Creepy - Day 12 - The Treat

Episode Date: October 12, 2021

Or would you prefer the trick?***Written by Samantha Arthurs and narrated by Alicia Atkins***Content warning: child death***Bonus episode: "I Don't Belong Here" written by Steve Rogers***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.

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

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 12. The Treat. Written by Samantha Arthur's and narrated by Alicia Atkins. I gave up on Halloween years ago. My friends like to tease me, but they don't understand.

mostly because I don't want to explain I stopped celebrating October 31st when I was 13 years old, well over two decades ago now and counting. How do you tell your friends that your little brother died on Halloween? How do you tell them that you're the reason why? This year, however, is different. My boyfriend and I just moved into a new neighborhood. We bought our first house, a little saltbox thing with a slanted roof. It's in the same small Massachusetts town where I grew up, a town I swore I'd never return to what I left for college.

Yet here I am, beckoned back by its siren call that I can't seem to ignore. I have a mortgage, a job, and John keeping me in place now. I'm also 33 years old, and settling down feels like a very natural progression. Our initial fight came around the 1st of October. We were at the farmer's market when we stumbled upon a truck filled. with pumpkins. Where John found elation in their bright orange exteriors, I found nothing but disdain. I tried to steer him away, back to the carrots and onions, but he wasn't having it. He wanted to carp pumpkins, like when

he was a kid. We had never celebrated Halloween, not once in our six years of dating, and he thought it was time we started to establish traditions. We had a home, a place to celebrate, and the pumpkins would look great all lit up on our front stoop. I put my foot down. I had not kept it a secret from him that I abhorred Halloween, so I couldn't understand why it was now becoming an issue. We had a heated argument right there in front of the entire market, until we gave up and left with nothing.

No pumpkins, no carrots, just anger. For a few days it appeared that John was over it and had moved on to other things. He was smiling at me again, and the tension at the breakfast table melted away. We were happy again. He came home the following Thursday with one singular pumpkin. You don't have to participate, Charlotte. I'm just asking you to let me have my fun. John said, his way of explaining himself.

I know you don't like Halloween. But we live in New England. In case you didn't notice, it's kind of a big deal here. I just want to have fun. and I want us to fit in. All the houses in our neighborhood are decorated except for hours. I don't want to become that house.

I knew what he meant when he said that house. And I caved. I wasn't a fan of costumes and being spooked, but I did want to be liked. So we added a carved pumpkin to our porch that night, with a slightly crooked smile in two triangle eyes. It was classic. I hated it.

noting his slightly crestfallen look when I didn't so much as offer him a compliment on his carving skills and showed no elation whatsoever to our involvement in such a ridiculous ritual. I know you mean well, but this just isn't for me. I wish I could tell you why, but I can't. Not yet. You can keep it, though, okay? I can live with the compromise. Just over a week later, he came home with several bags of can,

candy. It was a strange mix, everything from gummies to chocolate, and I caught him stowing it away in the hall closet. The fight at the farmer's market was nothing compared to our blow-up then, the argument raging at such high decibels that one of our neighbors came over to check on us. We are not handing out candy, I insisted, eyes narrowed. I was angry, yes, and sufficiently unnerved. my heart was pounding and I was sweating profusely at just the mere thought of trick-or-treaters knocking on my door. John threw his hands into the air then to signify that he was fed up. If you don't want to be here, then go spend the evening with your mother. I'll hand out the candy and have a great time while you're pouting and helping her polish her silverware.

He slept on the sofa that night, and I had nightmares that kept me up. I dreamed of foggy streets with neat rows of picket fences. brilliantly lit jack-o-lanterns lining walkways, women in outrageous makeup handing out candy, and exclaiming over children's costumes. I tossed and turned as giggling and elation turned to screams of anguish, forcing me up for a glass of cold water. I had gone a lot of years without those dreams. All it took was one stupid pumpkin and some skittles to bring it all back. On the morning of Halloween, I apologize to John.

We had been chilly towards each other, and I was tired of it. I promised him that someday I would explain things, but not today. Today was hard enough. He did accept my apology. He was sorry, too, for being so insistent about something I clearly wasn't interested in. He hadn't meant to hurt my feelings, but he still wanted to do it. I was taking his previous advice, sarcastic as it had been. I was going to spend the day with my mother.

I was set to leave that afternoon, planning to be there early so we can indulge in greasy burgers and movies that were not of the horror persuasion. I had my car keys in hand ready to go when she called me. Honey, I'm afraid that it'll have to be another night. Your father is ill, some stomach bug we think. I'm afraid you'll catch it too, so it's best if you stay home. She told me, sounding genuinely sorry. I told her that it was fine, that I'd get through the day somehow, and to call me later.

When we hung up, I went to find John, who was in the kitchen opening his many candy bags and emptying them into a dollar-store bowl. I told him about the call, and for a moment it seemed as though he might cancel the evening. We could just eat the candy and watch television. That wasn't a bad alternative, but instead he just offered to let me join him. The doorbell rang for the first time just after we finished supper. He was just a frozen lasagna, and we had eaten it while sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. John had lit the candle and the jack-and-lantern and turned on our port's light as soon as the darkness had begun to fall. That first distinct chime made me jump and drop my fork.

The television was off, so every sound seemed to be magnified in the quiet. John laughed at me gently and handed me the fork before heading for the door, grabbing the candy bowl as he went. As he opened the door, I tried my best not to look. eyes screwed shut as I tried to remind myself to breathe slowly in and out. It took me a moment to realize that the door never closed. A steady stream of kids making their way up to our walk. Curiosity finally won out over my fear and I took a peek.

Spotting a little girl dressed as a ballerina. And another who was that blue angel fish from finding Nemo. There was a whole pack of stormtroopers and a couple of power rangers. There were babies and strollers dressed like pumpkins and teddy bears, and some teenagers who weren't in costume, but who John happily gave candy to anyway. I moved myself from the floor to the sofa, sitting with my legs crossed as I watched the parade that never seemed to end. It slowed down from time to time, enough for John to check on me, but I was doing surprisingly fine. Maybe today didn't have to be as hard as I've always made it out to be.

Maybe, after all these years, I was finally healing and moving on. He told me he was proud of me, flashing me a grin as he went back to passing out suckers and tootsie rolls. Oh, John, I thought to myself, I'm not sure you'd be proud at all if you knew the reason why I am this way. If you knew what I did, all those years ago. Eventually, after two hours, the crowd thinned out. We were down to a small handful of candy, so John turned off the light and called it a night. He had spent so long lingering in the open doorway and the church. chilly New England fall air that he decided to go up and grab a shower, asking me if I'd like to

join him. I saw the suggestive look in his eyes and laugh gently, pecking him on the cheek and promising that I'd be up soon after I cleaned up the remnants of our abandoned dinner. I watched him go until he was out of sight and smiled to myself, gathering everything up and taking it into the kitchen. I was trying to decide what to do with the leftover lasagna when the doorbell rang, giving me pause. I heard the water running upstairs. John was already in the shower, and I cussed quietly under my breath. I was feeling better about things, yes, but not that much better. Our light was off now anyway, signifying that we were done.

Whoever it was, though, rang again, and when I still didn't answer, they began to jab the button over and over again. Fed up, I tossed pasta, foil pan and all into the trash can and made my way to the door. I jerked it open, expecting to find more teenagers. But what I saw instead took my breath away. A little kid was standing on our stoop, dressed in an old Spider-Man costume complete with mask. He was clutching a sagging white pillowcase,

which was dirty enough to suggest he'd been dragging it along behind him all evening. He was totally alone. Nobody had accompanying him up to the walk, and a quick glance around told me that no adult was waiting for him by the street. I should have asked him if he needed help or if he was alone. There were so many things I should have done, should have said, but all I could do was stand there. The color left my face and I felt clammy, staring at the little kid who had his head tilted back a bit so he could look up at me. It was so uncanny that it felt, for a moment, like I was back there again, all the way over a McDowell Avenue at age 13.

The night I did the worst thing I'd ever done in my life. the adults all said it wasn't my fault how could it have been i turned my back for just a minute and something bad had happened i couldn't be blamed for that nobody knew the whole truth though and nobody ever would i was supposed to be watching jamie that night per my parents instructions they had been invited to a costume party and so it was up to me to take my little brother around the houses to collect candy james Jamie had only been six years old, and while he loved me in that crazy way that only little kids can love you, I found him to be a pest. What I wanted to do was go out with my friends. Everyone was meeting up to get into some trouble, and I didn't want to miss out. I had begged and pleaded, had asked my parents to send Jamie with some of his friends from kindergarten,

but no amount of begging had worked. I was stuck with the brat. Jamie had been so excited at the prospect of me taking him out, trick-or-treating. At 13, I was a cool, big kid, and that was sure to impress his kindergarten friends. He had put on his Spider-Man costume the minute he'd gotten home from school, and after dinner, Mom had given him a white pillowcase and said to have fun. She gave me a flashlight, told me to be careful crossing the street, and instructed us to be back by at least nine. I had responded with a sarcastic salute before heading out with my brother, merging into the masses

who had already taken over the streets. Time had seemed to move slowly as we moved from one house to the next. Jamie dragged that pillowcase behind him every step, the heaviness of his loot too much for his spindly six-year-old arms to carry. I could have done it for him, sure, but I was feeling especially spiteful. We were on McDowell Avenue when I ran into some of my buddies who were scoping out houses, and snagging candy here and there. I sought to talk to them, caught up in their story,

stories of toilet-papering trees and throwing eggs at cars. Jamie tugged at my sleeve, asking me to please keep going. Our curfew hours were drawing near. He could tell by my watch. And he wanted to get to the rest of the houses on the street before we had to go. I was annoyed, more annoyed than I really should have been. And I had snapped at him. Congratulations on being able to tell time!

I had spat, eliciting mean-spirited laughter from my friends had made his face fall, but that egged me on. If you want to go to the rest of the houses, go. You're six years old, Jamie. You don't need me to watch every step you take. I turned back to my friends, inquiring about the rest of their night. We were all 13, and we all had early curfews.

But it was still fun to pretend that we could run around until all hours getting into mischief. Jamie stumbled away from us, dragging his increasingly heavy bag of treats along with him. He made his way to the last few houses on our side of the street and then started to cross over. He had nearly made it when the seam of his pillowcase busts it open, spilling candy all over the asphalt. He'd been kneeling together it all up,

not wanting to lose a single NECA wafer when the car came tearing around the corner. The guy had been drinking at a friend's party and was now out for a beer run. There were lots of kids all over the place, but Jamie was the only one in the street. I didn't look until I heard people screaming, yelling for Jamie to get out of the way. One dad nearby tried to get him, sprinting as hard as he could.

But it was too late. My parents really thought that I'd been doing something stupid, like tying my shoe when Jamie got into the street. That I thought it was safe because there really wasn't much traffic as it was still trick-or-treat hours. And that anyone who was driving was taking their time and being cost. Just an accident, just an absolute tragedy. The reality of it was that I hadn't wanted to be bothered with Jamie, and my negligence had resulted in him not just being gone, but gone for good. I felt the heaviness of guilt as I stared at the kid on the stoop, who was still staring back at me through the mesh-hole eyes of the costume's mask. With shaky hands, I reached for the candy bowl and its sad remains, holding it.

it out in front of me. Do you want some candy? I asked then, presenting my offering. This is all I have left. Take it all if you want. The child finally looked away from me and into the bowl, studying the sad contents carefully.

Finally, they reached in with one small hand and selected a single Mr. Goodbar. When I saw that, I dropped the bowl and screamed, stumbling backward. That had always been, been Jamie's favorite. He loved the peanuts, and they'd always been the first things he'd eat from his hall. I heard the kid giggle from behind the mask, but it sounded hollow and haunting instead of gleeful. They lingered a moment longer, staring from the other side of the doorway,

and then took off down the walkway. The pillowcase was dragging the ground, catching leaves and rattling them along the concrete. Little shoes crunched over them and made me break out in goosebumps. The child racing right through the ground. the propped open gate and into the street. My heart leapt into my throat as a car went trundling past, though I had already seen the kid get to the sidewalk on the other side. By the time the Lexus had passed, and my view was clear again. The kid was gone.

No more Spider-Man, no more pillowcase. I sat there on the floor for an indiscernible amount of time, waiting for something else to happen. Nothing did. When I finally managed to stand, I blew out. the candle and the pumpkin, and then shut and locked the door. I left the bowl out there, not willing to bring it back into the house. The water had stopped running upstairs, and while part of me wanted to run to John, another part of me didn't. I still wanted to keep this to myself,

keep it locked up inside. And after tonight? After tonight, I knew that my feelings about things would be stronger than ever. No more tricks, no more treats, no more Halloween, not ever. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, I don't belong here, written by Steve Rogers. I don't belong here. I've never been to this impossible place and I'm desperate to leave as quickly as I possibly can. The feeling of being lost is awful enough, but this place, it seems to resonate malice along with the promise of violence and fear. I'm standing in a very narrow hallway, shadowed and dark. Well, it seems to be hundreds of black doors that are closed in their dark gray frames.

They're so close to each other. I don't understand how there can even be rooms on the other side of them. The hallway extends Almost into what seems like forever behind me At the end of the hall in front of me There's a large window set into the wall Which shows only the overcast blank sky outside This seems to be the only source of light here

I turn around hoping to perhaps retrace my steps I start down the hallway away from the window Maybe there's some stairs or even someone I can talk to who will show me the way out. After a few moments, however, I realized that I don't remember what my steps even were, or how I got here. The worst part is that it seems like I'm not actually moving anywhere.

I look down as I'm walking, and my feet and legs are working away, and yet the hallway continues to extend in front of me, and impossibly I'm not making any forward progress. The door is still closed, closed and full of potential threats have not changed. There's no sound here. The air feels heavy and thick,

as if the very atmosphere itself is pressing in on me. My claustrophobia begins to tie bands around my chest, and the underlying panic sinks in a little deeper now. I reach out to open one of the doors and suddenly stop. I'm not sure why I want to open it. I feel like whatever's behind any of these portals is something I'd really rather not see. I turned to walk towards a window. Maybe I can see where I am, how high up I am, perhaps a landmark, something, anything.

But she is there, right in front of me. Horrifyingly close. She's hovering in the center of the hallway, less than an arms reach away, almost in my face. Suspended in mid-air, she's wearing only a torn and filthy tank top and underwear. Her skin dead and gray underneath. Her legs are fully extended. Her feet are pointed straight down, and her arms are contorted against her sides. Fingers tearing into the dead flesh of her hips as if she's somehow holding onto the bone beneath.

There's no blood, just torn-ripped skin, and her fingertips disappearing into her. sides. Her head is hanging upsettingly downward, as if her chin is glued to her chest. But I can't see her face. Her greasy black hair is covering her features, and I'm glad for it. If I see her face, I know in my heart that I'll most certainly go mad. She's impossibly thin. She radiates far more than death. Her aura promises uncommon pain and the darkest of violence and torture, in spite of not seeing her face. I know that she's looking at me. I can feel her summing me up, evaluating me. I hear a smacking sound as if she's maybe trying to work her mouth to form words, but only some kind of dark spit slides down her filthy shirt, and some get seen.

stuck in her hair. Somehow, her whole body still frozen and suspended in the air before me, silently begins to rotate, turning very slowly as if on a hinge, and then begins to drift down the hull. Her body does not move, but she somehow propels forward, toes still pointing straight down, a full foot off the dirty carpet. About seven doors down, she stops and rotates to the right. This door is open.

Still incredibly holding her same position. Drul's still sliding down her torso. She drifts into the door. It does not close. I do not want to go there. I know that if I see what's in there, my mind will shatter. Full-blown panic now blooms hot in my chest and mouth now. No longer a mild case.

and I can taste my own terror. I can't run or turn, but instead somehow, I realize that my feet are betraying me, and I'm slowly walking towards that yawning and disturbing narrow doorway. I can feel myself shaking my head, but I'm still pushed forward. No, I can't, I hear myself say, but weirdly my voice is muffled,

but hugely loud. as if my ears are plugged. And while I can hear my voice, it's only the resonation through my head. I get to the door, and now I can see inside. The room is upsettingly narrow, only as wide as the door. The walls are painted, a flaking gray, with mold showing between cracks.

There's a bed in here, a bed with no sheets or blankets or pillows, but horrific, deep black, red stains. There's a small wooden chair facing the corner near the pitted ceiling opposite from the door him in. There's a long, thin window, which again is showing the blank and overcast sky outside. Without looking up, I see her drift through a doorway to the left of the foot of the bed. I don't want to go in, but my feet betraying me again. As I walk by the bed, my handbrushes the fabric. It's crusty and vile. I can feel my panic surge almost to the breaking

point. The room alone is causing my cluster phobia to rage. I could literally put my hands on each wall with my elbows bent. I'd love to give in to it, to flee and get out of this horrific room and just find a way outside. But no. My feet continued to betray me, and I fight it. I myself at the new doorway. This new room is almost exactly like the first room. A weird mirror image of the first one. Horrific bad, thin window, wooden chair facing the corner. Here, however, there's something on the floor.

It's also deep black and red, and it's smeared towards the door she's heading to, as if something, or many things, have been dragged into that final. full room. It appears to be a bathroom. Her body is still holding that same pose, thin legs fully extended, feet still pointing at the ground, head down, arms contorted. I can see her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she drifts out of sight to the right and into darkness. I realize that I've paused only because my feet begin to move again. Towards the bathroom. I know bathrooms are usually fairly small. This means when I go through that door,

I'll be in the same room with her. Less than arms length away from her. We'll be face to face with nowhere to really go. I don't want to see her. I don't belong here at all. And my feet are still moving. I can see myself in a reflection as I draw even closer to the bathroom. I can hear that smacking sound again.

There is no less. light in there. I look around for something to hold on to. Maybe I can grab it and stop my feet from betraying me. The bed is behind me now, and a small wooden chair facing the corner is far out of reach. Why is it facing the corner? I don't understand why it's there or why I'm even in this room. I do not belong here. I'm at the door to the bathroom. My feet have slow. My feet have slow. Everything has slowed. And I can see the fear in my face in the mirror which makes it even worse. Because I feel like I'm betraying myself.

I should be able to stop this. But I can't. I can't stop what's coming. I know what's going to happen. My right foot slowly steps into the bathroom, almost in slow motion. Then the left, I refuse to turn. I forcefully will myself not to look. I shut my eyes against her.

But somehow I feel my entire body rotate like she did. I'm rotating to face her. I open my eyes to see why this is happening, and she's immediately in front of me. She's facing away from me, facing the tub, still floating toes pointing down. Her head is now up, though, no longer glued to her chin.

There are snags in her hair and clumps of things. I don't know what they are. And she's so close, I can see my panicked breath blowing strands of it. I know that I'm going crazy. I can physically feel it, like something slipping inside my head just on the edges. But it's definitely coming loose. If I see her, I will look.

go insane. This is a conscious thought. If I see her, I will be completely mad. She begins to slowly rotate. I try to move, but I can't. My body won't let me. I try to shut my eyes, but now they've betrayed me too. She's turned a quarter of the way towards me, and there's just enough light to see through her hair and her mouth. Oh, her mouth is massive and torn and full of teeth and drool. Her bottom jaw is still glued to her chest. And now I can smell her. It's the smell of body odor and rotting things.

Her breath is rancid and hot, and she is still turning. I cannot see her eyes. When I do, that will be it. That will be the end. of me. I look down and I can see that her hands have left their places at her sides and they're now rising upwards. I think she's going to put them on my shoulders to kiss me, I think. And then I giggle. Then I cry. Because I don't want to be insane. I don't want to be here. I don't belong here. I look down away from her. I can still see her floating dead feet, though. They're still above the

ground, rotating to face me. She's done turning. Her hands are reaching from me. I suppose there's only one thing left, but I don't want to. I truly don't want to. I hate this. I just want to go. I just want to. I look up. I don't belong here. 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 stories

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