Creepy - Day 11 - October Mist

Episode Date: October 11, 2021

The things we do to forget...***Written by: Michael Whitehouse***Bonus: "Today is Wednesday" written by MistressToast and narrated by Michelle Kane***Content Warning: Death of an infant, Psychological Break***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Day 11 October missed Written by Michael Whitehouse It was October We were out on the Pacific I'd decided my yacht would be as good as any to celebrate my most hated night of the year The yacht indulgently named my prize had 12 guest rooms, bridge crew, waiting staff, a chef, a butler, even my personal physician,

and all the usual luxuries you'd expect on a boat that cost me millions of dollars. Most of the crew didn't like me. I could tell that even when they were smiling. But it didn't matter. I paid them well. And so what if I got a little familiar with them every now and then? My guests, those who circled me because of my wealth, were there for what was supposed to be yet another show of money on my part. They didn't know that their attendance was intended for another purpose.

I was trying to forget the pain of two decades ago, a pain that reared its head each and every Halloween night. I was 18 at the time, and now, 20 years later, I still couldn't quite grasp what I had done. It was an anniversary I could never truly face. I'd tried on more than one occasion to pass Halloween on my own, and almost always resulted in a miserable bout of anxiety followed by booze and pills. Except for the crew, everyone was dressed up in costumes and masks that night.

Some grizzly, most of them comical, and proceeded to enjoy some blackjack, cocktails, dancing, and the occasional bump on the water. That was to be expected, considering we were miles from any coast. Another unnecessary demand I had made to the ship's captain. He was against it due to the potential bad weather, but I told him to remember who was the real captain of the ship. The ballroom was at the center of that night's festivities. It had panoramic views of the sea, and was as good a place as any to get through Halloween. Almost everyone was smiling and having a good time, with the exception of Wallace.

He hated my yearly Halloween bash and was completely against the idea. I think he was frightened that I'd spill my guts to someone over too many martinis, that I confess our sins and put us both in chains. Nonetheless, he had been with me all that time, across both those decades, and he followed me like a shadow each Halloween. He said it was to make sure I was okay, but I suspect he was always worried that his part in it all would be revealed.

I don't think you would have betrayed me, though. He had known me when things, things weren't quite as opulent. That was how I could tell he was a real friend. It's the people who come after you make your money. Those are the ones you can't trust. I hadn't always been rich. I started my life in squalor.

My mom was an addict. My dad was nowhere to be seen. But I used that as fuel. I did anything I could to not be left. like them. Nothing could stand in my way. And so there I was on the ocean, on my own private yacht. I'd made it.

Even if my parents weren't alive to see it, this should have made me happy. But on Halloween of all nights, happiness was the furthest thing from my mind. When I closed my eyes, I could see the image of my friend, Nick, that blonde-haired boy I had met on a grimy street corner when we were both five years old, the boy who had a bad trait, a trait to always do good. This world isn't meant for people like that. I could see his tall figure in my mind moving between the guests, wearing that ridiculous skeleton Halloween costume he'd had on that fateful night,

watching me as the strobeye cut a glint in his face. his eyes. More drink was needed. As a guest danced the night away, I sat at the bar with a vodka martini, watching and becoming increasingly morose in my thoughts. This was always what happened. For the first few hours, I'd enjoy the night, thinking naively that I could avoid the guilt. But as midnight approached, that was when the memories would come. I tried my best to keep them at bay, but no matter what I did, no matter how outlandish a party I threw or activity I immersed myself in, the memories of Halloween and Nick's innocent face would drown any hope of having a good time. The people danced.

At least they were enjoying themselves. I looked across the dance, Florence, I saw Wallace on the other side, standing next to the wall as he always did. He never joined in. He just watched. His hair had gone prematurely white when we were kids. Nick and I both phoned ourselves in fights trying to stop people picking on him throughout high school. I think that's why Wallace helped me and why he'd take our secret to the grave. I caught him looking at me across the dance floor, shaking his head with his usual disapproval.

There was a flicker of fear on his face. I knew that look. The fear I'd do something stupid. I raised my glass to him and he nodded in acknowledgement. He even smiled a little. That was when I noticed my drink move. The clear liquid pushed up slowly against the side of a glass. I looked around and watched as the entire room.

Still filled with Halloween revelers dancing, slanted up. Happy smiles who became nervous ones. The floor came up to meet me violently, and I grabbed hold of a chair. The sound of glasses smashing, people screaming mixed with the dance music. And as the adrenaline encountered the alcohol in my blood, I heard a terrible rushing sound. A huge wall of black flowed towards me. It felt like I was hit by it.

a train, and then there was a brief shock of cold water enveloping me. I couldn't breathe. Things went dark after that. Something rough against my cheek woke me. I opened my mouth and coughed up some water. It burned down in my lungs as my face rubbed against the wet sand. It took me a moment, but when I opened my eyes, I was greeted by a dim light and an empty, dark blue sky. The sun was on the horizon, climbing up over where the limitless ocean met the sky, far off.

Beside me, seaweed littered the shore and sea water ebbed and flowed over my feet. My clothes were drenched, my mass gone. The early morning air was cold. I staggered to my feet. My Halloween costume had been torn to pieces. My jacket was gone. My trousers were ripped. lifting my white shirt up, I could see what was causing my increasing pain.

My ribs were badly bruised, maybe even cracked, like I've been thrown against something with great force. Breathing was rough, and I thought I could feel something rattling around inside my chest. I'd always been good at anticipating danger, I've seen negative outcomes, and so my mind immediately turned to taking in my surroundings. I was in a sheltered bay with a few grassy hills blocking my view. I tried to calm my breathing, and that was when I noticed that there was a strange, musty smell mixed in with the ocean's spray. It wasn't quite rotten, but not far from it.

Depending on the breeze, the smell would be more pronounced, and then almost vanish. I was beginning to get my bearings and steady myself. There was no sign of the yacht and no sign of anyone else either. The waves of the sea were eerily calm, lapping the shores if benign. A horrible thought crept into my mind

that everyone had drowned. I wondered if Wallace had survived. A pang of guilt ran through me. He wouldn't have been on that damned yacht if I'd handled the pressure of Halloween alone in a hotel suite somewhere. The image of Wallace his white hair under the water.

His mouth desperately open for air and only breathing the cold sea water. I had to pull myself together. A rogue wave. It must have been a rogue wave, I thought to myself. I'd read about them. Hell, even the captain of my yacht, Barnes,

once told me a story about being capsized on a fishing boat when he was younger. I now regretted making fun of his stories. Those sorts of waves could come out of nowhere It must have been a huge one to take out the entire yacht Then I realized that the hill above me had changed In the dim light A head had poked up from the sandy crest of the hill

I couldn't get a good look at it from down on the shore But I was just thankful that someone had found me Help I yelled myself God's aching as I did. I need a doctor! But the outline of the head remained motionless. While I couldn't see the eyes, I could feel the stare.

The figure was assessing me. I was sure of it. When you have a lot of money, you quickly become aware that people will want to take it from you. The still unmoving head up on the hill became a reminder of that. Was this person thinking of a woman? robbing me? I checked my pockets. No wallet. Even my bachelor on Constantine watch had been torn from my wrist during the sinking. It didn't matter. I'd get the insurance money, a cool 1.5 million. There was nothing to head on the hill could take from me except my life. But that meant I had

nothing on me to barter with either, except for the promise of a reward once I was somewhere safe. I shouted up a few more times, and still that had remained there watching, waiting. I wasn't going to just stand there shivering in the bay. My side throbbed with each breath. I needed medical assistance to make sure I wasn't bleeding internally. Even a simple drink of water and a place to rest would have been a comforting start. As the sun climbed further above the horizon, just enough to light my way, I took a deep breath. The musty scent on the air uncomfortable for a moment.

I then decided to move up the hill and try to get a better look at my situation. It was a steep climb, but I found a small sandy trail that kept me far enough away from the staring head. By the time I reached the top, I walked over to the head, laughing, and, you know, myself. The head was a gnarled piece of tree trunk. Nothing more. I'd been shouting at an inanimate object the entire time. Looking around, I finally had enough height to grasp my surroundings.

I could see that I was on an island, but not a very large one. The place was covered in tall grass, almost waving at me in the ocean breeze. The grass moves outside. I decide as the uneven land led up to a prominent hill at the center of the island. On top of it was what looked like a large house. Thank God, I said, patting the gnarled tree head and moving off towards the house. As I did so, I heard a creek from behind me. I turned to the dead tree, and it stared back at me, silent and unmoving.

But it looked different, as if it had changed to the tree. physician slightly. I concluded that I was more beat up than I had thought. I wish Dr. Hallbrook, my personal physician, had made it off the yacht before it sank so he could treat me. But I guess that was wishful thinking. It continued on my way to speak with the residence of the house. Maybe there was a phone, or I could pay my way to being ferried off the island.

The thick grass had many a dip and hole. and on more than one occasion my foot got caught in the undergrowth. It took a while, but finally I'd reached the foot of the hill. A dirt track weaved up its side and terminated at the front of a large two-story house made of wooden slats. There wasn't a hint of paint on the building. The roof looked crooked, and although the window panes were intact, my heart sank. It didn't look like a place where anyone would live. Not intentionally, at least.

I moved on to the first of several wooden steps leading up to the main door. The step groaned underneath my weight. I would have worried about the stairs giving way beneath me as I walked up them, but I was distracted. On the second floor I was certain that something had moved up against the window pane. Like the rest of the house, the glass was covered in dirt and sand, and so it was impossible for me to make the shape all. completely.

Hello? I shouted it up. I've been in an accident. Can you help me? The shape in the window didn't move. My mind immediately went to the same place it always did when I wanted to make things happen. I've got a lot of money. I can make it worth your while if you help me get off this island.

The shape in the window moved away. I stood, waiting for the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down to meet me. But they never came. I remember the gnarled tree back at the hill. Maybe I was shouting at shadows again. Or maybe it had just been an animal up at the window instead of a person. That would be a pretty large animal, I found myself saying out loud. There's something about enforced solitude.

that makes you converse easily with yourself. But I had more in my mind than worrying I was going mad. I was starting to get thirsty, a combination of a hangover and a genuine lack of water. I had no way of knowing how long I'd been unconscious on the beach after the yacht sank. And so my increasing anxiety at my surroundings, maybe even seeing things that weren't there,

could have been the product of thirst. I moved up the steps and the hope I could find some water and food, maybe even a telephone, though there were no telephone poles that I could see. The door was covered in a thick spray of sand and dirt like the windows, but the brass handles seemed unusually clean compared to everything else. It glinted in the now prominent sun. The thought resurfaced that maybe there was someone in the house, coming in and out of the door, using that handle regularly.

I turned it and the door opened all too easily. The inside of the house was dimly lit by the occasional rays of sunlight that managed to make it past the sandy windows. For the third time since I'd arrived on the island, I smelled that musty scent. This time it was stronger. It wasn't exactly rotten. It was pungent. and it caught on the back of my throat a little, as if the air was thick with it. I cleared my throat and asked loudly if anyone was inside the house, but no one replied.

The house creaked slightly, settling in the ocean breeze outside. I couldn't hear or see any signs of life, and so I moved into the main hallway. The floor was covered in an inch of sand that must have made its way inside the house throughout the years. I moved cautiously through the ground floor, and it became apparent that the house had been left a rock for decades. Some pieces of furniture and other belongings dotted the place, and what remained looked like something out of the 70s.

This was confirmed to me when I found an old newspaper on a small table next to an armchair, or at least what was left of it. May 18, 1976 was the day. Most of the paper had been eaten away. Probably by mice, though I saw no droppings. My throat was getting dry, catching on the musty smell. I moved through a few rooms hoping to find water.

The kitchen was pretty basic. An old stove was rested shut and most of the cupboards were empty. I couldn't see any plumbing of any kind. I knew this meant that the people who had once lived in the house must have survived using another water source, probably a nearby well. I'd need to head outside and find it. I was no survival expert, at least not in a wilderness, but I knew enough that shelter and water were the first two things you should look for when stranded. I'd found shelter, at least, but now I needed water. Turning and moving back to the main hallway, my pulse raced at what I saw.

Looking down at the floor, I could see where I'd walked into the various rooms. My footprints clear in the sand. But around those was a second set of prints. The feet were larger than mine, and I could see the unmistakable imprint of a large toe. I wasn't alone, and whoever was in the house with me, and they were walking around barefoot. There was something about those footprints that unnerved me, almost like they were a warning. I decided not to shout or draw attention to myself unless I was desperate. Something was very wrong with that place.

I walked quietly down the hallway, lying the doors and rooms to my side with suspicion until I reached the front door. I pulled it open a little too eagerly, and it clattered against the wall. From my position on top of the steps, I could see that a small, overgrown trail headed east along the grass, and then down towards another part of the shoreline. I would have immediately headed for it, assuming it would have led to a well, but instead I could only consider my safety.

Standing in what was once the front yard of that house near the broken fence on a once nurtured lawn was a six-foot-tall figure. He was dressed in a Halloween costume of all things, and it was one I recognized immediately. It was jet black with a vivid white-painted skeleton on the front and back. It was the same costume my friend Nick had worn when we were 18. The same damned costume I tried to forget each and every Halloween.

The same costume I tried to drown out from my memory by throwing lavish Halloween parties each year. in the desperate hope that I could feel something other than fear and shame for what I'd done to someone I loved 20 years ago. But I knew it couldn't be Nick. He was gone, dead, and the dead don't come back. But someone was standing there in a similar costume staring at me. That much was undeniable. Thank God someone else from the yacht. I said hoping that this was.

was the case. But the figure said nothing, standing there like a scarecrow. A sea breeze drifted by, bringing with it the same sickly, almost rotten smell that seemed to live in the air there. I waited for a response, a movement. Anything to persuade me that I wasn't staring at a mirage. It was only when the figure raised his hand and pointed at me that I knew he wasn't a phantom of my mind.

The black material from the costume flapped slightly in the wind as he pointed, and I knew instantly that he intended me harm. His other arm was hidden behind his back until he showed it to me, hand outstretched. In the center of it

lay a long, rusted knife. We should see if there's a way off this island, I said, as if ignoring the knife, but I wasn't. The blade was tinged with rust and would still cut, and that was what was on my mind the most. The thought of

it slicing through me. We should find some help. I said, and that was when the man inside the skeleton costume shook his head slowly from side to side. He suddenly rushed towards me and a recoil back inside. the house. I closed the door and grabbed the rotting bookcase that was leaning against the nearby wall.

I dragged it over to the door, creating a barricade and wedging it at an angle. The rusted blade that had been shown to me outside like a twisted offering, then splintered through the door, almost catching my eye. I could hear the man breathing heavily from the other side. He sounded demented. The door was still barricaded, but it wouldn't last long. My attacker continued to cut and smash the wood one chunk at a time. I ran back through the hall and into the kitchen, then into another small room. There was a back door there. It led out into the deserted grass that surrounded the house.

But to my horror, as soon as I grabbed the handle and through the door open, the tall figure in this skeleton costume was waiting for me on the back step. The rotten smell grew with his presence. It was almost sickening. He swiped the knife towards my head, missing my scalp by an inch as I leaned backwards. The knife insid slashed downward, cutting open a shallow wound on my chest and slicing through my left nipple. The pain was agonizing. Letting out a scream, survival instinct was all I had left.

As a figure stepped into the house, staring at me from behind that mask, I rushed back to the hallway. It didn't make sense. The skeleton figure was now in front of me, smashing through the front door where he'd been before. He couldn't move that fast. There were two of them, both wearing the Exxium Halloween costume. There was now nowhere to go but up. Clambering up the stairs, holding the wound on my chest, I reached the next floor. The nauseating sickly smell was stronger than ever up there.

I noticed the wooden table sitting on the landing, and so I picked it up. My side and chest aching, and I threw it down the staircase of the two figures pursuing me. It clattered down the steps and hit the figure closest. This only bought me a few seconds. That was when I saw that of the four rooms on that floor, the second to my right had a strange blue metal door. Just as I was about to head for it, one of the skeleton figures grabbed hold of my leg as he reached me.

Instinctively I kicked out at his face. I'm not sure if I landed a hit, but before I knew it, I had run off through the metal door, closing the large heavy blue door behind me. Finally, I had some luck. There was a security bar laying across the adjacent wall, which I put in place. Footsteps reached the other side of the door, and I heard what I'm sure was a knife being dragged along the metal. I moved away from the door, turned, and then stood, bewildered.

It was difficult to take in a little. at first. There was an old single bed up against the wall. Something was sitting up with a blanket wrapped around it. The sound of the skeleton figure scratching at the door was now no longer my main concern. The old man in the bed was. He looked like an ancient relic. His gray, lifeless skin wrinkled and covered in dust.

He had not a grin. but a permanently pained expression on his face. It was like the skin had withered and it pulled back from his teeth, leaving a sneer. Perhaps a stroke had left his face in an unmistakable grimace of torment. I tried to communicate with him. I told him there were killers running around his home

and asked if he had a gun or a knife in the room. But he just looked at me, never blinking through wide, murky eyes. his hand then moved from under a torn red blanket. He produced a small book. It was brown leather and it looked like a journal. He stretched his hand out towards me, holding the book. But I had more important things on my mind.

I asked if there was any other way out like an attic with a skylight. He remained silent. Instead, the old man opened the book with his withered hands, still sneering as if his teeth were permanently clenched and pointed at something. It was a map of all things, hand-drawn, and he was pointing it looked like a bay. I could see from the map that it was to the east of the house, the same trail I'd seen before.

It led to a sheltered bay, and in it was the badly sketched form of a boat. But was it still seaworthy? There was no way I could make it out and, to carry the old man. Our reason that the two skeleton figures would have caught up with us. Instead, I thanked him, stuffed the book with a map down the back of my belt and moved to the window. That was when I heard the two men dressed in Nick's skeleton outfit, chattering to each other through the door.

It sounded like a language, but not one I was familiar with. All guttural intonations and clicking teeth. But I didn't need to know what they were saying. They were plotting something I could tell. I plotted many a devious scheme and their voices, if they could be called that, were doing the same. And that's when the chattering conversation shifted and changed. I almost lost my mind as the sounds contorted into recognizable human syllables, then words, then sentences.

I kept telling myself that what I was hearing wasn't possible. The two figures behind the blue metal door began to discuss the disposal of a body. The body of an 18-year-old kid who had been killed trying to stop his two friends from making a mistake. They wanted to break into a rich old man's house where they believed a stash of cash would be found. I knew the words being spoken from behind the door because half of them came from me and the other half. from Wallace, back when we were just 18 years old. My voice was the one scheming. It was a voice that didn't want to get caught for something he hadn't meant to do to his friend.

It had been the perfect plan with the perfect cover. Who would think anything strange of trick-or-treaters going up to the old man's door at night? And so what if the old man couldn't take it? He'd had his chance to live. He had his chance. I wanted mine, and I wanted to share it with my two closest friends. If only Nick hadn't tried to stop me from hurting him. I only meant to hit Nick once.

He was getting in the way. I didn't mean to beat him so badly. And listened. Sickened to my stomach as that voice. That voice from the other side of the door. From the other side of my life. explained to Wallace that he knew of an old chemical factory where their friend's lifeless body could be disposed of without anyone ever knowing. A chemical that would eat away at poor Nick, bone, blood, Halloween costume and all.

Wallace argued that we should leave an anonymous tip with the police instead. The next family deserved to bury him. But why do that when we could leave everything behind and start a new life with the cats? Nash. Nick's body would lead directly to us as suspects. Better that everyone thought those three rough kids from the neighborhood ran off somewhere to seek their fortunes. Good on them, they'd say.

Good on them. Good on them. The voices stopped. Then the metal of the blue door began to buckle as if being exposed to an impossible strength from the other side. It groaned as the hinges began to give in and the lock bar cracked across its middle. Nick! I yelled.

Please, leave me alone. I'm sorry. But the door continued to twist with the pressure, and it would soon give in entirely. I had to make my escape there and then. Taking one last look at the old man in the bed, who was still sitting up like a statue and staring, a terrible thought came to me about his identity.

I didn't want to even consider it. Climbing out of the window, I found myself on the roof overhang of the porch and tried to move as quietly as possible. But it was no good. The tiles beneath me gave way and I crashed through them onto the dusty ground beneath. The wind was knocked out of me, but I still had to move. I could hear the skeletal man rushing down the stairs inside the house to find me. I was limping badly, but I could see the trail to the east, and so I took it. My feet dragged and hobbled over the grass as it soon gave way to sand.

As I reached the crest of a small hill, which then dipped down to a shoreline below, I turned to see my pursuers already out of the house, rushing along the trail towards me. Something had changed about their customs. I could have sworn that the skulls were grinning. I was running out of breath. They would be on me in a moment. All I could do is move down the trail to the small bay below, trying to forget the pain rushing through my body.

Just as the old man's map had shown, there was a boat moored off of a wooden pier. There was a large ship made of wood, the paint flaking from its hull. When I reached it, I had a leap across the boarding plank that looked as Zoe would break in half at any moment. On to the ship's deck I went. The sounds of footsteps followed like a shadow I could never escape. The figures were there, blurry skeletal people, walking Halloween costumes, each brandished a rusty knife. I heaved with all my might in the boarding plank was cast into the water.

The gap was too far for the figures to now leap. They stood and stared as I found the anchor and winched its rusted chain up and up until the boat was free. My pursuers then seemed to realize that there was another way on board. They spotted the docking line that was tied between the ship and the pier. I watched in dismay as they both climbed onto the rope and upset. side down, began to move along and up it towards the ship's deck. Panicked, I tried to untie the rope, but it was no good.

The knot was too tight. The first figure was then at me. Holding onto the line above the sea with his other hand, he swiped at me with a knife slicing through my shoulder. All I could do was grab at my attacker's hand. I thrust his closed fist against the hull again and again until finally battered and bruised he dropped this rusted knife. Reaching down quickly, I grabbed it,

but the skeleton figure was now on top of me. The stench of that musty smell made me want to vomit, but I stayed firm. With one movement, I thrust the knife upwards, fast and hard as I could. It hit something. I watched as the knife pierced the underside of the man's mask's chin, then up behind the nose and into the skull.

The body slumped on top of me. I was breathing heavily and felt light-headed as if I was going to lose consciousness but I knew there was another figure there was another figure I woke in the safest of places in my bed

I couldn't believe it in many ways I still can't I was in my cabin back on my yacht my side ached but I was alive My personal physician, Dr. Hallbrook, was sat next to my bed. I smiled, but he didn't smile back. He nodded grimly. I looked out of the cabin window and could see the blue ocean rolling off into infinity.

We were still at sea. It was then that I noticed the brown leather journal, the old man at the house had given to me. It was sitting in the hands of Dr. Hallbrook. The doctor had studied it for the three days I had been unconscious. There was a story attached to it, one that focused on me. But it wasn't one I'd been privy to up until that point. From beneath his bushy-graying eyebrows, Dr. Hallbrook filled me in on the details with a cold, uncaring stare.

By the end, I wished Halloween had played out as I had thought. But it hadn't. Something had indeed hit the yacht on Halloween night during the party. The ship had momentarily toppled onto its side, where I and two others had been thrown into the water. After the ship righted itself, it was clear to the captain and crew that she was badly damaged. Not only was the yacht taking on water, but the communication mass had been disabled, and the ship's radio was completely out of commission after the bridge had temporarily been flooded. It was Wallace who alerted.

everyone that he had seen me hit by the water and thrust out of a door and then overboard. Captain Barnes and the crew were too busy trying to save the ship and everyone else on board. Wallace used a spotlight to scour the water himself, but to no avail. I was gone, as were a couple of others. Unable to radio for help, Barnes made the decision to head for the nearest piece of land, an uninhabited island, knowing that if the yacht couldn't be repaired, he could at least get the passengers, crew, and supplies to somewhere safe. While all of this had been going on,

I had washed up on the very same island, albeit on the other side. Barnes got the ship to the island and was surprised to see that there was an old pier. He moored the ship there and the crew began repairs to save the yacht. During those repairs, I appeared on the pier and climbed on board in a state of great distress. couldn't believe what Dr. Hallbrook was telling me. The ship I had climbed onto at the pier had been my very own yacht. But I remembered the ship.

It was old and looked nothing like my own. That was when Dr. Hallbrook explained that, according to the journal that was found on me. The island is a home of a very rare type of fungus. It's known as the October mist. and releases its spores once a year, around the 31st of October. Whoever wrote that journal must have been a botanist or biologist of some description. It appears that when inhaled, the fungal spores of the October mist cause a vivid hallucination,

often revolving around a person's past transgressions. The effects wear off after a day or so. When I tried to get out of bed, Dr. Hallbrook informed me that I needed to rest until the yacht limped back to the mainland. What I wanted to talk with the captain to see how bad the damage was to my yacht. Besides, my nerves were shot from the entire experience. I needed a stiff drink, and for some reason my expensive bottles of single malt were missing from my cabin. I assume they had been smashed in the crash. Despite Dr. Hallbrook's fervent complaints, I stood up and opened the door to the corridor, but I did not see what I expected.

Instead, a burly crew member was standing in front of me with a revolver in his hand, blocking my way. The doctor explained that the captain and he had decided that I was to be detained in my cabin until I was handed over to the authorities. It appeared that, in my delirious confusion, I had stabbed Wallace to death. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. Today is Wednesday. Written by Mistress Toast and narrated by Michelle Kane. My eyes popped open to the vibrating alarm next to me. I slapped my hand to quiet it and rolled over to greet my husband, who was already missing.

I could feel a frown, creep across my face, and settle on my brow. I rolled towards the clock again and gave a dirty look to the pile of my husband's clothes, piled haphazardly in a heap on the floor. An odd red smudge looked back at me from the color of one of his shirts. When had we last eaten spaghetti? normally on Wednesdays. Did he tell me he was leaving early today? He must have.

Although sometimes he did leave earlier on Thursdays for meetings. Today is Wednesday. The thought jumped at me. Of course, since only yesterday was Tuesday. I had played bridge with that coarse woman across the street. The one that said, Through a thick cloud of smoke that made her mouth look like it was emerging through a fog, that the baby looked perpetually angry.

So tonight was spaghetti night? How had spaghetti gotten on his collar before we had eaten it? I wandered downstairs in a daze, heading towards the baby and whatever day awaited me there. Today is Wednesday. I kept having to remind myself of the fact. My mind kept slipping into Thursday in its routine. I found myself at one point with the phone in my hand,

about to dial the miller, delivery service and ask why my milk was over an hour late until I realized that my delivery was on Thursday. Today is Wednesday. But the spaghetti stain. I popped open a bottle of baby food and fetched the child from its room. A plunk into the high chair and breakfast was soon being served in sloppy spoonfuls. I studied the child as it ate. Perhaps the course woman was right. It did. It did. look rather angry. I spooned more food into it and hopes to appease it into a different expression, but it remains stoic and vaguely displeased. After the child was fed and cleaned up, I mused about how much of the food had actually gotten into it, as most of it seemed to have wound up on its pajamas.

I gave it a slight squeeze to see if it felt plump, and the baby awarded me with a swampy, wet belch, surrounding me in a dank miasma of strained peas. It seemed plump enough. I took a chocolate coconut candy out of the cabinet, my one treat for the week, but another Thursday ritual and took a pensive bite out of it. I stared at the back window in the kitchen into the gloom of the day. Why was I a day ahead this week? The fingers of my hand, not holding the Candy, tapped out a staccato tune on the Formica counter. I ate the rest of my chocolate slowly and decided to make a list. That was it. Make a list and everything would be back to normal.

Clean downstairs bathroom. Write a note to Donna, letting her know how much fun we had at her little sororé the other night, even though my husband had gotten bored and wandered off at one point. Put out shoes to be shined later. Put roast in oven, give baby bath. Wait. Did I do the roast on Thursdays? Or bathed the baby? I knew one wasn't correct. The baby did get so squirmy and unpleasant when it was off its bath schedule. But if I cooked the roast on the wrong day, what would they have tomorrow? Today is Wednesday. I picked a piece of invisible lint off my shirt with twitchy fingers. Roast? Spaghetti. Ring. The phone made me jump with its shrill jangle, and it in turn woke the baby, which had dozed off in its high chair, and matched the phone's pitch in intensity. I grabbed the phone, and before a hello could slip from my lips, the breathless voice of my husband came over the line. Dinner, he was saying, his boss was coming over for dinner. I took a sharp intake of breath. His boss, for dinner? On a Thursday?

Today is Wednesday. Another winded breath expelled from my husband. He'd forgotten to tell me, he said in a rush. But we had a roast, did we not? A small yes burbled up, and before anything else could be said, a sigh of relief was heaved through the other end of the phone, carrying along with it instructions for carrots, potatoes, simple vegetables. Tonight was no night for experimenting with beats or French-style beans.

Plenty of coffee for afterwards, some dessert, but nothing too fancy. A click in my ear let me know the conversation was over. Roast. Carats Potato's coffee. Bade the baby. A quick glance at the clock let me know if my list was to be completed. I needed to start now. While the phone had silenced its wail, the baby had not. I scurried over to the high chair where the baby was squirming.

and writhing, looking for all the world like a wild and angry turnip. It certainly did resemble its father. No beats, no beans. Certainly no turnips. Carrots, potatoes, coffee. A quick change of a diaper and hastily prepared bottle later, I tried to remember my list while balancing the turnip on my hip. I wandered upstairs to deposit the baby on the bed while I scooped up the laundry.

Spaghetti. Shine shoes. Write Donna. Clean tub. Roast. Bave. Knock, knock, knock. The wooden front door called to me. I secured the baby in the laundry basket and went back downstairs. On the other side of the door was a sparkling young man with dazzling teeth. His teeth reached out and chattered to me about magazines and subscriptions. No, I demurred. I didn't need any magazines. Or to be subscribed to anything. The man leaned forward in a persistent and menacing manner, his teeth pinning me in place as he looked down at the shirt in my hand. That lipstick, you got to get that stuff out quick, or it'll be there forever. Lipstick? This is spaghetti. Cooking, I suddenly mused. I was interested in cooking.

And what was that color lipstick that Donna had, the one I admired? Spaghetti Red. Did we ever have magazines in our house, I pondered? I replied again that we did not need any new reading material. His teeth disappeared in a moment of dismay, but leapt forward again to ask if the man of the house would be interested. Did he have any hobbies? Any possibility of speaking to him? His head bobbed around like an owl tracking a mouse as he tried to see behind me.

No, I stated, why would my husband be home on a house? Thursday. Today is Wednesday. I tried to think. He likes carrots, potatoes, Donna. Did he have any milk, I asked, or carrots, potatoes, coffee? Only because it was Thursday and they hadn't been by yet to deliver. The man tucked his teeth away again. Milk? His brow furrowed. Magazines about milk and vegetables? No, I stated flatly, milk, a bottle of milk. His eyes unfocused for a moment while he processed, his lips folding around his teeth like a note to Donna. His eyes perked into his brows. Wait, today was Wednesday, wasn't it? With a frustrated smile, I found myself suddenly shutting the door on the sparkly man and his teeth and his lack of spaghetti.

in a rush to get back to my list. Since I was already in there, I made a quick trip around the living room to remove clutter and adjust the... Magazines? When had we gotten these? Just so. The doily on the large armchair was a tad discolored from my husband's head against it, but since his head would later be obscuring it,

I decided to ignore it. He did have such a large head, a turnip of a head. Roast. Clean Donna. Right to tub. Bave. Carrots Potatoes coffee. Tossing an old apron over my head, I hastily set to peeling vegetables. I thunked the meat onto the cutting board with a squishy finality, and I picked up my carrot to jot a note to the shining shoes. The baby started up again. I set the oven to preheat and grabbed the bundled potato. Turn it. Carole. Coffee, coffee, coffee. The tub would have to be cleaned with the baby in it, I decided as it filled with soap.

Dear Donna, what a Thursday this has been. Wednesday. Potatoes. The oven chined that it was ready. I hefted the roasting pan onto the racks and wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. Clean. Bave. The tub was brimming with shiny white bubbles.

Everything was going to be so clean, so clean. The potatoes were boiling in a shoe. The carrots simmered in a honey tub on the stove. A warm waft of meat, carrots' potatoes coffee, started to fill the kitchen. A bang and my husband appeared in the kitchen, swiftly throwing a kiss toward my cheek while removing his tie and knocking my note to Donna into the spaghetti. Late, he muttered. and disappeared into the bathroom.

A quiet moment. The bliss of noiselessness stretched for seconds as I grated my fingers into some tossed salad. Honey? Came a querulous tone from the bathroom. Honey, carrots, potatoes,

turn it. A non-committal sound leapt from my throat in response. Honey, why is the roast in the tub? So, clean. 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. Please contact us.

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