Creepy - Day 2 - The Soulers & Finding a Red Room

Episode Date: October 2, 2023

The Soulers***Written by: Mason Gallaway and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Finding a Red Room***Content warning: kidnapping, assault***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***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.

Okay, Heather. You ready? Yep. Wait. What do we say for authors if this all happened to real people? These names do seem awfully familiar. That seems excessive, but okay. Are we ready? What kind of interference?

Oh, no. John, you son of a bitch, what have you done? What I've done? I'm not the one who played that real to real, am I? I thought it was the Beach Boys concert where Uncle Jesse played guitar during Kokomo. It was labeled Don't play unless you want to die. Yeah, die from joy.

I always knew you were going to get us killed, John. I swear to God, if we get out of this, I'm gonna... You sure. Okay. Entering the room on Your Say So. This is 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. Lots of grandmothers leave their special recipes to their grandkids when they die. But most of those recipes aren't meant to tame darker forces, feed starving spirits, and atone for centuries old sins. Most recipes aren't meant to save your life and your soul. But my grandmother left me just a recipe,

and I'm ready to tell the story now, because Halloween is always just around the corner, and there are souls to feed. Mimi's will stated specifically that she wanted me to have her Halloween cookie recipe, and that she wanted me to make the cookies for Halloween every year. I remember our small Halloween get-togethers well enough. Along with the traditional cookies and brownies and spice tea she'd make for me and my parents, there would always be this odd plate of nondescript cookies at the shadowed end of the table,

out of reach of the candlelight and the flicker of old horror movies on the TV. We could eat whatever treats we wanted, but those pinkish pale lumps of nothing were totally off limits. We did not complain much about that. Those cookies looked like stones dredged from the riverbed compared to the other colorful aromatic delicacies she served. My mother, Mimi's daughter, might have filled me in about the tradition earlier. But every time I asked her, she'd say, I'm still waiting to know myself. It wasn't until I was nearing 12 that I really began to notice the peculiar cookies, and all the questions they dragged up in my burgeoning storyteller mind.

I finally tried to ask Mimi directly about them. What are those for anyway? Mimi had pulled herself from trick-or-treaters and pressed her lips in a mash-up of pride and grimness. It's my duty, and one day it'll be yours, she said. Then she looked away a moment, almost sad. But her face quickly hardened again, and she turned back to me and said, It's more than manageable, and perhaps the tradition will be. end with you. Well, who eats them? I asked. Nobody eats them, dear, she said gravely.

Nobody at all. And that was it. I hadn't asked Mimi again until years later, after my parents' death, and long after my head had broken thee, must be this tall lines drawn on front doors. I had dropped by Mimi's for dinner one Halloween, after having promised I would. Mimi had her usual spread, as if we weren't the only one celebrating. She didn't give me much information about the cookies then either, but she wasn't quite as tight-lipped as usual. I'm not sure when this tradition started exactly, but it's an important one,

and we must keep it going. The souls of this family are at stake. You'll learn more when the time is right. It wasn't much of an explanation, but it was enough to chill me, seeming more of a sign of dementia than anything otherworldly or sinister. But when Mimi asked me to promise to make the cookies every year after she died, I dutifully said yes. What else could I have said?

She was my only living grandmother, after all. Mimi died a few years later of a sudden heart attack, just before Halloween. I had kept an eye in her up to then, but the dementia I had suspected never really took hold. So on the Halloween following her death, I planned to spend the night at her house, sorting and cleaning, and making my mind up about whether I wanted to keep the place. And of course, I'd make the damned cookies. The neighborhood was quiet when I reached the cul-de-sac where her house sat. With the chilly, smoky air and rustling clattering leaves, the atmosphere was,

sphere was almost perfect. The only thing missing was the throng of trick-or-treaters. I had spotted a few of them on my way over, and those many pirates and princesses and superheroes seemed to be running, their parents close after them, not out of eagerness for candy, but to get home before the shadows appeared to announce the coming dark. Inside my grandmother's house, I had successfully filled a couple giveaway and trash boxes when I stumbled upon the platter for the special cookies. The words of her will rose in my mind.

You must make these at midnight every Halloween. The family's soul is at stake, and it must have the key ingredient. I didn't want to think of all that again. Seeing the blatant senility of a loved one is like watching a bad omen you can't change being written right in front of your eyes. How could she have been so sane in every other? way. I smiled to myself and set the platter aside, keeping my ear trained on the doorbell, waiting for it to ring, wanting it to ring. But the doorbell never rang. The trick-or-treaters

never made it to my grandmother's cul-de-sac that night. A real shame. Trick-or-treating had meant a lot to me as a kid, and it always seemed to me like the tradition began to fade the moment I got too old for it. I knew the real reasons were paranoia, pandemics, laziness, and the soulless sales and religious promos veiled as trunk or treat parties. Seeing the tarnished platter zapped my energy, and I called it quits on sorting. The peace and quiet of the night was an opportunity to crack open some beer and munch on candy in front of a forgotten horror movie.

And that's what I did. Eventually the house and all grandma's things faded from my mind. and I forgot all about the trick-or-treaters. I did not, however, forget about the cookies. Not completely. I had time, after all. Plenty of time. I drank and munched and watched.

I fell asleep. The doorbell chimed right when Friday the 13th part God only knew had just started. Jason was sitting up in his grave, all maggotty and bloodthirsty, but I was still trying to figure. out if I'd only dreamt the ringing. The doorbell? Now? Well, it was Halloween after all.

Some trick-or-treaters had finally shown up to save me from mouthfuls of acidy peanut butter chocolate later in the night. But it was now after midnight, and the revelers I'd seen earlier had probably been asleep for hours. More like a corpse than newly animated Jason. I peeled myself from the ancient recliner where my grandmother knitted men. many a hat and fell asleep to many a game show. It was not till I got to my feet that the memory hit me.

A ring at midnight was now something to be alarmed about. I turned to the kitchen. The knives were not boxed up and could be easily drawn against any would-be Jason's or toolbox killers. But I took a deep breath and strolled to the door and looked through the peephole. It was no surprise that no one was there. Very original.

Somehow my grandmother's new TV from 1990 was projecting its cult favorites into my reality. When I turned away, the doorbell rang again. Almost on impulse, I turned and threw the door open. Once again, there was no one there. This didn't surprise me much, and I wasn't surprised to find no one on the porch or street when I stepped out to have a look.

I refused to call out and curse whoever was out there. I held on to that particular cliche like a comfort blanket. Instead, I grabbed the bag of candy and dropped it right onto the porch, like feeding a stray cat. After giving the chilly quiet night a final look, I went back in. Done with Halloween, done with this house. One night of nostalgia was enough. I'd go through the rest of the things tomorrow.

set aside a few items to keep for honor's sake, and sell the hell out of this place. There was nothing for me here anymore. When the doorbell rang a third time, I had no intention to answer it. Whoever it was would give up and go home soon enough. Only something struck me this time. Behind the fading ring rose a soft, muffled sound.

Whispers and laughter. Someone on the other side of the door was chatting and giggling, their sibilant voices full of excitement and joy. Just a bunch of kids after all. This actually brought a smile to my face, reminding me of parts of the childhood I'd had and the childhood I didn't have but wanted so badly. For a moment I felt involved,

a part of some special game that had significance beyond this night. If these kids wanted to have, have a good time. Why not indulge them a little? They couldn't go on forever, could they? It would be something they'd remember for a long time. Something so uniquely Halloween. The whispering and laughter hushed as I approached the door. The front porch was empty again when I opened the door. The candy was where I'd dropped it, but not as I had left it. The bag had been smashed and the chocolate smeared across the porch. Something about the ruined chocolate felt vicious, violent.

Whatever game this was, it was no longer fun. I was just about to call out when a sight caught my breath. Two kids stood across the street. They were about 10 or 11 years old. Trick-or-treaters and black-hooded cloaks, wearing masks whose features were lost to shadow. I stepped off the porch and called out to them. Okay, guys. Time to chill out. They said nothing. They didn't move. I took a step forward on the walk.

Before I could speak again, the wind stirred, carrying eddies of both warm and chilled air, tossled scents of summer and fall, smoke from grills and campfires, savory sweet smells of roasting meats and marshmallows. Behind that, something pectoral had like packed garbage cans left out too long in the sun. That's when I saw it. Something amazing. The neighborhood was alive. Down the street, trick-a-treaters shuffled about like excited shadows broken free of their bodies, moving between houses, floating down intersecting streets. The very sight I had seen many times as a kid that I missed so much now filled my vision.

My heart jumped with surprise and swelled with joy. The true Halloween had come after all, and I was just thinking that I should try to find more candy when I noticed that something wasn't quite right about these trick-or-treaters. First of all, there were too many of them. In my younger days, there had been nights where the streets were overrun by ghouls and vampires and fairies and heroes. But never this many.

Now there were dozens of kids just within my field of vision, and no adults were in sight. Another odd detail was that all the kids looked similar, and similar to the trick-or-treaters across the street, in fact. But the one detail that stood out the most was that they weren't moving from house to house, coming and going in different directions like normal trick-or-treaters. They were moving in one direction. Toward me Every single one of the shadowy trick-or-treaters was walking toward me I turned back to the other two across the street

They too were walking towards me Both of them wore dark cloaks Though their masks look slightly different from each other The faces of the masks were distorted and inhuman Eyes too small and large Grins rising and twisting in the wrong direction, open-mouthed cries like frozen, painful yawns. That was enough for me. I ran back to the house.

Once inside, I bolted the door, closed the curtains, and shut off the TV. Then I called the police. After I dialed, there was a piercing wine on the phone and a flood of static. Someone answered, Yes, was all the salient voice on the other end said, Yes, hi, I need some help, I think. There's a bunch of people outside, and... Follow my directions, my dear. You'd better hurry.

Then the line went dead. For a moment I just stared at the phone. I knew that voice. I'd heard it many times, encouraging me, scolding me, teasing me. And now in that very voice was all three of those tones. I turned my attention to the front door and listened. Outside, faint rustling and scuffling sounds surrounded the house. A quiet crowd was gathering.

Then after a few seconds, all went silent. Of course I was terrified. Halloween as I knew it was over, and another holiday, another much older tradition, was beginning. What all of it meant, I didn't know. and I didn't get a chance to think on it further. The doorbell rang. The porch would be empty again when I looked, I thought, and I'd be tempted to step out and try to confirm that I was having some kind of re-seasoned-duced psychotic break.

But the porch was not empty. The hoard I'd seen earlier was strangely not visible, but standing on the porch before the peephole was a single cloaked trick-or-treater. The individual was close enough for me to see more of their face. The eyes were oblong and hollow, the nose sunken inward. The mouth was wide open, drooping slightly to one side. Stringing from it was some kind of gooey substance. Some non-toxic mystery goop meant to look like monster drool.

Right? The figure held a dark burlap bag before them. Open wide. When I didn't answer, the figure calmly lifted a bony finger and rang again. I didn't move. Within a few seconds, the others began to creep from the blurred edges of the peephole view, filling the yard and the street and the porch. They filled my view so quickly I thought they'd reached right through the peephole and pull my eyes out.

I jumped back from the door. The knob turned fiercely, and then the door began to shake and rumble with heavy blows. One of the front windows shattered and a pale arm reached into the living room. That's when I remembered the odd shutters my grandmother always had trouble explaining. She was right. I would find out one day. I ran to them and tried to slam them closed, but the arm was in the way, reaching and clawing at me.

I tried to push it back outside, but the hand seized mine, and one of the ghoulish masks appeared. rising toward me. This one had small, close-set eye-holes that would have made vision difficult. The mouth was only a thin slit that would have made breathing difficult. But this kid, this thing, had no trouble seeing my hand. And his mouth had no trouble splitting apart into a gaping yawn that clamped down on my finger. My fingertip came clean off. Along with a small spurt of blood, my rage spewed forth, and I struck the fiendish trick-or-treater in the face, knocking them back out into the yard. I threw the shutters closed and latched them. Then I closed

and latched the other shutters. More glass shattered, and doors and shutters rattled. For now, I'd shut them out, but there were lots more of them, and they wanted in. They were hungry, for me, for... Jesus, I had actually forgotten about the goddamn cookies. These devils wanted those stupid cookies my grandmother made every year. Of course, that had to be the answer. But I had never baked any cookies in my life, and who knew how much time I had.

I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the platter and looked at it as if the cookies would somehow magically appear. The recipe. I ripped it from the drawer, careful not to smudge it with my blood. Its title was, Sweets for Hungry Souls. I ran through the recipe, praying that Mimi's kitchen still had all the kneaded stock,

and that these freaks wouldn't mind a little staleness. I went through the list. Thankfully, I had everything the recipe called for, especially the last item, which had splattered and dripped all over the place. My blood. "'Furiously I set about baking, "'following the recipe,

"'trying to hear my grandmother's words, "'her voice with its snap and cadence "'that could both uplift and wilt. "'In with the flour, in with the milk, "'and the egg and nutmeg. "'Mix it all together, leaving no clumps. "'The oven was hot enough "'and the mix was smooth and ready.

"'Well, almost. "'I held my wounded finger over the batter "'and squeezed, stirring as the blood fell. It didn't call for just a drop or two either. It called for a whole half-table, just enough to be traumatizing. Soon the creamy white became a creamy pink. The sight of it nauseated me.

The shutters were shaking with fury, and I thought I heard them splintering. Quickly I plopped out the cookies onto a baking sheet, wondering how a dozen would feed an army of these things. I was hoping for a Halloween miracle. Once the oven door was shut and the baking began, all I could do was huddle in the kitchen while the throng raged outside. Aside from the pummeling, the beings were silent.

There were no cries or curses or groans as they worked to get in. Their silence made them even less human and even more terrifying. After crudely wrapping my finger, I grabbed the knife my grandmother had used to carve so many perfectly cooked turkeys. I waited. The clamoring continued, intensifying. Then the sounds climbed up the sides of the house, across the roof, swarming the place like ants. The roof came alive with knocking and scratching and stomping. Beneath that was a distinct creaking, crunching, sawing sound. They were chewing their way into the house. I looked in on the cookies. They still held a doughy pale hue, definitely needing at least ten more

minutes, which I knew I did not have. I turned my attention back to the roof. Then I remembered the upper windows and their shutters, which were still wide open. Forgetting the cookies, I rushed out of the kitchen. But when I reached the foot of the stairs, a crash from upstairs froze me. All the banging and scratching and chewing outside stopped cold. Silence flooded the house. I pictured them outside frozen in place, awaiting some other worldly instruction. Or maybe they were conferring. Their twisted faces huddled close. Their faces, I realized in that moment, held the look of the uncooked dough in the oven, pudgy and pillowy, lacking the color and warmth of life, forever unfinished, forever unwanted. Gripping the knife I eased my way up the

stairs. The upstairs hallway was dark and I left it that way. Enough moonlight poured in from the open bedroom down the hall to light my way. Oddly, I felt shielded by the shadows. Fear had a tight grip on me, but along with it was another surprising emotion. Shame. How many generations had kept this odd, terrible tradition alive? Was I the first to start? Was I the first to screw it up? To draw the all-out wrath of these things? A cool, uneven draft swept past me. The same smells of youth, a fall, of Halloween, filled my nose, much stronger than before. Though I wanted to stop, to run down the stairs and out the door, I kept going. The house was full of silence, but I knew those things were still around, waiting.

I could now hear them whispering and snickering, and something in my gut told me the smell I thought was fall fires, cookouts, and baking cookies was actually their smell. A weird mix of char and caramelization and decay. Generations of sweets and treats, souring in one great stomach. The bedroom was bathed in moonlight, which illuminated everything save for a lot. a single dark figure sitting in the middle of the floor before the broken window. Though it sat like a child trying to entertain themselves on a cold, lonely day, I knew this was no child. When it turned to me, the odd folds and curves of its face caught some of the moonlight. The hollows of its eyes and mouth deepened,

and the milky folds seemed to fill out in the cold warmth of the moon's stolen light. the trick-or-treater said nothing, looking almost as deflated as the large sack sitting beside them. My terror and disgust drained a bit, replaced by deep pity and compassion, and even deeper guilt. They're almost done, I said breathlessly. With one hand, the trick-or-treater shook its bag once, furiously, but it did not charge me. It then reached within the folds of its robe and removed something. Why a Halloween ghoul would be packing heat, I did not know, but I really did expect this thing to pull out a pistol and cap me right there.

But what he revealed was no gun. In the shadows, it was only a flat, rectangular object. The trick-or-treater set the object on the floor and slid it toward me. The object stopped at my feet, reflecting the moon's glow. It was a children's book, only no story I'd ever heard of. Its title was, Sweets for the Sweet Souls. The illustration was a whimsical sweep of colors

depicting an old world village, lamps burning, leaves tumbling and spinning, shadows arcing about, costume children were bustling along a narrow stone street, bags in hand. Some were at open cottage doors, bags extended, others were trudging along distant roads,

dark in distinct shapes mingled among them. I picked up the book. There was no publication information, and though the book appeared untarnished, it smelled of trunks that hadn't been opened in decades, the forgotten wings of libraries. I flipped to the story. On the first page was the same scene as on the cover,

though with fewer kids. As revelers had home with their sweets, the streets grow silent and still. The next page showed a different vantage of the neighborhood, with glowing windows showing children inside, enjoying their candy with their families, while outside nothing moved and shadows huddled. But with growing night, the shadows grow too, and a new reveller is revealed. The shadows in the corners grew in the next few pages, taking shape as darkly clad figures. Their heads were bowed, their faces hidden.

The poor and the pious, the holy and humble, the forgotten ones. Treats they do not seek. Only the food they desperately need in exchange for their prayers. Suddenly the pages of the book expanded beyond the walls of the room, and I felt like I was tumbling downward. The colors of the page surrounded me, and the illustrations were now my reality. I was standing on the outskirts of the village, the dim light at my back in the shadows of the hills before me. The procession of shadowed children stretched ahead into the countryside.

I was now one of them, and I felt their hunger and desperation. We walked into the night, searching for lamplight to scatter the shadows. to break the cold glow of the moon. My stomach rumbled, but something deeper within me rumbled even more. Her hopelessness and desperation was mine, and the bag in my hand was all the heavier for its emptiness. After what felt like hours of tramping through the shadowy illustration of a far-away land,

a glow appeared up ahead, high up on a hill like a beacon, drawing us forward. The warmth we were looking for. We filed toward it, our steps growing more spirited with the promise of relief. At the foot of the hill, there was a gate, on the front of which was a familiar name. Like my last name, yet not quite.

The gate opened as if powered by electricity, though that kind of power was probably still a dream in this time. With the way cleared, we moved forward up the windy path, up the hill toward the front doors of a great country manor. Its windows burned with dozens of lamps. The house was light in a sea of darkness, warmth in a wasteland of gusty cold. Whoever lived here was like royalty compared to the low children of night, even to the well-treated kids of the village. Whoever lived here could feed dozens of villages. When we approached the great front door, it too opened, spilling forth more dancing light.

A rush of warm air blanketed us, pulling the chill from our bones and rinsing it from our skin. Behind that warmth came a rush of sweet and savory aromas. We eagerly entered the house. Inside the great hall were tables piled with fruits and tarts and cakes, a wash in the glow of burning candles and firelight. The entire room was pillowed with warmth and popping with light. The rich aromas could be picked and swallowed. Though we could hardly contain ourselves,

we did not throw back our hoods and rush to the tables. We waited to be invited. Then a great voice told us to sit, to eat, and be filled. As I moved toward the table, I then noticed the large fireplace, big enough for all of us to stand in. Above it was a portrait of a man with fine clothes, a polished pose, and a sharp chin and nose. His eyes were cast downward, watching us. I thought of an owl with a big, patient stare. My hunger left me, and I did not rush the tables with the others.

I cried out for them to stop, but they were. They didn't. The fireplace grew wider and taller, like a hungry maw opening wide. Its fire would then stretched and lapped outward like a tongue. The eyes of the man in the portrait burned brighter. The fire lurched farther, and the great fiery breath swallowed the entire room. We all screamed. The book fell from my hands, or maybe I fell from it. The chill of The night caressed my face and neck, and I was back in my grandmother's room. The dark figure still sat on the ground, watching me with its shapeless black eyes and doughy face. The smell of the cookies below was unmistakable.

The oven dinged, though I wasn't entirely sure what I'd seen. I understood enough. I could do this. Now and every year. I had to. for the people in the story, which was more than just a story. And certainly for my bleeding finger, that could easily have become my entire arm, or worse. Okay, I get it.

They're done. Slowly I backed out of the room, feeling relieved to be free of that sad, terrible image of being on the floor. But the hallway was full of contorted, doughy faces. I don't know how many of them there were. They seemed to bleed outward from the walls, from the shadows, leaving me just enough room to walk, glowering at me, their expression's unreadable blends of emotion. I wanted to run past them, but I couldn't bring myself to do it,

fearing that, as with bloodthirsty dogs, I'd trigger their attack response. So I moved at a slow, excruciating pace. As I went, I could hear sucking and smacking and clicking up teeth. Their eternal hunger. The beings lined the stairs, glaring and moving their mouths like ghoulish sucklings. They flooded the living room, crowded the kitchen. I kept moving until I was at the oven,

and the moment I opened the door and pulled out the sheet, I braced myself for a frenzy of thrashing hands and gnashing mouths. but nothing like that happened. I turned around to find the kitchen and living room, empty. Though I didn't go up to check the hallway, I could sense the cool fall breeze passing freely through the hallway. I placed the cookies on Mimi's special platter, and I placed the platter on the front porch,

knowing the cookies would be gone the next day. They were, and they were always gone in the years to come. I've told my family only the details they needed to know about the tradition, and they never questioned the empty platter. One day, I plan to carefully answer my kids' questions, giving them only morsels until it's time to feed them the entire, bitter, sweet, terrible truth. The trick-or-treaters are still dwindling,

but I don't quite feel the sadness I once did about that. The true spirit of Halloween Still walks the streets and hillsides Every year And as long as I live Those souls Will never go hungry Perfect

Thanks Heather You can come on back whenever Good evening Ah Sorry to interrupt So how is everyone settling in Good I think Everyone's found their room without too much screaming

Is there anything I can help with before I randomly disappear for the week? I had a question. Yesterday you said this place had been overlooked until recently. What did you mean by that? How do I explain? While this property was originally built to be a family home, there was some unpleasantness

that prompted my mother and father to move us to another estate, leaving this property vacant to eventually become a boarding house. Little did we know at the time that the house had started to keep track of who stayed here and seemingly expand itself to accommodate the growing list of guests' stories you'll find inside. Totally normal. Did the house keep any of your family's stories? Not that I'm aware of. No, I believe that my family may have merely served as a catalyst for what was to come. How's that?

Well, without going into too much detail, Back in the early 1980s, my father... Where did he go? I think we lost him. Did you see what he had done to his face? He wouldn't stop laughing. I just... I just want to go home. Hey, did y'all just hear something?

No, it was probably just a MacGuffin. I love birds. Oh, how delightful. Now, is there anything else I can get you before I leave? Oh, yeah. They made a list. One sec. Um... Okay, looks basic. Beer, chips, frozen pizza, 40-watt motor oil, jumper cable, zip ties, more beer.

Bedbugs, spray, head lice treatment, hemorrhoid cream, diarrhea relief liquid, adult diapers, period products, cold sore treatment, condoms. Wait. Who wrote condoms? I did. Why? For water balloon fights. Why not just ask for water balloons? Don't be gross.

Whatever. And, uh, one last thing. Pregnancy tests. Yeah, that's me too. Just in case. I've been throwing up in the morning. You threw up this morning because you ate that thing in the fridge. Still.

Better safe and sorry. Okay. Well, beyond that, I think we're good, Frederick. Thanks again for all your help. I'm sure we'll have a lot more questions that I just can't think of to bring up right now next week. Splendid. I bid you all adieu. It's almost time to lock up the house,

and then your party will really begin. I wonder how it will end. With all of us going home at the end of the month? Oh, yes. Yes, I'm sure that's how it will go. God, he's weird. We should really hire that guy. Anyway, who's next?

Oh, wait, it's me. Oh, I think I don't like this room for your bonus episode Creepy Presents Finding a red room I've had a lot of time to think about this so bear with me

at the end of the day all the shit you see how horrible you suddenly think the world is it all comes down to expectation expectation steals joy but that absence of joy leaves a vacuum that must be filled. And what we fill that with is pain. Example, there was a time when if you wanted to see a woman naked,

it usually relied on her being in the same room. Then Playboy and all the other stuff came along, porno theaters and the like. But even that was a profession of sorts, and still limiting. with the internet came so much more. Pornhub changed the game in a lot of ways. Most of them bad depending on who you ask. Those include performers for the record.

But now, now you have stuff like OnlyFans. And suddenly the idea that you might be able to see a woman you've seen in real life who would otherwise have nothing to do with you naked becomes more real. Every day women and men, for that matter, people with families and jobs, make a lot of money showing themselves off to the world. Mind you, in itself, there's nothing wrong with any of these. These are choices that people are making. But there are repercussions, deep cuts into the fabric of existence, and even the wiring of our brains. I read a survey recently that said there's a staggering number of teenagers who think that

choking your partner with or without consent during sex, even the first time, is just an expectation. That's where a growing number of kids are starting. Choking. Why? Do I really need to point it out? Are you really going to sit there and deny that the proliferation of hardcore sexual content on an ever more accessible form of communication is going to cause a shift in sexual norms and mores? grow up

It is what it is Stop pretending like it isn't there So we can move on with things And address the darker ripples That are spreading around the world The issue is expectation How many times have you heard stories of Or experienced for yourself

Someone you know well Or barely know or never met before Asking unsolicitedly for nude pictures And when faced with rejection They throw out to accusations like tease or slut, it's expectation. People see this fictional world and they replace it with their reality. Why?

Because it's more enjoyable to live in the fantasy until someone threatens to crumble that reality, i.e. the tease or the slut? And going back to the choking issue, it only progresses from there. Things get pushed further and further and further until the nerves and cells and synapses are so dulled that there's no joy anymore. It becomes boring, routine.

And in the absence of joy, we fill it with pain. Because joy has limits. The high that wears off, no matter how much you chase it. Pain has no limits. I don't question these facts because I've lived them. Take this couple. They walked into the bar I was in and I knew they were there for me. People dressed like that don't just wander into the sorts of bars I frequent.

And if they do make a mistake, they turn around quickly. No, they were looking for something. They could have gotten drugs or girls or boys anywhere else. They were looking for me. Finding me is no small feat. It's not possible, but it isn't easy. I tried to dissuade them with all the usual platitudes that they should have already heard from the police or even just a basic Google search for red rooms. No, not that shit you might have read in your little erotic trash book you bought on Kindle so no one would see the cover while you rode the subway.

I mean torture rooms. Yes, red rooms are real. Yes, I was once an exhibit in one. hence my particular expertise. In case you don't know, a red room is simply a live stream torture session. They are highly secure and all but impossible to find on the dark net, which is why so many people doubt their existence.

I never understood why people would think they didn't exist. I suppose that's what led me down the road that ended with me tied to a table while people bid Bitcoin and what parts of me to flay next. Even if no one ever got a video at one, there's plenty of evidence to the extent humans will go to hurt each other. People stream their crimes all the time. They post pictures or videos on Facebook because, well, they're fucking morons. I mean, if a site like Cruel Onion can exist,

is it really a stretch for red rooms? You all watch people die in horror movies all the time, but the second something happens to an animal, In 2016, Brent Justice was convicted in making such videos for Cruel Onion showing the torture of small animals and was sentenced to 50 years in prison. His accomplice, Ashley Nicole Richards, pled guilty and got a reduced sentence. They were the first to be convicted under the U.S. Animal Crush Video Prohibition Act of 2010. Not knowing them personally, the two reportedly had a very active client base and would often take requests. or the website The Human Experiment.

But that's a story for when you don't feel like eating for a few days. Or guys like Peter Scully, who uploaded Daisy's destruction. You know a person is a sick fuck when Australia considers reinstating the death penalty just for you. It takes more than an onion router to find one. Asking about him will lead you nowhere. But if you follow the crumbs, maybe. They make their way down the bar. The woman wearing pearls like some cliche,

clutching the man's arm as if the guy with the silky soft handshake is going to be able to do anything to stop the sorts of horrors she's afraid of, let alone the ones she can't imagine. This couple, they want, no, they clarify that they need help. They need to find their daughter. She went missing, she got mixed up with a bad crowd, They did their best, but still.

To my credit, I did what I could to dissuade them. I told them she probably ran off, rebelled against them. Told them even if she wasn't a bad place. I should leave it alone. Move on. Maybe I could have done more. I could have gone into more detail about it all. I could have painted a picture of what probably happened in the first place.

Their daughter, their pride. kept under their watchful eye, or more likely a nanny's watchful eye, to make sure they grew up to be their little princess. Of course she rebelled. She drank and smoked and fooled around with the boys and maybe some girls. She pushed against the boundaries put up and the expectations. There it is again, laid upon her. Then one day she was at a party, or a bar, or a club,

and a cute guy or girl, maybe they had an accent, flirts with her. Maybe she leaves her drink unattended. Or maybe she doesn't see the bartender pour it. Suddenly she feels dizzy. Her friends aren't there to stop what happens next as they help her out to a car,

apologizing that she can't hold her liquor. When she wakes up, she's in a dark place, held down. She might be closed, and if so, it won't be for long. People will start to bid on her. People who have never met each other, who she can't see.

They will pay for what's about to happen to her. Maybe her skin will be peeled back. Maybe her eyeballs will be slashed. Maybe her genitals will be burned with cigarettes. Maybe someone will walk in with a mouse in a jar and a lighter. The bidding goes crazy for where the jar will be held up to. and as the flame heats the jar and the most panics, it will dig into her.

It'll either find an orifice or make one to escape the heat as it tears apart her insides. It'll go on for hours, if not days. Maybe she'll get an IV and blood transfusion if the bidding is really strong. It could last for days or weeks until there's nothing left of her but a heart that refuses to stop beating,

and a mind so broken that it can never be fixed. Death is her only escape, and they won't give it to her until the bidding stops, and her life isn't worth keeping around. All because of a smile and a drink. It's that easy. You'd be surprised how many times you've seen it happen and just thought to yourself,

drunk, bitch, as she's dragged past you, never to be seen again. But no. Instead, I just tell them that they're better off moving on. No sense rubbing sand in the wound. Although that might be happening too. You could see that really riled them up. Sure, it was the truth. They would move on.

Pretend it didn't happen. Never speak her name again, all that sort of thing. but damn if a guy who looks like me in a place like this is going to tell him what to do. Besides, they had proof. They were sent a short, strange video message from a ghost email address. Garbled, couldn't really tell what was happening. But they knew in their hollow little bird bones that she'd been taken. They claimed they did their research and found out about red rooms.

They paid a lot of money to find someone who could help. that's how they phoned me A friend of a friend knew a guy he wished he didn't know who had gone through a thing no one wants to and they knew where he usually drank and maybe he could help for the right price

do you know what true privilege is freedom from consequence it could be anything from yelling at a stranger in public and not getting punched in the face to stand him before a judge guilty as the day is long and getting time served. But it's a double-edged sword.

When you have privilege, you get blinded to it. You stop wondering why things are working out for you and just expect it. You don't ask the important questions anymore. You don't ask things like, what would I even do if I found the people responsible? You don't ask yourself, isn't it strange that there just so happens to be someone who survived a red room within driving,

of my home. I won't go so far as to say you expect it, as much as you just accept it. You look past the fact that the man sitting across from you is missing parts of him, parts you can see and parts that you can't. Maybe you just assume that someone who looks like I do must have had it coming, or I belong in the sorts of circles that such a thing would happen in. You don't ask yourself important things like, why would someone who goes through all the effort to make a red room happen, let someone go. Maybe if you did, you'd realize that was the plan all along. You don't just throw away those little fish you catch on the line.

You use them to lure in the bigger fish. Most importantly, you never even think to ask yourself, what if this was all just a trap? Because privilege makes you too important. When in reality, makes you that much bigger of a target. Runaway, drugies, homeless drifters, they're easy to get. It becomes boring and expectation.

You'd be surprised what kind of money is out there for a rich white couple, all too eager to go to the address I write down on a cocktail napkin. And I can't help but wonder, where will the mice go on these two? And will they ever realize it was their daughter? that sent them that email. Starting to think I might have made a mistake bringing everyone here. 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 comments share of like 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.