Creepy - Day 23 - I Get the Same Trick or Treater Every Halloween

Episode Date: October 23, 2020

Every. Single. Year.***Every Halloween written by Kyle Harrison***See your donation rewards 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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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 violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is. is advised. Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 23.

I get the same trick-or-treater every Halloween. Written by Kyle Harrison. And narrated by Danielle Hewitt. Every Halloween. I get the same trick-or-treater. I can see him now, standing across the road toward my living room window. He stands approximately four feet seven inches tall from what I can tell.

The average fur boy his age. My estimate for that is he's either nine or ten, but I have no way of knowing for sure. This is because of his costume. If you can really call it that. It's a draped bed sheet, tattered and messy on the edges, with splintering tears and unevenly cut holes across his face and upper chest.

In some ways, it reminds me of a caricature representation of an old peanut special. And for this reason, I have come to call the boy Charlie. Charlie and I have made an unspoken agreement over these past three years. I do not bother him, and he never bothers me. This is because of what happened that very first Halloween after I moved in. I had never intended to be up so late, but my friend Matt invited me. me to a party and was the type you simply can't say no to. I left my house at around 9.30 that night.

The usual crowd of trick-or-treaters already having made their way by, and that was when I noticed him in my rearview mirror. He was holding an empty plastic jackal lantern and staring straight at me as I prepared to back out. I remember feeling startled. It was unusual to see anyone out at this time of night. let alone a child. So I put my car in park and jumped out to scold him. What do you think you're doing?

Your parents must be worried sick. What's your name? I asked as I wag my finger at him from across the street. The boy said nothing. He simply continued to stand there, clutching his plastic candy carrier and looking toward me. I remember that made me feel even more uncomfortable, but also a little frustrated.

Don't ignore me, young man. I'm talking to you. I shouted as I crossed over to get a better look at him. I reached down to grab his arm and pull him over toward my driveway. My plan was to call his parents. Get them to discipline him and possibly give him a heart to heart. None of that happened. Instead, the moment I touched Charlie, I could not move. I don't mean to say that he was strong, or that.

that he pulled away from me. What I'm describing is utter and total loss of any bodily function. I was paralyzed. Frozen. I released my grip from the boy immediately and stared down at my sweaty palm. I felt dizzy, confused, and out of breath as I took a few steps back. At first I thought it was a mistake of some kind. Maybe a prank.

Could it be that the... the boy was carrying rocks in his shoes and couldn't move, I got closer to inspect his clothes in the dim light of the street lamps. I couldn't make out much, so I chose to crouch down. He was wearing long Levi denim jeans under the bed sheet, which ended in some mess of mud and stains on his bare ankles. But no socks, nor any shoes, just naked feet, which seemed to be covered dirt and grime. Getting back up to my feet, I placed my hands on my hips and tried again to intimidate him. What's your name, son? He made no reply at all. Look, if you don't cooperate with me, I'm going to have to call the police, and that's that. I said firmly. The air was still. It didn't seem like my words

meant much of anything to him. Just to show I was making good on my threat, I whipped out my smartphone. The way he just continued to gaze as I unlocked it, and showed I was ready to dial, made me nervous. I'm not bluffing, I told him. Again, not even a whimper of frustration from the boy. I decided, not because I felt I needed to make him comply, but mostly out of concern. Something wasn't right here, and the authorities needed to be notified. I went back to my car to grab my purse after talking to a patrol officer, and then message Matt to tell him I would be running late. After about ten excruciating minutes of the boy staring at me,

I spotted the police cruiser at the end of the street. Gently they pulled up to my curb and rolled down the driver's side window. A young officer nodded toward me and asked, What seems to be the problem, miss? I almost laughed. The problem is the kid. He's been out here for almost an hour. It's not normal.

The officer looked at his partner, and then both of them stared over at the boy. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Nothing to be concerned about, ma'am. Go about your business. The cop finally said, I think my jaw actually dropped. What do you mean there's nothing to be concerned with? He needs help. "'Isn't there a loitering ordinance you should enforce, or a curfew?

"'Curfew is 10.30, ma'am, and only on school nights. "'He ain't hurting nobody,' the officer declared. "'They offered me a card to call back if there was any other issue, and drove off nonchalantly. "'I looked up toward the trick-or-treater in frustration, and marched back over to him. "'This isn't funny anymore,' I said, but my voice no longer had any sort of commanding tone to it. It was quivering and anxious. I didn't want to even touch him again, but I forced myself to do so. The same electrifying sensation flowed across my body.

It felt like time itself was standing still. I couldn't tell you how long I was there, just holding his arm. But after what seemed like an eternity, I finally heard him speak. It wasn't out loud, though. This was like a deep resonation. into the farthest crevice of my mind. Walk away. It said firmly.

It was a cold voice. Not the voice of a child. Not even really of a human. No. This is the type of voice I think the devil must have. Or perhaps something even far older. It was old, ancient and evil. and it made every fiber of my being feel a sense of hopelessness, emptiness.

I let go of him, and I rushed back to my car. I couldn't get over the fact that this felt very, very wrong. So I called Matt up, and I begged him to come to my house, to do something to make this kid leave. It was an hour before he got there. I don't remember much about that hour, other than a sensation of dread slowly creeping through my body. I didn't feel safe anywhere.

I thought about going inside, locking the door, and waiting for Matt. But it felt strange to hide from a child. It felt even stranger to be standing there, only ten feet from him, and realizing I felt powerless. Was this even a child? Or was this something much older, much stronger, and far more deadly? These thoughts circled in my mind. like bloodthirsty sharks in a pool. I no longer felt comfortable talking to the boy,

nor did I want to make eye contact. I just wanted him to leave. Matt got there right around 11. His face was a mixture of concern and frustration. I really thought you were joking. He told me as he got out of his sports car and walked toward the boy. So, what's going on, champ? He asked, smiling at my visitor.

The trick-a-treater, as expected, said nothing. Come on, bud. Let's go home. Matt decided and prepared to tug on his arm. I knew what was going to happen, but it still felt like I was watching a train wreck in slow motion. Matt instantly became rigid, the way a person might, if he were to be encased in cement. His face looked pale and full of shock,

his hair standing on its end. Then he jerked back. and nearly stumbled into the road. His features, the look of death. Matt got up, brushed his pants off, and started walking towards his car. I don't need to be here. You don't need me. Just leave the kid alone. He started his engine, and I gripped the side of the car door.

What are you doing? He stared at me with a frantic look in his eyes, and repeated his warning. He sounded out each word slowly, and purposefully. Leave the kid alone. Then he drove off. When it was just me,

alone with the trick-or-treater again, that sick churn in my stomach returned. I finally convinced myself to go inside. I remember staying in the living room, though, peeking out through the windows and waiting for something to happen. I remained fixated on the boy, my eyes drooping,

and my weariness overwhelming me. Finally, sleepover came me. The next morning the boy was gone. No trace of him even remained. Not even the dirt I had seen surrounding him on the sidewalk. It was as if he was never there. I tried to call Matt to get his viewpoint on the whole ordeal. But he didn't pick up.

A drive to his apartment revealed he was gone. His roommate hadn't heard from him. A few short hours later, I found no one had. he liked the trick-or-treater had vanished i went down to file a police report the day after something told me it was important to do it for the boy too but nothing ever came of it somehow i found a way to return to normal life i forced myself to really it almost worked i was almost free until the next year when the boy returned When I saw him appear this time, there was no doubt.

I knew I was dealing with a specter of some kind. That only made my anxiety worse. And for the whole night, I couldn't leave my house. I was certain that if I did, something would go wrong. He would cause something to go wrong. Somewhere after midnight, I tried to get a grip on my sanity and became courageous. Maybe it was the drinks I had to calm my nerves. Either way, I convinced myself that I could go confront this apparition and make them leave.

I approached with a drunken swagger, nervous and fidgety. The boy didn't seem to care, so I knelt down to get on his eye level. Searching for any signs of his eyes or facial features. In the street lights, I could see nothing, not even the reflection from his pupils. It's possible he may not even have them. I imagined staring into a faceless boy, and it made me shake physically. I lost my courage then, and went home to sob in bed. I dared not try again that night.

Experiencing something like this not once, but twice, it makes you reevaluate things in your life. Reconsider what is and isn't important. I've never really thought about having kids. not even as a little girl my mother raised me and my two siblings alone and i guess i always equated children as being a hardship more than a blessing over the course of the next year however as the months crept by i found myself often thinking of the boy the one i had now come to call charlie what was his story was he a ghost if so why my mind constantly conjured up a narrative that involved abusive negligent parents,

the kind that didn't have time to take their son out trick-or-treating, and dismissed the practice as being something better suited for a boy half his age. In dreams I would see Charlie become angry and storm off to bed, shouting to his parents that he hated them. Then, when he knew they were asleep, in their beds, slowly he would make his way out the back door. Having no money for a convent. nor parents that cared to craft him one. Charlie did the deed himself. He took an old bed sheet

and a rusty pair of scissors and headed off into the night, with likely only a pocket full of change to purchase a plastic jack-a-lantern. From there the dreams are murky. Something happened to him, but I don't know what. Was he struck by a car? Taken? I don't know. But this year I've decided I want to find out. Yes, I'm breaking our agreement. Likely, you will believe this is because of some curiosity. And you're likely right. I have begun to believe that Charlie is my responsibility somehow. I expect one of two things will likely occur.

Neither is exactly pleasant. The first scenario involves me attempting to talk to the spirit that I believe is holding Charlie hostage. The ancient, dark force that has chosen to have him appear on my street, Every Halloween. I don't rightly know if such a being can be reasoned with. Or if it even understands human concepts. But I will show that I have some form of empathy and understanding for Charlie. I will tell the spirit that I want to help.

I will even offer to take his place, so that Charlie may go free back to his family. This way at least, the spirit will feel that they are getting something out of the deal. But again, I cannot say with any degree of certainty this will work, which is why I'm leaning more toward my second option. This involves talking to Charlie directly and apologizing to him. It won't be easy. Going near to him still makes me nervous and queasy.

The aura surrounding him is strong, but I want him to know that what has happened is not his fault. I don't blame him for any sort of mental anguish he has caused me, nor do I hold him accountable for what happened to Matt. He is a child. He is innocent in this. All I want is for him to know that it'll be okay. It might be a lie,

seeing as I don't know what the outcome will be. I believe it will go one of two ways based on these methods. Either the creature will see reason and allow Charlie to return to this world or pass on to the next. or he will continue to hold Charlie as his prisoner. There's only one thing I can be certain of. I'm going to walk out of my house and be with him.

I'm going to tell Charlie everything he needs to hear, and then I'm going to take his hand. This time, I'm not going to let go. It's likely I may never be able to. And I'm okay with that. At least Charlie will no longer be alone. Unvault. Creepy presents.

Why Sarah never sleeps. There were too many doors in the upstairs hallway. Sarah told her parents, but they couldn't see it. They told her not to worry. They told her there was nothing there. But there was an extra door at the end of the upstairs hall. An extra yellow door. And it didn't belong.

It was the color of disease. jaundiced and infected, with spidery black veins across its face. One perfect silver knob gleamed in its center above the shadowy keyhole, and it didn't look right. The doorknob shone with a mirror's finish and caught the light from any angle, begging for Sarah to look its way. Sarah did her best to ignore it, but the door knew her name, and it whispered it when she drew near.

The door would rasp with a voice like dried leaves as tiny claws scraped against the other side. Tears would well in Sarah's eyes as she hurried past. Her arms were laden with everything she'd need to get ready for the day.

It would call again before she scuffled out of range and closed the bathroom door cutting off its paper-thin whales. When she creeped from the bathroom to head down stairs, the door's voice would follow her with a furious flurry of scraping claws and tormented howls. They lingered and nod in the back of her mind and she'd rushed through breakfast just so she'd leave the house a few minutes sooner.

School became a blessing, an excuse to be someone, somewhere else. At school she could forget the door. At school she could pretend her house was just like everyone's house, with the right number of doors and no eerie whispers. But at the end of the day, it was still waiting for her at the end of the upstairs hall with its mirror ball knob and yellow face. She hated coming home and knowing it was there.

But even more than that, she hated going to sleep because in her dreams, she opened the door. Every night she stood before it, fighting the urge to reach out, Dreadnotted her belly in anticipation of pain when her hand rose anyway to grip the silver knob. Some nights, it burned her like the driest ice.

Other nights it seared her like red hot coal. Very occasionally it did neither. Instead turning and turning without ever opening the door. And she couldn't stop turning it until she woke up. When the door did open, it revealed a swirling vortex of shadow and sound, with a thousand voices crying in the darkness. The voices curled around her, crawled through her hair like spiders. She thrashed and swatted their skittering whispers, but the words still tingled across her skin. She never should have listened.

He sees. They said, He hears. They moaned. He hungers. They wept and burrowed into her mind like worms. The hollow man. The hollow.

They echoed in her mind and screamed to her from the gaping vortex. The hollow man. He hunts. Sarah shot up with a scream that night, gasping and sweating but alone in her bed. The clock's crimson face said midnight had passed, but not by much. Darkness enveloped her room except where the vestigial nightlight illuminated the corner by her desk. It wasn't much, but she felt better when she saw it. She pulled the bedsheets over her head and pushed away the echoing voices.

I'm fine. for, hugging her knees and rocking. It's just a dream. They're always dreams. The dreams will go away like they always do. She started humming a song her mother used to sing when Sarah was smaller, small enough to need a nightlight. And the panic faded little by little with every note.

Just a dream, she repeated. Just a dream. Just a... Sarah. Someone whispered from the hall. Sarah froze. Sarah? Are you Sarah?

It was the voice of a girl, not much younger than Sarah, and not at all like the voice she usually heard from the door at the end of the hallway. Who, who are you? Sarah whispered back from beneath the sheets. My name is Lizzie. Are you Sarah? Sarah didn't move. She was terrified of leaving the safety of her cocoon. As the moments take pass, however,

an anxious curiosity emboldened her enough to peek out from the covers. What if it was another girl? She thought. She sounded just as scared as Sarah felt. Sarah crawled from her bed, clutching the sweat, damp nightshirt she'd worn to sleep and waited. When nothing happened, And she stood up and tiptoed towards her bedroom door, toward the wading yellow door with the mirror ball knob on the wall at the end of the upstairs hall.

When she stood before it, her stomach lurched. And for a moment she couldn't tell if she was going to vomit or faint. Please. The door said in the young girl's voice when Sarah got close. Please, are you, Sarah? Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but her voice was a tiny squeak of nothing. She pressed her palms to her cheeks and smeared away the tears before trying again. Yes.

She finally managed. I'm Sarah. Please let me in. The door's silvery knob shook violently, rattlings have locked and jostled by someone on the other side. Sarah stumbled back with a gasp, staring at the shuddering alien knob. Let me in, Sarah, please. I can't stay in here. Please help me.

Let me in. Sarah dropped to her knees. Sarah dropped to her knees when her legs gave out, and she screamed when she looked at the door. Level with the shadowy keyhole below the rattling knob. She stared directly into a very human eye. Tears shimmering in the other eye as they shimmered in Sarah's. It darted around wide and white with fear, as of searching through the halls.

And then, without warning, the Kehoe became shadow, and the silver knob stilled, and the girl on the other side of the door began to cry. Please, Sarah, she pleaded. He's almost here. The hollow man? Sarah whispered as a chill slithered up her spine. Lizzie sobbed quietly. Sarah scooted closer to the door, her fear growing colder when the girl from the other side didn't answer.

Lizzie? Silence fell, as if it had always been there. She couldn't hear Lizzie crying anymore and even the house was too quiet behind her. Sarah put her ear near the door and held her breath. She waited. Minutes passed, but it couldn't have been minutes. Nothing moved, nothing whispered, nothing cried, nothing stirred. She couldn't hear anything but her own racing heart.

Was she gone? Lizzie? She tried again, afraid the hollow man had taken her. He's here. Lizzie whispered at last, almost in her ear. Is ill Lizzie's lips pressed tight against the keyhole. Please let me. man. Sarah's head ached. The world was a little fuzzy around the edges and it was getting

harder to focus than before. She had to stand up. She didn't dare touch this sickly door, but her legs felt too wobbly and weak to support her. She reached for the knob with a trembling hand. Please, Sarah. Lizzie's voice was getting smaller. Please. grasping the mirror ball knob she pulled herself from the floor. It moved noiselessly beneath her hand, gliding without resistance, and opened the yellow door. A lonely expanse of normal wall inched into view, and she felt sick. She worried at her thumb in confusion, extended a trembling hand to touch the wall behind the door. It was solid, as solid and as normal as the wall at the end of the upstairs hall should be,

but her stomach churned. She gently closed the door, which issued a soft click as a latch spring into place, and waited. She hardly dared to move or breathe as she listened to the night, waiting for the door to speak again. Hours passed in oppressive silence, even though it couldn't have been hours, and the door had nothing to say. Sarah grew sleepy, too sleepy to keep standing, too sleepy to remember why she was standing so still at the end of the upstairs hall. It was time to go to bed. It's just a dream. She remembered turning away and rubbing at her eyes.

There are always dreams. Shuffling to her bed was like swimming through jello, and most of the way there she couldn't keep her eyes open. Luckily she knew the way. The dreams will go away like they always do. The crimson clock was broken when she rolled herself back in bed, its face declaring 12.16 a.m. to a room that only vaguely felt familiar. But she couldn't bring herself to care when her eyes and body felt so heavy.

Sarah! Lizzie whispered. But it couldn't be a whisper. Sarah! Lizzie whispered. Sarah groaned a little. Lizzie said, her voice echoing in Sarah's mind. Sarah frowned and rolled onto her back.

She didn't want to wake up. She wanted to stay asleep. Lizzie didn't need to tell her not to wake up because not being awake was the whole point of being asleep. For a long time, all was silence. Sarah's mind drifted and she felt herself grow lighter as if getting ready to float up through the blackness that surrounded her. She could feel the cool sheets beneath her then, and for a moment she thought she heard a paper-thin rustle of leaves in her room. He's here. Lizzie whispered at last.

Please don't wake up. Who's here? Sarah wondered as she steadily rose. His hollow face and eerie mask, with hollow voice at doors will ask to be invited in to pass above his favorite midnight task. A strange tingling work that swept up Sarah's bodies

as Lizzie recited the haunting rhyme in a disconcerning monotone. Clarity inched its way towards her slowly melting away the fog of sleep. Hadn't she been dreaming? Was she still dreaming? Something was wrong. He's waiting inches from your face to be the first thing your eyes grace, but keep them shut or else embrace.

A hollow shell to take your place. Cold dread sees Sarah's heart with each new fear. stanza and she trembled with the weight of her mistake. For a moment she swore she could feel the air stir above her, stale and strangely warm against her cheek, leaves rustled above her bed. The yellow door you always keep. He follows you to where you sleep. Into your roam he then will creep. Your life and dreams for him to reap. Lizzie's voice became little more than a breath within Sarah's mind and the air cooled around her when the pressure lifted from her chest. The leaves were in the hall.

The hollow man above your bed with hollow eyes deep slumber fed. His hollow dreams may fill your head, but never peek or you'll be dead. Everything was wrong. Distantly Sarah registered the sound of her parents screaming. in their room and felt tears sliding down her cheeks. No longer dream tears. She could feel the wet warmth as each one fell. Mommy? Sarah whispered the sound paper thin, Daddy. She rasped with a voice like dried leaves. Lizzie? She thought, but Lizzie did not respond. Silence fell over the house and Sarah knew nothing would ever be right again.

From the hall outside her bedroom door, Sarah heard a soft click as a latch sprang into place and waited. Silence filled the house again. The leaves were gone. Sunlight peeked through the curtains and the crimson clock said it was 7.45 a.m. Before she felt it was safe enough to open her eyes and leave her. room. The yellow door, with its mirror ball knob, stared at her from the wall at the end of the upstairs hall, and the house was still too quiet. It was a different quiet than before,

though, a different quiet than from her dream. It was the quiet of a tomb, except, of course, for the occasional tapping, as if from tiny, claws from the other side of the yellow door. 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, and Facebook, or email us at CreepyPod. All stories told on this podcast can, be found at creepypasta wikiya.com and are protected by a creative commons license.

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