Creepy - Day 18 - A Letter From the Candy Man & HOA-o-Ween

Episode Date: October 18, 2022

A Letter from the Candy Man***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warnings: violent representation of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), child death, graphic depictions of death & dismemberment, body horror, kidnapping, suicide***HOA-o-Ween***Written by: Laugh Man***Content Warnings: home owners associations***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe StofkoHosted 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 are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of biocations of biocations. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 18. A letter from the Candy Man, written by known of consequence, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. To whom it may concern. My name is Haley Elizabeth Rain.

But you can call me what they, kids do. The Candy Man. I own a candy store, and even though I'm a woman, I'm not so PC as to make them call me the Candy Woman. Not only does it sound weird, but it would take too much energy to correct every child that says it. Besides, I've been told I have a rather masculine energy anyway. I don't think that has anything to do with being gay, but I've never cared enough to dive deeper into it. I've got more important concerns than nomenclature. Business is always good since kids are always wanting candy, but this time of year is simply the best. Halloween obviously brings a serious need for what I have to offer and with my prices for bulk candy. I beat the local

mega chain stores. That and my customers are loyal. They've been frequenting my establishment since day one. That's a little over 13 years if I'm not mistaken, but with how my brain is wired, being wrong is a serious possibility. I have this medical condition with a long and complicated name, but it boils down to having memory lapses. There are times when I simms, lose a chunk of time, kind of like I stepped out of my body. When I come back to myself, it's like coming out of a fog, and I have no recollection of where I was, what I was doing, or why it even happened. Hell, a lot of the time, I'm unaware of the fog, and only know I've had a lapse when someone talks to me about something I did that I don't remember.

Since I was a kid, doctors have tried to figure out what triggers these lapses, but there's no pattern to it. The durations vary between a few minutes, all the way to a few days. Believe it or not, I have vacation photos of myself on the beach, but as far as I can remember, I've never been to a beach in my life. Recently, my doctor has put me on an experimental medication to help counter these lapses, and I think it's working when I remember to take it. Sometimes, one of my regular customers will come to me asking for a repeat order from a previous visit, and I'll have no recollection of seeing them since that last time. More often than not, I'll quickly go through my green tone,

and find the entry for the order to duplicate it. On the rare occasion, I'll ask them to just repeat the order, mostly because I misplaced my book. These interactions have let me know something I find to be rather critical. Even though I have no recollection of these lapses, I'm still me when they happen. All of the adult customers I know by name have become a way of my condition over the years. And they're often very accommodating. It feels like I'm handicapped,

and it's surprising how understanding people can be. I don't want to be pitied for my condition, but their compassion and willingness to tolerate my forgetfulness is greatly, greatly appreciated. Life would be a lot harder if I still live in a bad community. So many in the world are self-seption. and worry only about themselves. And despite how crazy the world is, I hit the jackpot when I moved into this community. I wish I could say that my memory lapses were my only issue, but it's not. On top of this, I'm dyslexic, too.

Dyslexia is a learning disorder characterized by difficulty reading, but it's more than that. I get things backwards all the time, and more than just letters. It's words and numbers, too. I switch names, confuse meanings of words I don't often use, and say one thing when I mean to say something else, all the while being unaware that I'm doing it. My last girlfriend left me because she couldn't deal with it anymore.

Sometimes I overhear the kids in my store call me retarded. I don't let it get me down, though. Did you know that dyslexia can affect a person's sense of time? I thought transposing numbers and my dates was bad enough, but it gets so much worse than that. I'll be in my shop on Tuesdays and think my deliveries are on Thursdays only to have them show up that day. The thing that sucks? They're always set for Tuesdays. makes it really embarrassing when I set up the work schedule for my two employees. By now, they're aware of the delivery schedule and ask if I meant to schedule them both for Tuesday instead of Thursday.

Of course, that's what I meant to do, and they try to help minimize my embarrassment. Still, it takes such a toll on my self-esteem and can lead to depression. A depressed candy man is a truly sad thing. Unfortunately, the depression I sometimes find myself in comes from another source as well. Over a decade ago, horror struck our fair city. Now granted, a city as large as ours is bound to come with a certain level of crime.

This is a sad truth, but accepted by the masses. Not everyone can be as friendly as those within our community, and income levels have a big part to do with that. Our community is a slightly higher than average level, and with our local tax bracket, it provides us with a better finance police force. We don't have street crime like other parts of the city does. There's no drug dealers posted up for everyone to see, and I can't remember the last time I heard about someone getting mugged or carjacked. If I stand at my store's front window for 20 minutes, I'll see at least one police car cruising by. Thanks to this, everyone was shocked at the first murder. We aren't without crime altogether.

There's the occasional break-in, assault, and car accident. 13 years ago, on Halloween night, a nine-year-old boy named Raymond Finn was run over in the middle of the street. Originally, they were going to classify it as a hit and run, but tire impressions showed the vehicle swerved several times. Not because the driver was trying to avoid the child, but actually swerving to hit him. It sounded like speculation to me until I found out about the footprints. Apparently, Raymond's shoes were heavily caked in mud

and left impressions on the road, proving the hit and run was deliberate. How do I know so much about this? Well, I was the prime suspect. By all accounts, Raymond was a bully. He was bigger and stronger than all the kids his age, but less intelligent. As typical of a bully, he picked on all those he considered beneath him, only acting nice when an adult was present.

Coming from a wealthy family, he was an entitled little shit with delusions of grandeur, even though he couldn't understand what that was. It was later discovered that Raymond abused and tortured his household pets, and even his siblings were afraid of him. Their maid also went on the record about how much of a little terror he was. Unfortunate for me, Raymond had quite a sweet tooth, and regularly came into my shop. While there, he would bully the other children,

talk down to my employees, and make ridiculous demands. I should also note that he was the first child to call me a retard since I opened my shop. At least I have the advantage of not remembering quite a few of my interactions with him, including the incident that led me to be the prime suspect. Along with witness statements that were read to me,

My own security footage showed a complete account of the incident. Even without audio, it was clear what happened. Raymond came in three days before Halloween and was acting worse than ever. He openly bullied the few kids that were already there, treated my employee like his personal slave, and demanded of me the largest chocolate bar in my stock. This bar was displayed on the back wall, well out of his reach, and it cost nearly $200. The thing was bigger than he was, and when I refused to give it to him, for free by his demand,

he lost his mind. That little shit started throwing my merchandise around, destroying displays, and even cracked my front window by pushing over a gumball machine and into the glass. By witness accounts, I didn't act against the child until he called me a retard at the top of his pre-pubescent lungs. I watched myself on the surveillance recording

and recalled none of it. Walking up to the four-foot-seven nightmare, I picked him up by the back of his shirt with one hand. Bringing him to my face, I proceeded to yell at him with such venom and malice I hadn't known I possessed, until he pissed his pants. At that point, I took him out the front door

and dropped him on the sidewalk, banning him for my shop. According to witnesses, three adults that applauded me when I returned inside said I made no threats against the boy. All I did was tell him exactly everything that was wrong with him, including his parents' inability to raise a decent human being.

With hundreds of dollars in damages, and my background, the police still thought I was the killer. When I was young and learning to cope with my conditions, I didn't have it easy. I grew up in a bad city and possibly in one of the worst communities that shithole had. I was bullied, mercilessly, and often lost my cool, giving into my anger by fighting back. Most days, I was involved in some kind of playground fight, losing a lot more than I ever won. The adults always blamed me, saying I was getting frustrated with my condition. They ignored the bully factor and labeled me a bad seed. My parents weren't much help, often calling me their little burden.

As I got older, I spent. Spend time on my dad's weightlifting bench and started developing muscles. More often than not, I'd lose count of my reps and start over, making a normal workout last twice as long. By the time I hit high school, I won more fights than I lost. I never ended up in juvenile detention because the administrators finally clued in on the bullying, and I only fought for self-defense. The bullying started to cool off, and in my senior year, it completely stopped. After graduating, I worked two jobs while still living with my parents, until I turned 21. They died in a fire at our shitty apartment, the police thinking I was responsible, even though

I was at my overnight job when it happened. Eventually, it was ruled in accident. Faulty wiring from subpar building maintenance. I used the money awarded to me to relocate and open my shop. Detective Rourke still linked me to Raymond's murder. But there was a major flaw with his theory. I don't drive. Getting your driver's license is a milestone for every teenager, except for me. With my memory lapses, driving could be dangerous when I come out of a fog.

To my knowledge, I've never been behind the wheel of a car. I don't even know how to drive a little. After looking over my medical history and speaking with my doctor, Detective Rourke finally cleared me. That is until the following year, when two children were abducted while trick-or-treating. Jared and Tammy were eight years old when they were murdered, found in a park by patrolmen, someone hung them by their ankles and slit their bellies open. As if that wasn't horrendous enough, that sick buck wrapped them together in their own intestines, making a giant, vomit-inducing cocoon of horror. Rourke immediately came to me because the kids

frequented my shop. So did half the kids in our kids in our kids. community, but the fact that I closed shop at five that night was suspicious to him. It took some convincing, but I got him to understand that a candy store has no reason to be open after five on Halloween. All my customers are out wearing costumes and getting free candy. I honestly thought it was self-explanatory. Rourke had no evidence pointing to me in this case. just the fact that he still linked me to Raymond's murder, which was still unsolved. He even came to me the following year when three kids were found massacred. By that point, they wanted to label the murderer as a serial killer,

but the victim profile had too many variations. The only thing the kids had in common was the fact that they were kids, until the fourth year. The oldest child of four was 16 and was tasked with taking her little brothers and sister trick-or-treating. It took three days to find them for a number of reasons. First off, they weren't from our community so they were another police district's case. The bodies weren't dumped together, but scattered all over the city. Forensic evidence suggested the 16-year-old was tied to a chair.

and forced to watch her siblings being strangled with piano wire. Her fate was made even worse because the killer sexually assaulted the poor girl and manually strangled her several times before finishing her off. Even though I wasn't a real suspect, Rourke always came to see me the day after Halloween for my alibi. Every year, for the last 12 years, it's been the exact same.

I close up shop at five, stay in for a quiet night of Chinese takeout, a glass of wine, and my security system showing no entry or exit after 5.30. I never blamed Rourke for his tenacity, even after 12 years. Our standing November 1st appointment meant to me

that someone was still on the case. My biggest regret, before now, has always been that I couldn't do more to help. At least, I didn't remember enough to help. Thanks to the experimental medication I'm on, I've discovered a horrible truth about myself. My doctors misdiagnosed my condition from the very beginning. Disassociative identity disorder is the correct term

for what people think split personality disorder is. Tonight, I've woken up in a house I've never been in. Naked and sticky with blood. And God knows what other bodily fluids. I wasn't drugged, but I did wake up here from one of those fogs I get when my memory lapses. Only, it's not memory lapses. Everything I've seen suggests that a second personality exists. in my brain.

Coming out of the fog, I found myself at a desk with a pen in hand and my big green book from the shop sitting right in front of me. It was open toward the back of the book, and the pages I had believed were blank, were disturbingly full. Among the graphic details of nearly a hundred murders, I found the deed to the house I'm in, and a series of bank statements for someone named Halsey, Isaac, Malloy. Me.

There's even a license printout with my picture. It's not exactly me, but a me with short hair and a man's beard to hide my feminine cheekbones. A wig and fake facial hair on the room's dresser explain the differences in that picture. I wanted more than anything to think this was some elaborate prank Detective Roark was playing on me. But I know it's not. Putting on a robe and slippers that fit perfectly, I left the bedroom to investigate the rest of the house. There aren't enough words to describe how badly I wish I hadn't left that room.

Two little boys were sitting in the hallway playing with toy cars, but their positions were oddly posed and uncomfortable. I tried to get their attention, but they didn't acknowledge me in the slightest. In fact, they didn't move at all. The lighting was awfully dim, so I moved out of the hall to find a light switch. However, when I got to the end, the light switch was the last thing I wanted. Two teenagers were on the couch, their clothes disheveled, and they were making out. Only again there was no movement.

Like the little boys in the hall, their positions were awkward and unnatural. As if I couldn't control myself. I moved on to the next room. The dining room table had six chairs, all occupied by children and young adults of both genders. Off to the side at a piano sat a young man, hunched over the keys. I could tell he was poised to begin playing. but I knew he never would. The lighting in this room is unfortunately better than the rest of the house.

Two little girls are standing on the table, frozen in a dance with a smaller one lifted in the air by the other. It's an obvious mockery of the dance movie with Patrick Swayze, made possible by the nearly invisible fishing line wrapped around their joints, connecting them to the ceiling. Every dead body in the house. house, 13 in all, have been turned into marionette puppets. I can't deny the truth. I am a serial killer. My big green book has detailed plans in my handwriting describing exactly what happened

to all those murders over the last 13 years. There are even entries that suggest my other personality killed some of my childhood bullies. I'll already be dead when you read this. I'm going to blow my head off with a shotgun I found in the hall closet. Please send the police to the return address on the envelope. I'm so sorry for everything the other me did. If I could have done something about it before now, please believe that I would have, as it is. Killing myself. is the only way to ensure no more children die because of my demented other personality. My most sincerest apologies, the Candyman. For your bonus episode, creepy presents, H-O-A-O-Ean, written by Laugh Man.

Paul has always been one of my favorite seasons. Not only is the weather perfect for jeans in my favorite hoodie, but the best holiday of the year lies within reach. I don't need a pumpkin-spice latte to get me in the spirit. Just the chill in the air alone fulfills that. And now that I have little ones who are old enough to appreciate the fun Halloween can be, I've transformed into a super parent by decorating our house and yard and telling scary stories of bedtime. Each year the kids get more adventurous with their costumes. My seven-year-old son wanted to be Jason, and my nine-year-old daughter, a zombie.

Neither of them really knows what either those things mean, only that they scare people. And I'm totally on board with that. Their choice in costumes really seals the deal that I'm parenting right. The only downside to our Halloween experience is the street we live on. Although we have a naturally creepy backdrop of woods and the smell of campfires most nights of the year, The houses are sparse, making trick-or-treating a lackluster experience. When the kids were little, they get worn out prematurely walking the distances between houses resulting in an early bedtime, which isn't terrible for two adults to have the rest of the night alone.

But this year they want candy and lots of it. So, the overachieving parent that I am, I've mapped out our course for the big hit. So Long Wooded Neighborhood in the countryside and Hello H-O-A's. Not only are these developments crammed full of cookie cutter houses and lots of them, but they're overbearing billboards, advertise houses, starting in the low 400Ks. A price tag that's a little too steep for my humble lifestyle, but perfect for eager trick-or-treaters hoping to maximize their candy intake. You know they aren't handing out titsy rolls and smarties in that neighborhood.

We have several of these communities within driving distance of our street, and a brand-spanking new HOA full of majestic mansions, planted in perfect yards and plenty of parking in between. First stop, Happy Meadows Community. A 1,400-acre non-gated community with 5,000 homes ready to hand out full-size named brand candy bars. On my way home from work, before the big day, I decided to scope out the neighborhood to see what we're in for.

I've only passed by the front entrance in haste and wanted to see what these huge stone walls have tucked behind them. The place is built like a fortress. Towering columns with a vibrant white stones greet me as I turned into the mouth of the development. The driveway twist back and forth with immaculate gardens and trees throughout. Finally, I turn a corner and the first houses are in sight. This place is gorgeous and definitely way out of my price range. My kids are going to score big coming here. As I approach the first house, it's decorated with cotton spider webs on bushes and jack-o-lanterns galore. Just as I pass,

a woman emerges from her front door and waves. Hmm, must have thought I was someone else. I continue on to the next house filled with even more decorations of webs and pumpkins, and again, as I creep by in my car scoping out the lawn ornaments. Another woman appears at a front door, almost identical to the last, waving as I passed by. Are these people expecting someone and think I'm it? The next one said it straight ahead. It's a total dream. Not only is the structure immaculate, with its perfectly mowed lawn and spotless exterior.

The Halloween decorations put all others to shame. My jaw drops as I approach and my foot lifts from the gas pedal slowing my car to a halt. There are orange lights dangling, cauldrons boiling, animatronic monsters moving in slow motion, and giant fake spiders placed all over. Sheik ghosts hanged from the flawlessly pruned trees. Superbly carved pumpkins are placed on each step in railing, and plastic tombstones have been planted in the gardens with skeleton parts strewn about. Partial zombies can be seen emerging from the grounds,

and waiting by the front door is a terrifying eight-foot, tall, grim reaper pointing his bony finger right at me. This was terrifying the daylight. I can only imagine how it looks at night. It's a Halloween lover's dream come true. My kids are going to shit their pants. As I take it all in, the front door begins to open, and a woman's head appears. Again, identical to the other two, she steps outside.

her blonde bob has not one hair out of place. Her tapered shirt falls just at her waist, and she parts her lips revealing flawless pearly white set in a quintessential smile. She steps to the edge of her porch and lifts her arm beginning to wave at me just as the others did. Seeing her standing there amongst all the darkness Halloween

as puked onto her yard was the creepiest sight of all. Suddenly I hear a thud at the back of my car that sturdles me. My eyes dark at my rearview mirror and I see one of the women from before standing at my trunk. Her hands are firmly on the top, her smile unwavering. She waves, this time a little more aggressively. Uncomfortable, I decided it's time to go and about to step on the gas when the second woman appears in front of my car.

Her smile matches the other and she waves at me again. What the fuck? In my confusion and growing uneasiness, I didn't see the third woman approach my side window where she knocked skin. the shit out of me. Leaning her face towards mine to the glass she waves, but I only stare. What are these women doing? She takes a step closer and waves again. As fear begins to build in my chest, I dart my eyes from windshield to rear view to side. All three women identical. All waving exactly the same way. Their jaws clenched, their eyes desperate for something. The woman to my left

slams her hand onto my window making me jump in my seat. Quickly I lock my chest. Quickly I lock my doors. She looks at the lock and then moves her gaze back up to mine and leans in closer, moving her hand across my window, squeaking with each movement, squeaking with each movement, waving for a final aggressive time. Her eyes begin to look bloodshot and bulging from her head. Fuck this! I honk at the woman in front of me. She jumps a little in surprise, but she still persist. I hawk again and witness her veins throbbing in her neck as she bites out harder on her open-mouth smile. I rev my engine, hoping she'll move, but she doesn't. Instead, she leans across my hood, closing the gap between her and my windshield, continuing to wave.

Just then, I hear another slap on my trunk in my eyes shift back to my rearview mirror. A fourth woman, identical to the others, has appeared. She stands firmly next to the first, waving in sync, staring back into my eyes. Suddenly another woman appears, and then another. They're beginning to surround my car. The woman to my left pulls on my door hand. and then we make eye contact again. She pulls harder, and at this point, I'm overwhelmed by fear.

I need to get the hell out of here. I look to my right and see more women approaching. A sea of blonde, hands in the air all aimed at me. I look at the woman in front of me again. She now has her knee on my hood as she mounts my car. I look to the left, and more women are falling in behind her as she continues to pull on my door handle. I slam my gear into drive, and I hit the gaspillar.

pedal. My tire screech that I haul ass away from this house. The woman at the front of my car grabs onto my windshield wipers and braces herself on my hood. I look in my mirror and see the other woman beginning to run after me. Are they coming from me or trying to save this crazy bitch strapped to my window? There's a curve ahead. If I pick up speed, I should be able to ditch her with a jerk of the wheel. I press firmly on the gas pedal. The car jolts to a higher gear. The woman grips tighter. She utters something while she hangs on her hand beginning to lift into a wave I've grown to hate. She mumbles louder, face in torment, trying to resist the skull. Let go! I yell at her through the window. She repeats herself, this time in a shriek. Just wave back! I jerked the wheel to the left

and she goes flying into some shrubs, taking my windshield wiper with her. As I cross the corner, I see hundreds of women running toward my car, blonde hair unmoving, glimmering teeth reflecting the sun, and all with hands in the ear frantically waving. I swerve into someone's front yard to avoid hating any of them. Pumpkins exploding on my windshield. I mowed out on fake skeletons and other spooky decor as I fish tail in the grass, leaving a wake of dirt and clumps of grass behind me. As I adj around the front of the mass of people, I floored again back over the curb to the street. My bumper slamming into the pavement as I make a break for the exit.

As I speed through the windy road toward the back entrance of the community, more women pour into the streets behind me. I hear their screams growing louder as I continue to gain speed around the last corner to the exit. As I quest to turn, I see crossing gates in the down position. There's no way I'm stopping now. I brace for impact and burst through the wooden slabs completely destroying them and my windshield in the process. I swerve out into the street, other drivers slamming on their horns as I disrupt a regular flow traffic. As I regain control of my car, I glanced in my rearview back at the community and see hundreds of women coming to a complete stop at the edge of the property, not crossing the threshold of the sidewalk. I hear their cries and see panic rise in their faces as they shake their fists in the air glaring at me.

I turn my eyes to the street ahead and don't dare look back again. The next day on the news, a breaking story about Happy Meadows community invades the airways. I squirm in my chair remembering the horrific incident that occurred the day before. I didn't mention it to anyone. I should have reported the damage, but I was in shock and my body just guided me home. I don't really remember how I got here. I just remember waking up this morning, floating down to the couch, and now here I am about to relive the experience on my television.

According to the report, six women were found dead after a madman drove through the new development damaging multiple properties, allegedly in an attempt to destroy Halloween festivities. It's unclear if the women were hit by the man's car, if they'd fallen victim to the strict rules of the Happy Meadows developers. The women were found near the back entrance to the community in a large bloody pile. Cause of death could not be determined and would need further investigation off-site. Fowle play is suspected after the HOA manual was leaked to the press and media outlets began to pour over the pages discovering outrageous demands from the developers. Many residents did not read the full 500-page HOA agreement when purchasing their new homes, and later found the community had very strict rules with extreme consequences,

if not all items were met exactly as written. One of these items, which is currently under investigation, was to promote Happy Meadows by waving at visitors entering the premises. Residents were to continue waving until visitors waved back, promoting a warm community to increase sales. failure to do so result in a public execution by stoning

all those who fail to meet HOA obligations no stones were found at the scene indicating the tampering of evidence and confusion over the cause of death it suspected that the man behind the wheel may have ignored the waving women resulting in the massacre of

six innocent women if only he had waved back these women may still be alive today stay tuned for updates 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 share-a-lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.