Creepy - Day 20 - The Qualm

Episode Date: October 20, 2020

Don't break the rules***The Qualm written by Watchful Birds***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Music by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit. It's language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 20. The qualm.

Written by watchful birds. I thought everyone had a qualm. It wasn't until it was in my teens, I realized their town was quite unique. Growing up where I did, it was just normal. It was just there. When I was about five, my father took me there. It was a long walk, at least to my little legs. He held my hand.

I remember my palm on his. How tiny I was. How safe his big, broad shoulders and double-based voice made me feel. There was a strange mood that day. In the same way a mouse can smell the rain, I could tell something different was about to happen. And I remember I was nervous. Just a little, but my father's presence grounded me.

He led me out of our suburb and into the next, to the parts un-maintained by the local council. I followed in silence. We stopped a few feet from a ditch, and were still for a few moments. Do you know what this is, Stuart? My father asked, turning to look at me. I guessed. A ditch? No.

He shook his head. It looks like a ditch, but not quite. He held my hand, still, and we stood together, lightly buffeted by a cool wind. It picked up leaves and spun them in pinwheels and lay them back to the earth. I peered in. The ditch ran about 20 meters, which seemed huge then, and about two across. It was deep enough I couldn't have gotten out without climbing. On the sides were roots and rocks

and dirt the color of coffee grounds Squuffy grass lined atop. I was confused. Look at the bottom, my father said. I did. The bottom was much the same as the sides, just dirt. I can't see anything. I protested, and my father kept his eyes on the ditch and said,

Look closer. I looked. I imagined myself a civic cat, a prick-eared hunter, searching for prey. Then the deer hidden. Still is a statue in the trees. Eyes wide, alert for danger. The shadows of the dirt clods caught my eye, and I imagined drawing them. The texture, the depth. I thought far more complex in concept than I had words for then. Interesting, yes. But it was still a ditch. And then something moved in my perception and I froze. As I saw, something shifted.

On a surface level, it looked like nothing was different. But looking closer, there was a layer there. Something moving, not quite aligned. Superimposed, like a photograph taken on pre-used film. It made me feel strange. If I was older, I might have run screaming, but I was five and malleable. and my father was security itself. Is it a river underneath?

Not any river you know. Do you see it? It's moving. Yes. I watched in awe, quantum ripples curling through layers deep, like a fractal film of oil on water. Fascinating, but almost like an optical illusion,

hard to wrap your head around. But my father brought me here. It must be real. So I took it at face value. And then it was dirt again. Just dirt in two dimensions. What is it? I asked.

It's called the quam. I'd heard the word before, but never knew what it meant. This definition seemed as good as any. And as most five-year-olds from loving families do, I trusted my parents implicitly. So you understand why I stood at the edge of a ditch and listened to my father. Why I accepted it without question? The qualm is a vessel, he told me, even in calm.

Of sorts. Nobody knows where it came from. Nobody knows how it works or how it exists. I think it's always been here in some way or another. The qualm is here to help you. When you feel sad or angry and you can't hold it in any longer, you have qualms about something, or you're worried about something and just want to feel better. You can come down here and tell it to the qualm, and it will take the bad feelings from you.

How? I asked amazed. Nobody knows. He looked up and down. still holding my hand. It just does somehow. But there are rules. Just too. I need you to listen and make sure you understand.

Stuart? I nodded. I could hear how serious he was. Okay. Number one. He held up one finger. After you have used the question. for the first time. You do not climb inside. No crossing it by walking through, no fetching

something that falls inside. If that happens, you use a stick to get it, or you call for help. If you want to get across it, you walk around. You can jump across if it's an emergency, but you might fall in, so you walk around. He gave me a look to make sure I understood, and I nodded solemnly. He nodded back, seeming satisfied. Good. Number two. He held up two fingers. You don't take the mick with the qualm. Don't overuse it. You cannot come and talk to it every day. You get one turn a month, one. You must never, ever do more than once a month. Why? Why? I asked. It's too much.

It'll overfill it. Do you understand? I nodded. I understood. My father asked if I wanted to have a turn now, but I shook my head. I had no pressing worries. So he left, waving by to the qualm. On our way home, he told me two more things about the qualm.

He told me I could go anytime I wanted, as long as it was within the once-a-month rule. And I didn't have to tell him why. Then he told me I was not to go alone. He or my mother would take me. When can I go by myself? I asked. When you're 12, he said.

My first catharsis, that was what they called talking to the qualm, was a few weeks later. I was upset about something at school, something minor for an adult but big for a child. I can't remember what now. I ask my father to take me. We walked together like the first time into the unknown.

We were quiet. I felt a little nervous, but his presence reassured me. We arrived at the quorum to find it quiet. It looked just as innocuous as the first time. I shuffled to the edge and looked in, dirt and foliage. Same as before. I remember asking how you did it. My father said I could do it however I wanted.

You can say it or you can just shout. Some people do that. Try and feel it. Really feel it. In here. He touched his chest and then do it. He pointed toward the ground. Stand by the edge.

Not too close. That's it And look in I'll stand over there Privacy was important At the qualm My father waited by a tree a few meters away I looked at him

He gave me a thumbs up I turned back to the ditch And tried to feel the injustice It rankled I tried to see what I'd seen before The phantom shift The holographic layers I almost caught it

and I remember the exact words I said. I don't like this feeling. There was a momentary pause. Then the film shifted. A little flutter and nerves caught me. I shut my eyes. I felt a tugging in my chest which alarmed me. But it was over quickly.

A brief pull like stretching gluten. Then it was gone. I opened my eyes to see what look like the underlayer pulling back. At almost an atomic level, I was aware of it. Little fibers of matter receding film-like into the dirt. There was something else too. An awareness. What a cliche.

Staring into the abyss and having it stare back. Yet it was true. Just for that moment. We saw each other. And it was done. The dirt was just dirt. The qualm empty. I felt lighter, good.

I think I laughed. My father came to get me and asked how I felt. I told him it was gone. He nodded, smiled, and said, Remember, once a month. And I nodded, and we went home. The thing about the qualm, and I suspect another reason we weren't allowed to use it more frequent,

was how easy it could be to become reliant on it. It was why I always tried to process things myself before I did a catharsis. Going to the qualm did not make you happy. It didn't stop you feeling bad. It made you feel normal. And even in my childhood mind, again without the vocabulary to express it, I saw the danger of the qualm. I began to understand how it could become addictive.

Now, the quam wasn't a secret. Everyone around me knew about it, so I thought it was normal to have one. My mother and father went to the quorum to purge themselves of any bad feelings, my siblings too. I was the third of four, and my sisters already knew. In our family, we learned when we were five. When my little brother first visited two years later, he crept into my room and told me all about it.

The quorum was a useful thing for us over the years. When I was 10 and my grandfather died I sat with my grief for two weeks until I had time to go again and screamed into the abyss until it draped my pain away. My eldest sister had turned 12 the year before so she took me

and looked away and covered her ears. When I was 13 and the girl I liked didn't like me back. I was 13 and this was serious. I gave myself a few days and cried into the qualm. It soothed me. When I got in trouble at school for something that wasn't my fault, I came down to the qualm.

When I argued with my friends, I grumbled into the qualm. It was like a free supernatural therapy. Of course, we were encouraged to process our feelings as best we could. And privacy was a big thing, too. If someone else was doing catharsis, you had to stand far back enough that you couldn't hear them and wait for them to finish. That was manners. As for never walking inside it after your first catharsis, it was easy not to do. But I wonder if it did not extend to other animals besides humans.

In all my visits, I had never seen any animal inside. But occasionally they'd be at the edge and skitter away when they saw me. Either it was a coincidence or the qualm held sway over them too. Now I did not know if they avoided it or utilized it. One day when I was 14 I was playing with my brother in the backyard. Our sisters, Elsie and Melissa, were out front. We were thawking a ball back and forth. My brother was in a testy mood and eventually suggested a walk to the qualm.

I accepted. I had no catharsis to make, but it went anyway, figuring why not. So Caleb and I went to the qualm, past our sisters, picking our way through foliage and talking about nothing in particular. When we got there, it was already occupied, so we hung back and waited for the man to finish. On his way out, he nodded to us and averted his eyes. I think that guy was here last week, Caleb said. I frowned. Couldn't have.

Nobody's that bare-faced. I stood back and covered my ears while Caleb shouted his catharsis. When it was done, he tapped me on the shoulder. He looked looser, lighter. You want to turn? He asked, but I shook my head. No, another day. We went home.

Two weeks later I went by myself. I was at night, as is my preference. Pick through the foliage as usual. It was eerie in the dark, but I liked it. The world gleamed silver in a pleasing way. It was quiet at night. There was less chance of having to wait your turn. But not that night.

When I arrived, someone was kneeling by the qualm. He turned his head as I approached. It was a man from the other day when I visited with Caleb. But that was impossible. It had only been two weeks. We were supposed to wait a month. And Caleb had seen him there only a few days before, and that meant... A horrible feeling formed in my stomach.

He hadn't just broken the rule. He'd broken the rule twice. Or he was a twin, I thought hopefully, wrestling with my conscience. Perhaps he was an identical twin. That was all. It was all just a big misunderstanding. Before I got halfway to him, he screamed into the abyss. And the abyss did not just look back.

It rose. I shrank back in horror as the heart of the qualms split open and thrust itself out of the ditch. A black mass emerged, sticky and wet. It broiled over with peak and venom, like tar, thick, dark as night on the North Sea, glistening, listening, angry. It rised. It no longer only heard but told.

The void had stretched convexity in its rage, and I felt its chilling radiance from where I stood frozen behind a tree. The man stumbled back, but the qualm was quicker. A thing, like a tentacle of blackness, reached for him and seized his face. He buckled. It held him there for a moment, his screams untaken by the void. And it returned him back to the groan on which he lay. Then, as though nothing had occurred at all, the tentacle shruged,

He drank back into the ditch, and the quorum was still. I ran over. The man lay absolutely still in a crumpled heap. He looked and leapt back, heart racing. His face! It was completely black, dark as the abyss, and his whole body radiated a very slight chill. I swore and grappled for my phone. I called an ambulance first and my parents.

The qualm did not move. The man stirred. The blackness drained from his face as he woke, mumbling incoherently. I tried to tell him where he was, but I didn't have time. As soon as consciousness had said and he began to scream, screaming like he was being attacked, like he had the most horrible fright. I tried to stop him. I really did.

But he was a grown man and too well-wound. up. He ran, and by the time the ambulance and my parents arrived, he was gone. They found him sprinting across the main bridge over the river. He was about to jump in. They managed to subdue him, which was a struggle. A passerby had to help. When they took him to the hospital, he kept trying to harm himself in the ambulance. When I went to bed that night, my father tucked me in. He sat on the edge of the bed and asked if I wanted to talk about what happened. I didn't. He said that was fine. Then he asked me if I understood what had happened. And I said, yes. I understood. This was what happened if you broke the rules. That man spent the next few years

in and out of psychiatric hospitals. He had to undergo extensive therapy. All those catharsies into the void. And if the qualm overflowed, if you used it too much, it took him years to recover. Now I still go to the qualm if I feel the need, and it sits, and it listens, and it lightens. I never forget. I count the days between visits and treat it with care, because I do not want the void blacken and insurance. and throw a thousand qualms back out at me. I do not want the weight of that horror to touch my heart. My catharsis cleans me. That would destroy me.

I go. I do. But I never break the rules from the Patreon Vault. Creepy Presents The Puppet Master's Regime. Have you ever heard of the musical The Puppet Master's Regime? Have you ever heard of the musical The Puppet Master's regime? Most likely you haven't.

In fact, most die-hard theater lovers are often unfamiliar with this little production. It was a 1934 stage musical written by anonymous authors of the music, lyrics, and book. It starred upcoming performers such as Timmy Cutie Pye Wright, Sally Wilkes, Henry Gregory, as well as many others. At the time, was the most exciting. expensive show to date. It was said to be the biggest, most spectacular stage show to San Francisco and back, from the testament of Tyler Warwick, 1903 to 1983. I went to see the show about a week after I turned 33.

The ticket was a gift from my sister, who knew how much I loved the theater. I remember the signs. They were huge and rather gaudy. Oh, and the playbill. It was just a single red dot with a doll-like face on it. It seemed a bit melancholy for what I assumed to be a musical comedy, but I didn't pay much attention. I was going to see a Broadway show from the Testament of Georgina Long, 1911 to 1984.

The cast was made completely of new people, young children and adults alike who are longing to get back on stage after Vodville, became old news. It was quite charming, really. But I did take a bit of notice to that odd playbill. All the playwrights and lyricists and everyone were all unnamed. And that design, it was a little red drop with a peculiar little face in it. Not even a title.

Just that little red dot. I'd come to New York with my parents on an impromptu vacation after my grandmother had died. A Broadway musical seemed just like what we needed. From the testament of Carl Hannigan, 1920 to 1993. I do recall most of the first act. Then again, who could forget? The story was a little hard to follow at first. There was a little boy who lived in a puppet shop,

or maybe he lived down the street. No, no, he worked in the puppet shop. But he was homeless. so they provided him with a home there. The kid, the kid's name was morta, mortum? Something weird. Oh yeah, it was moridium. No, morator?

Morator. Yeah. Anyway, Moratier's employer was this old man named Mr. Obsizer. I remember his name because his character was unimaginably unsettling. bouncing all around and getting angry and the little boy all the while, this nasal, gigglish voice. Anyhow, the production opened to a mortuary and an odd fellow, getting into an argument over the boy not doing his work, and two of them sang this peculiar number about puppets. It wasn't a normal song, or at least the musicality wasn't normal.

The lyrics were very enchanting, and the music did this odd flowing thing about the room. Instruments would get very quiet without losing any power to it. Maybe it was just the acoustics. I'm most likely explaining it all wrong. Oh well. But in time, he got used to it, and the show progressed. From the testament of Gabriel Johnston, 1919 to 19. This youngster, mortature, something like that, was quite insecure about his stay in the puppet shop,

very paranoid that his boss would throw him out. I was an aspiring lyricist at the time, and I'd done the lyrics to a few original community theater projects, so I was fascinated with the wording in these songs. I scribbled down a few lyrics after I'd went home. unless I'm remembering wrong. The little puppet shop boy and Mr. Abbey something had an introductory duet and then Moritur went off and had a short lament

in a different much more somber tune. If I stay and I do everything right can I live in the day and steer or stay clear of the night Oh, there in the night in the dark, there's a world of wise. Eyes, I can hear them whisper, and sometimes I can see their eyes. The eyes come and confuse me for a moment.

Then I assumed he was meaning the stars. It seemed as though the number was unrealistically tragic and poorly situated within the show. but it was a minor quibble. Now, Morritur had a girlfriend named Trahunt and a boyfriend named Adelbert. After interrupting the final note and his lament, they all gushed about how much they loved his puppets. But they couldn't afford one from Morritur's guardians' shop.

So they transitioned into his vibrant little song about joining forces to raise money so they could afford to build their own puppet. After this, all three headed for some, school. The story took a sharp turn in a different direction. Now, they had this really nasty teacher or headmistress named Madame Rapierio, or something like that. They had a reprise of the song from before, and she overheard them. And at first remarks about the children's fantasies were somewhat comical. Then the light fixed on her, and she sang this heartbreaking

little song. What the song was about was up for interpretation. It was somewhat about love, but it had all these strange puppet metaphors. The only lyric that stayed with me is stroll through the wood cracks, show them your pains, the hole in your throat, and the strings in your veins. Then you just went on this little breakdown. I assume it was a poorly conceived character trait. She started singing off key and went to beat one of the kids. The curtain fell and there was a scuffle heard on stage. People whispered to each other. But a rising new orchestra piece silenced us. The curtain rose again and we were right outside the puppet shop from the testament of Louis Roberts, 1905 to 1967.

Mortar and his friends went into town and sang a song about selling dolls, I think it was. Because the little girl made dolls in her spare time and she had to sell them. I remember those strange background characters. The company was so absolutely monotonous. They all wore some form of dark clothing and each of them were very, very tall. I can remember how they all had their faces covered up by hair or hair. hats or veils. None of them spoke. None of them even sang during the course of the show. Dodd just walked in perfectly straight lines as if they weren't even part of the production.

Anyways, this strange song about buying dolls, it had absolutely no life. But for some reason, these children were putting their all into it. I could say, see their pain in their faces as they hit those high notes. And something else. As the lyrics went on, they seemed to get a little... It's hard to explain. They all look like they were hurting a little. They look so pale and nervous all the sudden.

Coming from a stage family, I convinced myself it was only stage fright. But it still made me just a tiny bit anxious. from the testament of Carrie Laurie, 1921 to 1995. The kids all got their money from this strange man and cloak who sang a simple little tune. I still remember the lyrics. Despite the fall of rain little kitties, everyone needs a little song.

Wooden dolls give you pain little kitties, go on little kitties, run along. His character was never really explained. but I remember how truly gripping the melody was. So haunting. It got you right there in the gut. Even the little kid actors seemed a bit unsettled by the new turn of the show. They all kept stuttering over their lines as they spoke insane,

and then a light bulb over the stage went out. Everyone kind of gasped and one man, I think even laughed. The noise it made really spooked a little girl, little Miss What's Her Name? all the names were so very strange. All I know is that Lightbulb had gone out, and the actors were stumbling across the stage, and the whole thing looked like a terrible flop. When the children re-entered the puppet shop,

they presented Mr. Obsizer with the puppet pieces they'd acquire when the audience wasn't looking, singing a bragy sort of chant. We done, we done, diddy-ditty-done, done did it. It was noxious but thankfully brief. After that, the light fixed on Morature and he began another tune. The song was a dud, and all I remember was that he flubbed the last line. The lyric had something to do with the final stroke of light,

or some sort of long-winded moon-based metaphor. All I know is that he forgot the words, and all that could be heard in the theater was the sound of car horns outside the building. The boy, he didn't seem shocked or embarrassed or nothing, but his posture improved out of the blue and the orchestra stopped. He projected half the word sorry, then suddenly he burst forth in wordless vocalization. The music resumed and the other characters began to join in,

from the testament of Marcus Edgar, 1918 to 1968. So, after the bulb went out, the whole set started falling apart. We, the audience, tried our best to ignore it. It was damn near impossible. I saw two sets of very angry attendees get up and leave. The set piece for the puppet shop screeched its way onto the stage. We could see in the far back the paper sky background falling down.

The lights went dim in what we assumed was in an attempt to hide the malfunctioning set pieces. The kids, with the help of an oddly monotivocal. Ness, Mr. Obsizer constructed the puppet, and this strange song played. To this day, I don't know what they were saying. It sounded vaguely like Latin, but I went on to study Latin in college the next year and found that guest to come out flat. I remember how it enchanted me, though. It enchanted all of us. We all began to feel this thing course through us. I remember a few people around us were humming an attempt to rid themselves of the sound and I could hear people in the front rows crying out in what sounded like pain.

The actors themselves sounded as though they were about to pass out at any moment. They were doing this odd sort of ballet and they were all tripping over themselves. And a few more lights started flashing and breaking. We all sat and waited for the song to end when, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't, from the Testament of George Frank, 1899 to 1999. The lights were going on and off at random, and we were all praying the damn song would end soon. It had this force going with it. It was sucking us in.

We could feel it. The little kids and the puppet man were dancing all around when, well, he's, see, I really thought I could do it. I thought I could do it. I was right there in the fifth row, so I saw. But I can't. From the testament of Carolyn Mark, 1901 to 1949. The lighting was completely out of control.

It was a mess. And that song, it was awful. But something about it. It was powerful. It had a force. I watched intently as the dancers began to skip around and and we I thought they were the lights

The actual events of the final scene of Act 1 of the puppet masters regime Have been up for debate for many years Not many people are willing to speak out about what happened on stage During those final moments Many believe that there is no actual record of an interview with someone Who is willing to tell the story This is not true. As One Testament survives from Billy Prescott,

who was only six at the time of the show. At such a young age, one might assume he was less affected by what he recalls happening. I was just a kid, so I don't remember much. All I can vaguely recall is that song. It was giving me a headache. I turned to my father to ask him if we could leave

when suddenly I saw the stage illuminate with this bright red light. The music's stop is one instrument after another died out. I swear I heard pounding underneath the stage. Everyone was questioning what was happening, even the actors. I remember that teacher lady being pushed through the door of the shop. Then everyone else came flying in from offstage toppling on top of one another like rag dolls. There were people there who did. didn't fit the design scheme of the production.

Stage hands and technical workers, I assume, know. I remember the little girl screamed at the audience, then ran behind the shopkeeper while other actors continued singing. A few people started crying right there on stage when suddenly this curtain came forward. It's hard to describe what it looked like. It was a clear plastic wall. It came down.

from above. Several years later I saw Carrie the musical on Broadway during one of its few runs. That thing that came down on prom goers when Carrie was using laser lights to kill everyone. It was just like that. A bunch of set pieces from earlier scenes came down to the sides of the stage trapping all the actors in the center. Then chaos erupted. The actors stopped singing. they were pounding on the plastic wall. Then for some reason they began to back away. As if some unseen assailants were coming towards them, they fled to the back of the stage. I'll accept a little boy.

The little boy who hadn't stopped singing. Then amid all that screaming and crying and shooting, the curtain flew out, and everything was in silence. due to that odd abruptness, the audience thought it was just a horrible ending to a terrible musical. We were about to get up when suddenly the curtain opened up again, revealing stationary plastic wall upon which a single light fixed on the little boy, mortgure.

He had clawed his way through the plastic wall. We could see the blood on his hands, but the way he looked was, It were strings. Attached to every part of his body. We could all see his stomach or lack thereof anyway. It was like someone who put a huge ice cream scooper in his belly. He was sobbing all over the stage, twitching and swinging around.

It was a sight so unnatural looking, so painful and twisted and wrong. Even now, I can't seem to wrap my head around it. Oh, but, and so, and so everyone looked at him, not knowing what to do. And then he spoke, help me, please help me, was all I could make out. And then he vomited and suddenly collapsed. The plastic wall lifted and the lights came on. We saw the rest of them. They were all dead.

every one of them looked exactly like the little boy everyone had those strings attached and we watched as all of them even the little boy as their strings were pulled on the lifeless bodies rose on cue and they bowed however we cannot be certain

that this is a credible account but unfortunately it's all we have to work with the puppet master's regime sparked horrible debate amongst the theater companies. Several audience members had to be treated to special therapy for years to come and the show itself was covered out by the police. For years to come, the theater company, as well as the police department, who had never managed to solve the gruesome murders of the cast and crew of the show, denied that the play ever existed. However, in recent years, the story has resurfaced, sparking much new debate on the subject. The theater

that housed the musical still refuses to acknowledge the show's existence, and most theater historians know nothing about the show in general. To this day, the identities of the anonymous lyric and music writers are unknown, and to our knowledge, all recordings of the songs and police reports have been destroyed. However, through certain pieces of historical documentation, we can gather a bit of information on the production. The show itself had its first work shop in London in 1928. One of the songs, Get a Puppet, was recorded with vocals by 12-year-old

Garris Creely. However, this recording has been lost, but is supposedly available in the black market of the internet. Other than that, no official records were ever made. Some ancient accounts say in a legal audio tape of the final scene of Act 1 was recorded from backstage, but we cannot be certain that this is anything but a rumor.

For any official memorabilia, very little of anything that survived. Until her death in 1994, theatrical historian Gladys Masters kept two large-scale posters, which she displayed at charity events. But these have since disappeared. Early costumes by Alice Lively, who had been the costume designer on Puppet Master until she quit after payment disputes, or on display at the Picotani Theatre Museum in Dover, England. Other than that, playbills from the premiere night were given out, but most audience members

destroyed their copies after seeing the show. Legend has it, around 10 to 20 survived. On another note, over the years the show has grown a small cult fan base, and here recently, an off-Broadway revival has been scheduled to premiere soon. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. At CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram, stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com and are protected by a creative commons license.

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