to me. You're helpless. You're nothing. Looking up, you wheeze. Your hand clasping your throat. Your eyes bloodshot accusing. I wait. You blink and vanish.

Your clothes tumbled to the ground, a messy pile. I lean forward, and the pile moves. A green hand appears. and you crawl out from underneath your brown shirt. Your mouth is wide, your eyes protrude. You have holes for a nose. Rabbit, you say, fighting free from the fabric, trying to hop away. A wave of my hand, and you freeze.

I stand, stretch my back, and pluck you from the air. Ha! I say, You're a pretty one. Rabbit. You say. I grin and put you with the other

snotty brats. For even more from creepy, 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 used under license and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of the story's author. Please contact us at creepypod at gmail.com for further information on obtaining the rights necessary to rebroadcast or distribute a particular story.