Creepy - Day 13 - The Man Who Watched Me Die

Episode Date: October 13, 2021

I wish I knew why...***Written by Sum Gigh ***Content warning: suicide, self-harm***Bonus episode: "It's Been Six Months..." written by Adam Roberts and narrated by Danielle Hewitt***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 creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 13. The man who watched me kill myself. Written by some guy. I spent the day cleaning. I'm not a very neat or organized person by nature, but it felt like something I needed to do.

The mess was just one more thing that no one should have to deal with. I did all the laundry that lay scattered around my studio apartment. I did the dishes that have piled up in my sink, letting the ones with crested remnants of food soak while I cleaned the oven. I took out the garbage, even the little garbage in the bathroom with the used toilet paper rolls and tissues that I never took out only pushed down. I haven't picked out the few stray Q-tips that were stuck to the bottom with gummy browned cotton hats.

I borrowed a vacuum from my neighbor down the hall, the one that was still home at noon on a Tuesday. I'd never met her before. She was a nice old lady, but I forgot her name. I wondered if any of my other neighbors were nice as I used that weird, fuzzy-headed attachment to clean my blinds.

I didn't even know that's what it was for. I'd ask the nice old lady about it. I guess it's for dusting. When all was said and done, the apartment was as clean as a day I moved in. No garbage, no dust, no dishes. Nothing. The landlord could have taken a picture for one of those ads I used to find the place in the free local paper they had at the grocery store. I was still sweating as I went to the bathroom and turned on the water.

I held my hand under it, enjoying the coolness for a moment as it came up to touch. temperature. As a tub filled, I walked back into my room and undressed. My undershirt stunk from all the work. I hadn't thought about that. I would have preferred to throw in the laundry and get it clean, but the tub was already filling. One smelly shirt would be okay. I undressed, folded everything, setting my shirt, pants, underwear, and socks neatly at the bottom of my cheap plastic laundry hamper. I eased myself into the tub. Not too hot, not too cold.

Just right. I turned out my phone and switched it to my favorite song before easing back. Closing my eyes and pulling the blade of the kitchen knife I just bought up the length of my forearm. The blood washed over my skin and I made sure to keep it in the tub. It would be easier to drain And I didn't want to leave any stains on the bath mat Had I thrown away the packaging from the knife I just bought

Shit I couldn't remember I knew from looking it up online That it could take up to seven minutes to die from exangination I didn't even know that's what it was called I'm barely sure of how to pronounce it It's weird when you only ever read a word and try to say it, like a character's name in a book that gets turned into a movie.

I took a long, slow breath as my eyes started to close. I barely noticed the sound of the apartment door opening and closing. I wasn't exactly in a place to feel modest. Me laying there in the bathtub, water turning a murky pink as my blood left my body and slowly swirled around me. My head lulled to the side as a bathroom door opened. Ian walked a man I'd never met. A man who was there to watch me die.

I blinked slowly, but didn't say anything. He considered me for a moment as everything slowed down before turning and closing the door behind himself. The water started to reach the lip of the tub. threatening to spill over the edge. I wanted to sit up, turn it off, but I just couldn't find the will to do it. I didn't want to leave a mess.

It would have been horribly rude to flood the apartment and probably the apartment below me. But I just couldn't. Instead, the man took the one and a half steps across my small bathroom, leaned over, and pushed the knob off. The water stopped, and I stared at the faucet. I noticed the single drop of water was frozen

on the surface of the water I lay in, a ripple frozen in time. I lifted my arm and saw I wasn't bleeding anymore. Blood was on my arm, but it didn't move. Not sticky, not dried, just immobile, like a tattoo. The wound spread open, almost sexual looking. I looked back at the man.

He looked middle age, maybe 40. He wore a dark pinstripe suit with a red carnation on the lapel and a black tie over a clean white shirt. His face was hard, but he looked sad as he stared down at me, and I thought it was from seeing my attempt to make the pain go away. But that wasn't it. I lay there as he took off his suit coat, folding it with consideration before laying it across my clean sink.

He looked back at my door, the crappy brown wood door someone bought for cheap when the door was replaced for whatever reason. The door color didn't match the frame. He looked back at me and said in slow, monotone words. I'm sorry about the mess In that moment I found my words and started to say What before those thick slow words could find their way fully past my lips

The man pulled a gun from behind his back One of those old revolvers like you see him period pieces about gangsters Put it in his mouth And blew the back of his head against the wall My ears rang as I stared in passive horror at the chunks of brain and skull plastered against my door. The man's head snapped back, and his body crumpled to the ground in a heap, the gun clattering to the linoleum floor. I leaned toward the edge of the tub, water sloshing over the edge and onto the floor, mixing with the blood. my mind just wasn't working the same

everything felt slow thinking required effort like waking up after passing out trying to figure out what is going on while the blood goes back to your brain blood I looked at my arm again then I heard the door open

I looked up to see the man walk into the room again that exact same man He looked at me with those sad, tired eyes and closed the door behind himself. No bullet wound in his head. No stain on the door. I looked down and the body, his body, was gone. But he was standing there. I watched him take his coat from the sink and put it back on.

He motioned for me to follow him. I did. We walked down the street, he and his suit, me and mine, as it were. I didn't care. I should have cared. I hated my body, everything about it. The way my eyes were spaced, the fat rolls on my stomach, a pathetic excuse for genitals, even the way my knees looked.

But in that moment, I didn't care. Who are you? I asked. He didn't answer. He never told me his name, so I gave him one. I call him the suicide man. The suicide man stopped, but I didn't. And his arm jotted out, stopping me in my tracks just before I heard the scream and the splat of impact. The body.

His feet in front of us was burst open like a watermelon. His, I think it was a man, head cracked on the sidewalk, when I completely dislodged from its socket and staring up at me from the street. Blood all around him from where his clothes held what remained of his body together. I looked up to wherever he must have jumped from. What is this? I asked. Not as afraid as I should have been. just confused.

I was slowly beginning to think straight, but it wasn't easy. This is next. His voice was old and tired, older than his face would have suggested. He strained like it heard him to speak. He looked down at the body. It's lonely here. More lonely than back there, I asked. Oh, yeah.

Yes. Here, there is only you. Just then, another scream, another splat. The same man, the same spot. One body, not two. One. What about him or you? He is the only one here too. I...

His voice trailed off. I'm different. He looked up just in time for the man to hit the pavement in front of us again. The same death. One body. Not three. One. What's happening?

I asked. He's killing himself. Don't you mean he killed himself? The suicide man looked up again. Another scream, another splat. No. Why? I asked.

The suicide man looked at his watch, another scream, another splat. You could ask him, but you may find his attention span is only about seven seconds. The suicide man ushered me away toward an old sedan. The kind you see a classic. the car shows. It was grimy with dirt and sand. Our walk was soundtracked with the screams and splat of the same man jumping to his death over and over again every seven seconds. It wasn't until I closed the car door that the sound stopped. Where are we going? I asked. The suicide man didn't answer. He just started the car and pulled away from the curb.

stopping briefly to let a semi-truck speed past and collide with an elderly man standing in the road, waiting for it to hit him. All I saw was a pink mist as the suicide man pulled into the other lane and drove down the road. I looked back just in time to see the same old man stepping off the curb of the street. Then my vision was obstructed by a passing truck. We drove for a few minutes before I asked anything else, trying to think of anything to say that would matter. Why did you kill yourself in my bathroom? I asked. The suicide man nodded at the question.

Because I must. Just like them. I don't understand, I said. No. But you almost do. We drove for another minute in silence before I watched something change in the suicide man's face. His sadness turned to anger, and his white hands went the color of chalk on the steering wheel as he began to ring them back and forth. Without warning, he flung his door open and dove out. My hands reflexively shot out to grab the wheel, but they were cold and numb, and I could barely feel them like they were asleep. The suicide man jumped just far enough out the door for his head to impact with a concrete lane divider.

I heard his next snap and saw the splash of blood as I craned back to see him. Before I could focus on the road to keep us from crashing, I felt the wheel turn. I looked back at it and saw the suicide man sitting next to me, his hands in complete control. I'm sorry. It was all he said. Why did you do that? I asked, feeling the slightest pain of anger. Because I must.

Why must you? I asked. The air grew dark as the car entered a tunnel. It wasn't a tunnel I'd ever seen before. The lights were dull and far apart as we drove along. I stared at the suicide man. Every time the light caught his feature, he looked different to me.

In the first flash, I could see a horrible ring of burned skin around his neck. We lost everything on October 29th. Today, but long ago, I, we, had nothing left. I was worthless. No good to anyone. Another mouth to feed.

I ended my life to lessen their pain, to lessen my own, he said. Another flash of light and half of his head was missing. I could see directly into his ocular cavity. The side of his mouth was missing the cheek and his tongue just sort of hung out the side of the opening. But I could still understand him. This is what happens. This is forever Your last desire

Your last state of being Is who you are forever We are suicides Suicide is never only once The light flashed again And his skin was seared I could smell the rank burnt hair that peppered his head I don't understand

Why did you shoot yourself and jump out of the car, but the other man kept jumping off the building? The suicide man nodded again. Because I resist, but it's painful, and I can't hold out for long. I must kill myself. Why don't others resist? I asked. At that, he let out a pained, forced laugh, not more than, than a couple of weak chuckles.

I understood. One question suddenly mattered. Does it hurt? I asked. Every time. Was killing yourself easier than living? It was the easiest thing I've ever done, he said. His face changed again.

His head snapped back into the side. His spine jutting through the side of his neck. but he somehow kept driving. Was it more painful than living? Nothing is more painful than dying. He paused. His face suddenly righted. And it is forever.

We drove in silence for a while until I saw light at the other end of the tunnel. We came out into an area that I knew well. It just didn't make sense that it was there. I looked at the suicide man to ask how we got there, but I only saw him for a few seconds. His face tensed and red, and he yelled, Get out! And shoved me from the car. I hit the ground and felt the impact, but just barely.

I saw the car suddenly jerk off the road into a tree. I didn't hear the sound of brakes squealing. I heard the sound of the engine. and accelerating. The crunch of metal as the car bent around the tree made my teeth ache. I stood up and saw that I wasn't hurt. My forearm wound was still open, but that was all. I walked up to the car to see that the suicide man had been thrown through the window.

His body a heap from where his arms and legs broke at odd angles. His head snapped around, almost looking at me. we can walk from here. The voice said from behind me, his voice. I turned and looked in the suicide man was at the side of the road, walking in the direction we'd been driving. I looked back at the wreck. The car was still totaled, but his body was gone.

As I walked back to the road, I heard the groan of a tree limb. I looked back to see a young woman's body, hanging and twitching from a length of rope. My instinct was to go back and help her, stop her. But the suicide man put a hand on my shoulder. It is her fate. You can't stop her, and she will hate you if you try, but only for a little while.

I left her be. We walked for a ways further before I asked. is this hell? He just shrugged. Are we dead? I am. He said. He looked at his watch.

And all the people we see are dead? I asked. Yes. I looked around. From what I could see, we were alone on the road. Shouldn't we be surrounded by people? This is only for suicides. Our fate is different.

Our lives ended in pain. Why should death be easier? We walked together until I saw the site I knew well. The Golden Gate Bridge. It was the view I knew from postcards before I moved out there, the view from Fort Point. We stood there and looked at the bridge, partially shrouded in fog.

It took my eyes a moment to understand what I saw. We watched as person after person walked to the edge of the bridge and threw themselves off. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people along the entire length of the bridge pushing for space to get over, clamoring like a Black Friday crowd, then falling silently, almost gracefully,

into the churning waters of the endless impact over and over and over again. We watched the hypnotizing macabre beauty of the waterfall of bodies for a long time until I started to even recognize a few faces. When they die, did they just start back at the top again? No, not immediately. There is always time.

to feel the pain. They feel everything of their bones, find themselves standing there again. He began to walk toward the bridge, but stopped himself with what looked like a lot of pain. Why do they keep jumping? I asked. He watched the constant wave of bodies wash over the railing

and into the water, smacking with a constant tidal wave of life. Because those few seconds before they hit are the only time it doesn't hurt forever. We walk toward the bridge side by side. Why are you showing me this? Because this is pain. You think you know pain, and you do.

But not this pain. Your escape is your prison. Understand. Why are you showing me this? The suicide man looked away from the bridge into me for the first time since we arrived. Because what I did was a mistake. I knew it then. I know it now. It doesn't stop me from having to do it, though.

You need to see the pain never ends. How long have you been doing this? He didn't answer. Maybe he didn't know. Have you saved anyone? I asked. I am one man, and there is so much death, and my window of opportunity is so small. But I'm here. I'm alive? Are you?

He asked. I looked back at the cascade of flesh and pain. I began to hear the cries of agony ripping the air as they hit the water. Some dying quickly, others drowning slowly. I don't want this. I just wanted... I know. How can I save myself?

He pulled a small pocket watch from his suit pocket and clicked it open. His face seemed to lighten for just a moment before he looked up at me and said, You can wake up. What? I don't understand. His face grew serious. Wake up. How can I?

He grabbed me by the shoulders and started yelling. Wake up! Wake up! And as I did, his face and voice faded away, replaced by the bloated sweaty face of my landlord. His shirt was soaked. He was frantically shaking me as water poured out of the tub. Wake up! Wake up!

He yelled at me. A cell phone lay on the sink and I could barely make out the muffled sounds of a 911 operator trying to tell the man something. Later, he would tell the police that he was in my apartment because he thought he heard someone scream. I knew better. He was there to steal from the place. The guy was a crook and he stumbled in on me killing myself. weighing the certainty of the police being all over him against the doubt of being able to pretend he never saw me he actually did the right thing and called 911

the off-color lines of scar tissue on my forearms tend to draw people's eyes these days but i'm not ashamed of it i wear short-sleeved shirts or push up long sleeves in the winter It's not for them to see. It's for me. My life isn't easier now. It's still hard. Why should death be any better? Death is our escape.

It's our prison. The fact of the matter is that I know it will get worse. And in those dark times when I think back about not wanting to feel the pain anymore, I swear I can see him. watching me from the street outside my apartment or standing near my cubicle at work. He might step into traffic or throw himself from a window or worse. So much worse. I don't see him all the time, but I see him a lot.

At first I thought he wanted to save me. I thought he was there to show me my life was worth living. But now I see him so much, even when I'm not. I'm happy. The constant dying, the constant pain and torment on his face. Maybe he wants me there to push me to, you know, despite what I saw. Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he wants me to regret killing myself so I can be like him, so he can have someone

else to be with in a world full of people killing themselves over and over again. I'm not still here because I'm brave. I'm here because I'm scared. I'm scared of the truth the suicide man knows. I can't tell you how to live your life or what to do, but I can tell you what I've seen, what I've known. And if you ever see a man in a pinstriped suit, a red carnation, and a look in his eyes like he can't go on, I do advise you stop for a moment and think real hard about your life because some things just aren't worth dying for,

especially not over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. It's been six months, written by Adam Roberts and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. It's been six months since they came back. And things wouldn't have been that bad if it weren't for all the idiots out there. The first one appeared somewhere in the Caribbean, around near Haiti. It was a Facebook video someone posted. and it melted the internet instantly.

There were jokes about it all over the place, an instant meme. Most of the jokes were in bad taste, of course. Jokes about voodoo, Santoria, how poor they were. They kept using this still from an old 40s horror movie, with some zombie with bulging eyes with just the most racist and nasty jokes you can imagine. And that's all it was at first. Just a meme.

People went about their days as usual. It's funny. Online, you see something like a meme, and that's all it is. Just a joke or a funny photo that you see that has no bearing on your life. Regardless of the story behind it, you just laugh,

maybe make a comment, and keep scrolling. Then it started spreading, slowly. There were a few more sightings in Haiti. Then Dominican Republic, Jamaica, Cuba, Puerto Rico. It was even mentioned seriously in the news,

until one was spotted in the Cayman Islands, when one attacked an exec of one of those offshore banks. It's all fun in games until you mess with a rich white man's money. Then before you knew it, there were reports popping up all across the globe. Everyone was talking about it. No one really knew what to do. but they were talking about it.

Hashtag zombie apocalypse was, ironically, trending. It was talked about on every podcast, late-night talk show, everywhere. CNN's zombie watch segment had a really great graphics intro. Not going to lie, that was my favorite out of all the channels. And then, things just started getting bad. They were popping up all across the country in nearly every state. All those memes and jokes online really took a sharp turn, real fast. Every white supremacist, Nazi, alt-right asshole you can think of,

started blaming the people in Haiti for the whole thing. And somehow, also for all the problems they're having in their lives. Hate crimes skyrocketed. People getting randomly assaulted on the street. Tires slashed, homes graffeted. And then, in June, a bunch of assholes and, a pickup, probably in some militia or something, drove through Little Haiti in Miami, and just started throwing Molotov cocktails at houses. Thirty-eight people were killed. About 110 were left

homeless. You can take a guess what happened to those that were initially killed. Yep. They came back. All of them. Within 36 hours, Miami became the first major hot zone in the country. It was all you saw, and all everyone talked about everywhere. News, TV, online, the radio, at the dentist's office, at the deliate publics, everywhere. And then the conspiracy theories started popping up that the zombies were created as a bio-weapon of the Russians. Or the Chinese, or Muslims, or Antifa, or BLM, or George Soros. or that there were actually no zombies, that they were false flags made by the CIA,

in conjunction with Hollywood Special Effects Studios, or that they were holograms, or aliens, or whatever. The president gave a speech encouraging people to stay safe at home. Yeah, that didn't go over too well, as you can imagine. Idiots started protesting, demanding that they were not afraid, that no zombie would stop them from going to Applebee's. I got to admit it. Kind of funny to see a lot of them get bitten.

And then, there were counter-pro-zombie protests, that they were just misunderstood, how they deserved their due process instead of being shot on the spot. Pat Robertson couldn't get enough of the zombies. It was all he talked about. In one week, he said that the dead rising was God's punishment

for trans people flunting themselves in God's eyes. By the end of the week, he was practically rooting for them. It was biblical prophecy, quoting the Book of Revelations, that it was all a sign of the coming rapture, of Christ's imminent return to earth. My absolute favorite video clip was that moment the one of his crew members turned live on air during the 700 Club, ripping his throat out on live television. Couldn't have happened to a better person.

That was right around the time the zombie lovers started popping up. I think it started out as a joke on Reddit. Someone made a subreddit for people in love with zombies, mostly just memes and photoshopped images from bad 80s horror movies. That slowly evolved into an actual zombie fetish. Videos of well-hung dudes with really bad dead makeup banging young newbiles were all over the main page of Pornhub. Zombie slashfix.

Cheap Kindle zombie romance novels. Zombie sex fantasies. zombie rape fantasies One woman who was all over the subreddit made a long post saying that the only way she could come was when she imagined a zombie ripping her body to shreds. Then, that story in London broke. That woman who got arrested for bringing her zombie boyfriend

to a cafe for brunch. She had a huge fit saying that the zombie was her lover. He was very sweet. And how they make love every night. How they made love, I did. didn't know she was crazy. People started making tons of money on this whole thing, too.

Hucksters were selling all kinds of snake oil concoctions, claiming that they would stop you from turning, or that it would deter you from being attacked. I don't know. They were mostly collodial silver mixed with bleach, which, incidentally, ended up killing a handful of saps that bought into it. There were tactical anti-zombie clothes and armor, zombie-proof windows for your house and car.

The best was the zombie blockers. Totally blacked out sunglasses for kids, so your little Johnny and Susie wouldn't have to see them when they went out. All the while, people were hoarding and stockpiling anything and everything they could find, whether they needed it or not. Walmart's and strip malls turned into war zones. I saw a TikTok video of a high school girl get stabbed over grabbing the last loaf of bread on the shelf. Some convenience stores had plenty of merchandise.

They just gouged the prices on everything through the roof and had guys with guns on guard by the door. And gas, of course. That went way fast. In a matter of days, a few gas stations got overtaken by heavily armed people, mostly rednecks and militia type. Don't think of filling up your tank there, though. They'll just shoot you, unless you're a patriot, of course. Eventually, cars were all over the place. Nowhere to go with no gas.

and then the buying of supplies stopped, and people just started taking. It was like every man for themselves. Ashiers and baggers were gunned down in some places. What? You think their boss was going to let people stay home and be safe with their families? People being killed over TVs and iPads. Just trying to get all the stuff they could get their hands on. I mean, what are you going to do with a brand new big-screen TV anyway? It wasn't long for most broadcast to cease.

And all the people they shot for their stuff, they turned. And I mean, do people not think? Electricity's pretty much hit and miss nearly everywhere. Most people started fleeing their job posts. With no one manning the grid, well, I'm just lucky that the guy whose house I'm in has solar panels on the roof. I heard a rumor about a nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania. It got overrun with zombies.

and with no one there, it overheated and there was a meltdown. It's pretty quiet out there now, for the most part, at least. You hear the occasional gunshot from somewhere, but nothing to worry you much. Most of the idiots out there have long since turn, wandering around until someone puts them down. Be safe out there. For even more from Creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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