Creepy - Day 15 - Candy Corn & I Should Have Bought an Ouija Board

Episode Date: October 15, 2025

Candy Corn***Written by: Linda Miller Esler Narrated by: Heather Thomas***I Should Have Bought an Ouija Board***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 15. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. these stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Good morning, Heather.

I see that you signed up with Nurse Natalie to talk about your dream. Yeah. Lately, I haven't really been remembering my dreams as much as before. But this one really stuck with me. Whenever you're ready, feel free to tell me as much or as little about it as you'd like. I know it wasn't this simple, but I dreamed about candy corn. Victor had given me many gifts before we were married, but this was my first birthday since our wedding two months ago. I figured my husband was wealthy enough to afford something really special for his new bride.

I couldn't see a box anywhere. Perhaps he had something small but precious in one of his pockets. Keys to Alexis or be a little. A diamond pendant. Playing tickets for a weekend in Monte Carlo on his phone. A silent delivery boy outside the front door holding the reins of a champion racehorse? I really hoped it wasn't a dog or a bird. Or opera tickets. I waited patiently until Victor wiped the final bite of poached egg off his lips after breakfast. Disgusting man. I was excited when he finally handed me a little white,

cardboard box until I opened it and saw a silver cross. It was fairly large, with scalloped edges and six large opals set into the front, probably not that valuable, and so definitely not my style. When I smiled and said I had never seen anything quite like this, Victor told me it had belonged to his mother. She'd never had a daughter to give it to, but he just knew she would have been delighted to see his beautiful bride wearing it. I dug deep to find an appropriate response. It will be perfect for Sunday Mass. Victor smiled when he informed me that his mother always wore the cross to Mass. He just knew I would understand. At least I wasn't expected to wear the gosh old thing every day. I thought about how I would treat myself to something gorgeous the first

chance I got. Meanwhile, Victor babbled on about how much his mother had always loved opals. She'd owned an opal and diamond cocktail ring that he'd almost given me today, until he realized how much more appropriate the cross would be. He had given me pearl rosary beads before my confirmation, but those were new. Since I didn't have any family of my own left, and none of them had been Catholic, His mother's cross would be the first real religious heirloom I would own. At the word, heirloom, I perked up. The cocktail ring sounded promising.

I wondered how long I would have to wait for that. Christmas? Our anniversary? When Victor tried to put the pendant around my neck, we realized the clasp was broken. I was careful to hide my relief. Oh, what a pity! I won't be able to wear it tomorrow. Victor put the necklace in his pocket.

He promised he would be home in plenty of time to take me out for a special birthday dinner. Dinner was nice, but that night I dreamed about Victor's late mother waving the cross in my face and screaming invective. Her expression was nothing like those in the portraits her son had in every room of our house. The next morning, I felt too tired to get up for the 10 o'clock, man. but had to drag myself out of bed when Victor woke me, smiling, as he offered me another little box. He had left work early yesterday to pick up a silver chain. The fool had even saved it until this morning as a special surprise. He was still beaming as he strung the cross on the chain and fastened it around my neck. After mass I stopped in the restroom and bit through the

chain until it broke. I plastered a contrite expression on my face when I showed it to Victor in the car. I told him, it must have gotten caught on my watch when I was brushing my hair. He looked surprised but sympathetic. He apologized and promised to have something custom made to support the weight of the cross. Three days later, Victor presented me with a chain so heavy it pressed into the back of my neck. The clasp was too intricate to manage myself. Victor's solution was that I wear the necklace all the time as a constant reminder of my new faith and my place in his family. That night, Victor's dead mother cackled as she pointed at my neck. When Victor wasn't around, I tucked the cross inside my clothes, but the clasp rubbed against my skin. Every night, the old witch who had birthed

my husband visited me in my dreams to gloat. After a week of nightmares and a neck rash, I knew I had to do something drastic. I reached out to one of the old friends I had never introduced to Victor. She gave me a phone number and instructions. I called and made a mid-morning appointment for the following week. Victor would be at work, but if he asked, I could invent an urgently needed haircut. I figured I could always stop at the salon for a trim on my way home. The appointment was in a bad neighborhood,

but I tipped the driver extra to wait while I went inside the building and made him promise to pick me up when I was done. Pushing the buzzer, I told the machine, Hiho de Pera sent me. The door unlocked. Upstairs I entered a room lit by only a pillar candle in the center of a small table. The room reeked of incense and candle wax. The man across for me was slight and pale.

He wore a white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of cargo pants. When I sat down, he asked if I preferred a tarot or palm reading. I don't care. I'm here because my dead mother-in-law is giving me nightmares, and I want it to stop. The man told me that he only held seances on all-hallow's eve. and only for a single quarent each year. Lucky for me, he hadn't booked this year's event.

It would cost $500 and needed to be paid in advance. On the night of the seance, I had to bring an object belonging to the spirit. Will this do? I asked, pulling the cross out of my blouse. The psychic nodded. I counted out $500 bills. I didn't usually carry that much cash, but my friend had warned me to stop at the ATM before my visit.

He picked up the money and told me to come at 8 o'clock next week. My Uber drove past groups of costume children clutching plastic pumpkins, sheets, and decorated paper bags. I had told Victor I was going to a girlfriend's Halloween birthday party. That I had a renewable excuse to avoid the little costume brats who came begging every Halloween was just icing on the cake. Once again I gave the silly password and climbed the stairs to the stuffy little room. I sat at the table and waited until the psychic entered the room through a bead curtain.

He told me that the spirit would take as much time as it needed. I should remain silent until it spoke to me. He unclasped the cross and held it, rubbing the opals as we waited. The psychic closed his eyes. After a few moments they opened, and he spoke in a higher voice that trembled with both age and anger. Trashy little gold digger, you don't deserve to marry my son or wear my opals. I won't allow this. I was startled, but I refused to be intimidated by some old woman who had no business bothering me.

I reminded her that she was dead and asked what she was going to do about it. I'm already in your dreams, you foolish girl. You wouldn't be here if I weren't. It was true. But I knew that the psychic already had that information. This whole thing could be a sham. Of course, if it was, I had no idea how I was going to stop the nightmares. She spoke again.

It isn't just your dream. you know. I'm already inside of you. For a moment I was frightened. Victor's mother had died of heart disease caused by her diabetes. What if she had sent me that from beyond the grave? A psychic laughed. It was the cackle of a demented old woman. What a wonderful idea. You could have a heart attack during childbirth. Then Victor would be free to marry a good kid. Catholic girl who would be more than a trophy wife. Now I knew I was safe. I told her, I wasn't pregnant and had no intention of ever ruining my figure with a baby.

She laughed again. Are you sure about that? Birth control doesn't always work, you know. When was your last period? I froze. I was a weak. late. I'd assumed it was just stress, but what if it was more than that? That's right. I've taken over that baby and there's nothing you can do about it. Next year at this time, if you live,

you'll be changing my diapers. I might decide to be a cranky little thing and keep you up every night. Maybe I'll bite one of your nipples off. Victor was breastfed and I know he'd expect you to do the same for his precious baby girl. I thought fast. I told her I'd go to another state and have her aborted. Good luck convincing Victor to allow that. I raised him to be a good Catholic, and even a conniving little monster like you wouldn't be able to sneak around him and get on a plane. My boy is too smart to give you that much control of his money. He may have been sucked in by your looks, but he's no fool. He'll know if you see a doctor or buy a pregnancy test.

And even if you came up with an excuse to fly somewhere alone, you'd probably bleed out when the pressure changed. No, I'd say, you're stuck with me. I couldn't think of an answer. She must have known that because the psychic suddenly opened his eyes. He asked me if the spirit had. had told me what she wanted. I nodded. He helped me hang the cross back around my neck and ushered me out of the room. Riding home, I tried to think. I knew I couldn't tell Victor I was flying out

of state for an abortion. If I claimed an old friend had died, Victor would insist on accompanying me to the funeral to provide moral support. I could never let my husband know that I might be pregnant. Although my birth control pills were carefully hidden inside a tampon box, I had gotten that prescription before we were married and kept renewing it. As far as Victor knew, I was trying to give him the children he wanted. He probably thought I was as eager to have them as he was. Back home, I glanced at the trick-or-treat bowl. My husband had placed a big bowl of candy corn on the hall table by the front door, so he could give it to visiting children. There were still a few pieces of candy corn at the bottom.

Candy corn had always been my favorite treat when I was too young to worry about my figure. Suddenly I had an idea. Victor had told me his mother had been diabetic. He said her weakness for sweets had probably killed her. What if I stuffed myself with enough sugary treats to affect the baby? I hadn't eaten candy corn in years, and the ones in the bowl looked grubby, but I picked one up and put it in my mouth. The taste. As I chewed, the sweetness flooded my mouth.

There was half a dozen left. I gobbled them up. The next morning, after Victor left for work, I did some research on the internet. Excess sugar consumed by a mother during pregnancy. could definitely impact her baby. Birth defects, prematurity, and even miscarriage

were serious possibilities. Even if her host survived, my mother-in-law might be uncomfortable enough to move on. I went shopping and was delighted to find a cart full of half-priced candy corn. I bought every single bag.

Then I went to another store and did the same thing. And another. Only when I had as many plastic shopping bags as I could carry did I return home, forcing myself to leave the bags intact until I had found a suitable hiding place. One bag went in my underwear drawer. Another fit inside an empty oatmeal container at the back of a pantry shelf. Two smaller bags could be hidden inside a pair of boots I never wore. I devoured part of another bag, leaving enough uneaten candy corn to fill several. sandwich bags that I stashed inside each one of my purses. When Victor came home from work,

he told me he had attended the noon mass for all saints' day at the cathedral during his lunch hour. I lied and said I had done the same thing at our parish church. That night my mother-in-law appeared in another dream. She berated me for missing a holy day of obligation and for lying to her son. I asked her why, if she was such a good Catholic, she wasn't in heaven instead of bothering me. She didn't answer, and I woke, feeling safe for the first time in weeks. Now that I knew I was on the right track, I started eating my candy corn every morning after Victor left for work. I had some for dessert after lunch, and then as an afternoon snack. The little yellow, orange and white angles became the high points of my day.

Sometimes I bit off a piece of each color, but usually I just gobbled the whole thing down. I was careful to brush my teeth thoroughly before Victor got home. I slept through the night, without incident. We attended Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Victor's Aunt Gale. Since I had no signature dish to contribute, we brought several bottles of wine. I was a bit concerned about not having an opportunity. to eat my candy corn, but I figured I could make up the sugar deficit with sweet potato casserole and pumpkin pie. I took seconds of everything. Aunt Gale had not seen me since the wedding, and

she looked pointedly at my stomach before asking me when I was due. I told her it was too early to make any announcements, and then excused myself to rush into the nearest bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror sideways and realized my midsection was beginning to protrude a bit. Suddenly, a wave of anxiety hit me. I reached inside my purse where I had stashed a sandwich bag full of candy corn and ate every piece. Fortified, I returned to the table in time for dessert. Aunt Gale smiled as she served me a big slice of pie. It was delicious.

I enjoyed every bite. On our drive home, my husband remarked that he was glad to see me enjoying my food so much. He had begun to think I was anorexic, but now understood that my apparent lack of appetite was probably just nerves. It made him happy to know I was feeling more relaxed. By Christmas, I was almost out of candy corn. My experience at Thanksgiving had taught me to keep a small portion in my purse for emergencies, but I had finally realized the other sweet things contained enough sugar to keep Victor's mother out of my dreams. I rediscovered old favorites like chocolate-covered nut bars, root beer barrels,

and now, with the holiday season, candy canes. My clothes were definitely tighter than before, so I bought a whole new winter wardrobe in a larger size. Victor saw the bills, but only smiled and told me there was just more of me to love. The fool never met a cliche he didn't like. That was his only comment on my weight gain. At Christmas dinner, more than one person looked at my expanded waistline, but only Aunt Gail had the nerve to say anything about it. I drew her out into the hall and told her in a whisper

that my doctor was concerned and warned me not to say anything about the pregnancy yet. I begged her not to ruin Victor's holiday by reminding him of something that he was already worried about. She kissed me and promised to warn the rest of the family. Dinner was particularly tasty with gingerbread cookies, fruit cake, and Bouch de Noel for dessert. When I undressed for bed that night, Victor flinched just a bit. Then he smiled and took me in his arms, but his lovemaking seemed less ardent. than usual. I had never really enjoyed that part of our marriage, but I tried to make up for his lack of enthusiasm by feigning a bit more of my own desire. The next morning, when we returned from the

10 o'clock mass, Victor gave me his mother's cocktail ring. It was a bit too tight, but I smiled and I told him I loved it. It was too ornate to wear except for special events, so I figured I could save it until after the baby was gone, and my body returned to normal. It's Halloween again. No one here goes trick-or-treating. There are no children. I've been at this place for nearly three months. Victor had me committed after he caught me destroying his mother's photographs.

Of course, that wasn't the only reason. I'd gained 60 pounds since Christmas and stopped hiding my candy stash, Instead of talking at meals or even pretending to listen to my husband's conversation, I ate with the focus of a starving woman. I enjoyed every mouthful. As my stomach grew, I realized that I hardly even cared about poisoning the baby with sugar. I was eating because I loved doing it. One afternoon, Victor came home from work a bit early to find me asleep on the couch.

My face was smeared with the chocolate frosting I'd been scooping up. out of a can with my fingers. He insisted I see a doctor. When I refused, he made the appointment himself and stayed home from work to accompany me. Our internist gave me enough tests to prove that I had never been pregnant and that I had developed type 2 diabetes.

He referred me to a psychologist who specialized in eating disorders. Victor's mother had lied. In my fury, I pulled down all framed photographs and started smashing them against the walls. When my husband tried to stop me, I hit him. He called an ambulance. In the hospital, I was sedated and restrained for the 48 hours it took Victor to have me committed. Both the internist and the psychologist signed off on it.

It's not so bad here. I have a private room. Victor visits every Sunday afternoon. He will never divorce me. The various drugs I'm given have left me calm and passive. I no longer bother with makeup or stylish clothes. I suppose my husband finds me easier to deal with now, but he never looks at me the way he used to when I was his beautiful trophy wife. Even though I lost the extra weight, Victor will never forget what I turned myself into.

We both know that I could always do it again. The food here is not bad, but my medication prevents me from overindulging in it. When prompted by the staff, I use the exercise machines in the gym. Without Victor's mother disturbing my dreams, I sleep well. The drugs help with that. I take my pills and do as I'm told. I speak to a psychiatrist every week. Our visits must be as boring for him as they are for me.

Today I saw a small plastic pumpkin on the doctor's desk. I reached out and pulled it toward me. It was filled with little brown, orange, and white triangles. I hadn't eaten that kind of candy corn in a while. I remembered that the brown part was supposed to taste like chocolate. When I bet into one, I realized that it actually did. I stuffed a greedy handful into my mouth. My appetite is not.

what it was, but I did enjoy that mouthful. Life is good. What do you think it means? My first impression? Did you notice how you weren't given the cocktail ring? But the cross, that wasn't an accident. The dream doesn't reward you with what you want. It binds you with what it chooses. The opals, the heirlooms, they shine, but their weight is heavier than gold. Once you accept them, you don't really belong to yourself anymore. That's why his mother lingers, dead, but never gone. What about the candy corn? The candy corn is sweet, innocent, even childish. You tried to fight her with sugar, but sweetness rots. That's why you wasted away.

That's why you ended up in the asylum. It isn't a punishment, Heather. It's an exchange. You gave up your health, and in return, you earned silence. No more hauntings, no more cross. Just sleep. That's kind of sad. It's tempting to call the dream tragic,

but I think your subconscious is trying to show you something inevitable. We don't escape these forces. We just choose how we pay them. So the real question isn't why did this happen to me. The real question is, what will I surrender when? it's my turn. What will I surrender?

Only you can answer that. But I'm here to help you find that out. Try to take your mind off these things for now and just relax. I have to finish my rounds now. Have a wonderful day. What the hell is that? Who are you? I know this is all confusing, but they're here to help.

Tell them about your. dream, they are here to help. Yes, this is you talking right now. I know you still can't remember anything, but you will soon. Just tell them your dream. They're here to help. So, if I tell you about how I should have just bought in Ouija board, then I'll start to remember?

Okay. I'd always been fascinated by the occult. Not in a performative, showing bullshit social media kind of way. It's the kind that ends up with sage, smoke, and Instagram selfies. But in the deep, obsessive sort of way that keeps you up at night's scouring forums, old book scans, and grainy YouTube videos from countries where the warnings come in languages you can't understand. Which inevitably led to my downloading a tour browser, because... Why not?

So after about a week of poking around and figuring out how to navigate the dark, corners of the internet, when I found the listing, it felt like fate. One-of-a-kind spirit board, hand-carved 19th century, do not use alone. That was the title. The site itself looked like something that must have existed back in the 1990s, just a crappy old basic forum-style listing, about a step lower than even Craigslist. The post came with three low-rise photos, a warped wooden board etched with curling letters that look like some kind of Eastern European country that probably doesn't even exist anymore, like Prussia or something.

That was a country, right? There's also a strange planchette made out of bone or horn painted black, and a final blurry shot of someone holding the board near candlelight. The face of the cellar, or at least what I assumed was the seller, was partially pixelated, but I could see one eye clearly, wide and panicked. I bought it for 0.005 Bitcoin, or about $58. Seemed like the steel for what at least looked like an antique. The box actually arrived two weeks later.

No return address, no branding, just a plain cardboard box that had the overpowering smell of earth and something kind of metallic. Inside, the board was wrapped in butcher paper, and beneath it lay a folded note written in thin, shaky handwriting. Do not use it alone. Do not ask for names. Do not look through the planchette. I laughed.

Not because I thought it was funny, but because it was cliche. Kind of thing of seller adds to make it seem more authentic, like horror cosplay. I forgot about the note almost. as soon as I'd read it. I waited until midnight that same night. I lit three candles, dimmed the lights, and sat cross-legged in my living room with the board in front of me on the floor.

I know how these things work, and I know that one person isn't going to be able to make it work alone without literally pushing it where I wanted it to go, but it was part of the test, right? I heard that when Harry Houdini died, he gave his widow a secret word or phrase and told her to visit mediums to see if they knew the phrase. See, Houdini spent his life.

debunking fake mystics, and this served as his final FU to the entire profession. Not that it stopped anyone. Anyway, that's kind of how I looked at it. If it was the real deal, it wouldn't matter if it was just me or several people. The planchette was cold and unnaturally heavy in my hand. Its eye was a ring of glass, tinted black, polished to a mirror-like shine. When I turned it in the candlelight, it reflected nothing. Just a void like those paints that supposedly absorb light.

I set it on the board and placed my fingertips lightly on the sides. Is anyone there? I asked, trying not to smile. Nothing. Is anyone here who wishes to speak? Silence. I tried variations for maybe 15 more minutes, asking the usual questions. What's your name? How did you die?

Can you hear me? but the planchette never budged, not even a twitch. Annoyed, I decided to break the last rule too. In for a penny, in for a pound. I lifted the planchette and held the glass up to my right eye, peering through the circular hole like a monocle. And then, everything changed. The room dimmed, but I didn't notice the candles flickering,

and none went out. The shadows grew deeper, thicker, spilling from corn, they hadn't occupied a moment before. What once showed the flicker a candlelight was now inky black and seemed to close in around me. My breath caught. Through the planchette, the world looked drained of color, pale, sickly, and in the hallway behind where I had been seated,

nice sound movement. A figure, tall, thin, head cocked at an angle as if listening. No eyes, no mouth, just smooth, pale skin, and a presence that bled wrongness into the room. The planchette slipped from my fingers. It didn't hit the floor. It stayed suspended, hovering an inch above the board, spinning slowly like caught in an invisible updraft.

My heart thump begins the inside of my rib cage. I stumble backward, knocking over a candle. Drops of wax splashed onto the floor and hardened as the flame went out. Then the board spoke Not with sound but with movement I grabbed one of the still-lit candles and held it over the board The planchette jerked violently, dragging itself across the wood My hands weren't even on it

N-O I stared frozen The board was answering a question I hadn't asked The planchette moved again H-E-I-S-T-I-L-H-U-N-G-R-Y. Something cold pressed against the back of my neck. I spun around, nothing. But I swear, I swear, I heard breathing.

slow, heavy, wet. Without thinking, I grabbed the board and shoved it back in the box with a planchette, tossed it into the closet, and slammed the door shut. I didn't sleep very well that night. I just kept running it over and over again in my head. How is it possible? It wasn't, I told myself, but it happened. And when I finally did fall asleep, I just kept dreaming about the closet door. The next morning I found deep gouges in the hardwood floor.

My eyes followed the streaks of the planchette right there in the middle of the floor. The planchette I know that I put in the box. I just stared at it, my eyes tracing the path of the scratches, as if it had claws or teeth. I told myself I'd imagined it. I must not have put it away and maybe I stepped down the planchette in my rush, scratching the floor. Sleep deprivation, suggestion, paranoia.

There's a science to this kind of fear. But the truth sat heavy in my gut, and I thought about that thing Scrooge said about ghosts. What was the line? An indigested bit of beef, blob of mustard, a piece of underdone potato. More gravy than grave. That thought made me chuckle.

Except that things got worse after that. Even with a box now locked away in the closet, things kept happening around my apartment. Lights flickered, even after I changed the bulbs. Cold spots followed me through the apartment, always just behind my shoulder. I heard whispers at 3.33 a.m. every night. Never clear, always distant,

like voices bleeding through a radio between stations. I started catching my reflection in windows and mirrors, but it wasn't my reflection. I know it wasn't my reflection. I'd glance into the bathroom mirror, and I swear I'd catch my reflection blinking. A half a second too late. Or smiling when I wasn't? The worst was the knocking. It came from inside the walls, rhythmic, deliberate.

First in the bedroom, then in the kitchen, and then the classroom. and then the closet, the one where I hid the board. I decided to get rid of it. I didn't even open the box. I duct taped it shut, wrapped it in a trash bag, and drove an hour outside the city to a lake I used to fish out with my dad. I grabbed a handful of rocks and threw them in the bag too. Then waited knee deep into the water and threw the whole thing in,

watching it sink with barely a ripple. I felt lighter immediately. But that night, I woke to water dripping in my room. There at the foot of the bed, on the floor, was the board. Soggy, twisted. Next to the boards at the box, somehow still wrapped in duct tape. The planchette was sitting neatly on top, its glass eye facing me. I called in sick the next day and drove to a church.

I'm a lapsed Catholic. maybe that's cause of my interest in the darker side of supernatural. I hadn't been in a church since Christmas Day a few years prior with my parents, but at that point, I was ready to try anything. I walked in holding the board under my coat like it was a bomb. A priest in his 60s greeted me at the back. When I told him what I had, he went pale, almost theatrically so, but it caught my attention.

He didn't ask questions, he just led me to a small side room, locked the door, and asked to see it. I placed the board on the table and stepped back. He didn't touch it. He just looked at it like it might bite him. Then he told me to leave immediately. What? Why? He chastised me, telling me that the board wasn't a toy, but it wasn't a tool either.

It was a doorway, and I'd already let something through it. I had done enough damage already. I laughed, but there was no humor in it. So what? I'm haunted now? He looked at me then. Really looked. And I saw fear in his eyes.

He shook his head and told me that I was marked. He stared at the board, shook his head again, and apologized, but told me there was nothing he could do to help and asked me to take the board with me when I left. Then he did the sign of the cross. and left the room. Since then, it's followed me. Even after I moved, even after I burned the board. Yeah, burned it.

Watched it curl and blacken in a barrel behind an abandoned warehouse. Things smelled awful, even standing 20 feet away from the flames. The rot of it as the planchette cracked and hissed in the flames. It didn't matter. It still came back. The planchette shows up in random places on my desk in the fridge, inside a sealed cereal box, once I found it sitting in my car on the passenger seat with a glass eye pointing at me. Sometimes it's wet, sometimes it's dry, sometimes it's warm.

Once it was bleeding. I don't sleep anymore. Not really. When I close my eyes, I see him. The thing from the hallway. His eyeless face and that slow tilt of his head like he's trying to listen to my thoughts. He doesn't speak and he doesn't move. He just waits.

I can't see him without the planchette, but I can feel him there. Watching. Mimicking. Becoming. Last night I woke up to the sound of myself talking, but I wasn't speaking. My mouth was moving in the mirror. and I wasn't smiling, but my reflection was. I don't know how this ends.

Maybe I break the planchette. Maybe I find the original cellar, if they're even alive. Maybe I go back to that church and beg for help, repent, disappear into a monastery or something. Or maybe there is no end. Maybe the moment I looked through the glass, I stopped being the only person in my body. All I know is this.

When you buy something off the dark web, especially something old, cursed, or covered in cryptic warnings, believe the warnings. It's better than the alternative. Because now when I blink, I feel something else blink after me. And every day, the face in the mirror looks less like mine and more like his. So when do I start remembering? What is on the note card? Then return both items to live.

the window. We are here to help. Don't talk. Stop asking questions. You won't remember the answers anyway. Stop messing around and just tell them about your dream so we can get out of here. They are here to help. Get that through your head. Tell them the damn dream and stop resisting so they can help. So I'm going to start remembering now? Hello? For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be.

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