Creepy - Day 23 - Stuck in a Sitcom & The Coffin Interview

Episode Date: October 23, 2026

Stuck in a Sitcom (starts at 1:18)***Written by: Jimmy Ferrer***The Coffin Interview (starts at 19:58)***Written by: Allie Harrison and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Content warning: fetal death during childbirth***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm John Grills from Creepy, and I listen to the Be Afraid Podcast Network. Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 23. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrication is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. All right. Let's get John up here for our next story. You all ever feel trapped? Suck? I don't know. you. Okay, my story is about being stuck in a sitcom. I hear it in my dreams sometimes. You know,

the familiar recorded laughter used on countless sitcoms. I looked it up. Some of these tracks originated as far back as in 1950s. Just imagine how many of these people have died in the 76-year time span between then and now. I'm guessing all of them. The laughter of ghosts. Still in our ears almost a hundred years later. The phenomenon of clearly hearing it in my dreams only happened a little while ago. Still fresh. And while the laughter itself doesn't really bother me, it's the memories of what happened to me that sent a chill up my spine.

It all started on a trip like this, actually. I broke off from the group to explore. Based on what happens anytime that group of old friends would meet up, being by myself as much as possible would isolate me from the worst that could happen. I was entranced by the 1960s styling of the town, and was dying to find some old antique shops and theaters, and immersed myself in a world long gone while they got amped up for the college football game a few towns over.

Being that my group was the only people in the entire town as far as tourists were concerned, I was gifted all the solitude I could ever desire. I would bounce from place to place, down some killer pancakes, and move on. As I was walking down the empty streets, I came upon a museum that included different types of media over time, like TVs dating back to the 1920s, old radios and such. I walked in, ecstatic and ready to take in the artifacts around me. The air had an odd detail to it. Normally, museums that house this stuff, especially in the case that they also displayed old furniture,

smelled of a musk, something that smelled moldy, but at the same time clean. The smell of Grandma's house, as I remember growing up. But here it smelled more like a microchip manufacturing plant, sterile to the umpteenth degree. All the TVs were on, the coolest part being that they were playing something appropriate for the time in which the specific TV model was commonplace. For example, I Love Lucy on a 1955 Echo,

a weird-looking 9-inch screen, a white-metal box with a carrying handle on top. How cool is that? Portability taken seriously. I didn't see anyone other than the employee at the entrance. A very polite and upbeat woman wearing a pretty cool 1960s get-up. I'd always thought that they would address super conservatively back then. I was wrong.

She was super excited to talk to me about how the miniskirt dominated the 1960s. As well as the variety of clothing worn between space-age, sci-fi-inspired outfits, transparent tops, and of course, the emergence of the hippie culture. I think she said her name was Lisa, which she told me was the number one most popular girl's name in the 60s, so I still don't know if it was a real name or not. She described her outfit as dolly girl fashion,

a tiny blue dress that sat up high on her thigh with a white collar and no sleeves. Certainly not the fingertip standards they yelled at students in school for when I was growing up. I was left to my own devices, and I fell upon a TV that was unlabeled. The only one that lacked, not only the plaque with the model year and information, but anything describing it whatsoever, it was also the only one that wasn't turned on. It had that classic wooden cabinet look, with a fairly large screen, I'd have to guess 19 inches, a cathode ray tube television with thick glass and a curved screen. Like most remotes in the museum, there was no remote.

There were silver knobs and a small chrome bar sticking out an inch or so from the top right corner, just above the two additional silver knobs below it. I knelt down and pressed my thumb into the bar, hard. The bar sank into the TV, making a loud clicking noise, but no luck on the screen coming to life. I looked around me like a kid checking of their mom's nearby before dropping a swear word, and when I confirmed I was alone, I did the old reliable. I smacked the top of the TV set a few times. What I should have done in the first place was check if it was plugged in,

which it was not. I plugged it in and smiled as I pressed the power bar again. The loud clunk was accompanied by a severe electric shock, causing me to grip the bar with no hope of letting go. My arms seized viciously. My body felt like it was being overcome. overcome by a cramp from my head to my toes. Before I lost consciousness, I thought.

I thought I smelled smoke. When I came to, I heard a soft, feminine voice say, Look who slept in again, in a playfully sarcastic way, followed immediately by what was obviously pre-recorded laughter. When I opened my eyes, I was met with big contrasts of color, a black-and-white tile-checkered floor, teal cabinets, bright red and metal dinner table and chairs. And a white refrigerator is so smooth, white and glossy.

You'd swear it was porcelain. Everything looked kind of fuzzy. I attributed this to my eyes needing to adjust, but no matter how long my eyes were open, the adjustment never came. It was akin to watching everything on an old TV set. Every so often a random thin black line would crawl up the floor and up to the ceiling, bouncing about before disappearing entirely.

Some places where lots of colors met look like overlapping lines of rainbow-colored pixels. People were the same. There was a blonde-haired woman dressed in a dolly girl style, short-teal dress with no collar like Lise's, a white headband and white go-go boots. She seemed to stare at me for a while before I said something. You know me, always sleeping in. I said from somewhere I didn't quite know. It just felt like a reflex as the recorded laughter played again.

I looked around me to find the source and was immediately met with something unexplainable. In front of me was an open void of black. The kitchen was about as large as I'd imagine a movie set would be for a kitchen, and at the edge a hard abrupt stop into nothing. I stayed my breath and looked around to see doors that would enter other parts of the home. The door behind a blonde woman opened to great cheers and adulation from the unseen studio audience. A tall man with dark brown hair slicked back, thick-framed sunglasses, and a shark jawline sauntered in. He was dressed in a freshly pressed, short-sleeve white button-up shirt,

a black tie that stopped just above his beltline, and gray slacks and matching loafers. dropping the typical honey I'm home before the blonde woman affectionately welcomed the man pressing a kiss on his cheek leaving a pink lip print he looked at me cracking another joke about my laziness although not in a malevolent way without thinking I uttered

I don't even live here I don't know where I am this was my first mistake both of their heads twitched so strongly out of swine they broke their names neck, extending in random directions before returning to their fixed position, and their lips upturned into uncomfortable smiles. Now, now, kiddo, go get changed and get ready. The big baseball game is tonight.

I was frozen for a second, shocked. Obviously, I had to be dreaming, still unconscious from the TV shocking me. But something didn't sit right. This hybrid of ideal life in the 60s with the same. small nightmarish details made me feel as though it was extremely important that I follow whatever rules existed here. My first assumption established the first and most important. Rule number one, play along. I walked from room to room through the doors only to my left and right. The house was laid out linearly, but out of sequence at the same time. In a normal house, I could walk in

through the front door, walk straight, turn right, open the bedroom door, turn left, open the master bedroom, then the next door at the end of the bathroom to get to the closet. This was akin to a puzzle game. You could only go left or right. Some rooms had one door on each side, others had two to four on each side unlabeled. As I guessed room to room, I figured out that if I only went left, I would randomly hit rooms around the house and even back in the kitchen. the audience laughing each time I return.

The man, whom I'll call a father for simplicity, would look more and more frustrated on each of my failures. To get to my room, I'd need to figure out and memorize a series of lefts and rights, which statistically I'd never get. So I did the next best thing and asked, for the sake of simplicity, my mother, for help, for which she was glad to do so. I paid close attention, asking questions as we progressed. In one room I grabbed a notebook and a pen and wrote myself a cheat sheet.

When we finally got to my room, I had to laugh. There were posters everywhere. Some of baseball players, sure, Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle and such. But girls in bikinis everywhere. I laughed and asked Mother if I should even be looking at girls like that. Again, at Twitch. but this time it looked like there was a wave running up her entire body, scrambling her whole body as the thin black line traveled up her body

like a tacky PowerPoint transition effect. This time she did more than an unsettling smile. Her eyes were now a cloud of black and white static, a distorted voice now coming from the opening in her mouth, as black as the void, so distorted that all I could hear was static, feigning words. She pounced on me and scratched at me, tearing up my face and pushing her thumbs into my eyes, burning pain as I lost sight and screamed out.

Just as suddenly the loud, high-pitched tone that always accompanied the will be back were experiencing technical difficulties, banner on the TV back in the day. When the tone stopped, I was in my 1960s bedroom again, vision intact, as distorted as it was upon my arrival, in this place. I was horrified. Mother knows best must be rule number two. I just needed to do whatever these monsters expected of me.

Could I run from them? What could I do to get out of this place? Best I could do is wait it out. If this was a dream, I'd have to wake up eventually. But what if I was dead? What if I was in hell? I was accepting every possibility and was determined to figure out how to escape this. I'm boldened by my revival after the eye-gauging given to me by mother.

I decided to wait until bedtime after the game and explore the home. After her mother tucked me in and shut off my bedside lamp, I waited a good hour before daring to get up and explore. My first thought was potentially entering the void, but something just scared me. I did stand there at the edge of my bedroom and the infinite black, contemplating taking a step into the unknown, in the hopes of finding freedom. I couldn't do it.

Every hair stood on end. I couldn't swallow and even started hyperventilating when approaching the edge. So I did the next best thing. I tried the doors. I looked over the map and determined the three specific doors that we passed could be something. avoided them entirely, and I was hoping for the best. Best-case scenario I'd find a way out. Worst case?

I didn't really want to think about it. I opened the door, leaving my bedroom with great hesitation. The image of mother or father waiting on the other side of the door, entering their frantic state and additional horror befalling me was not encouraging in the least. The path I decided to take was three left, once I left. left my room, two rights, a left, and one more right, entering the third door. As I exited my room, I looked around. It was dark and hard to see anything in the room. I could sort of see a couch and lamp, but everything else was hard to see. I turned around to open the door that should lead

back to my room, but put me in another room entirely. This put me in what I had to assume was a guest room. I looked around and didn't notice anything of note, just a bed, lamp, and some picture frames hung up. With the light being off, I couldn't tell you what was in the frames. I was so terrified to turn on the lights that I didn't chance it. I didn't have anything on me, including my cell phone, so stumbling in the dark, hoping and praying that I didn't walk into anyone kept my heart thumping strong. I managed to make it through my three lefts and one right before I hit a severe obstacle. I walked into room four out of seven and froze when I saw a silhouette opposite of me.

It was mother, standing perfectly still, just a few feet left at the door that I had planned to take. The darkness cast over the room, with the distorted vision I had, left me doing everything I could to make no noise. The entire scene was uncanny and uncomfortable. I inched forward as slowly and quietly as possible, hoping not to disturb mother. I reached the door and looked over at mother one last time. She hadn't moved at all.

That all changed when my hand touched the doorknop. Her jaw dropped open, mouth open all the way to her sternum, eyes bleeding the blackness of the void. She let out a scream so terrifying that I almost couldn't move. I ran into the room. I needed to get to the other side of the room one more time and then open the door. I entered two more times. Maybe that would do the trick.

It had to. Entering the next room added another wrinkle. Father, only this time he was huge, his head sticking into the room from the black void, a giant taking massive bites eating the room itself. I ran across the room after shutting the door behind me, hearing Mother scream and Father crunched the room into a mangled mess, expanding the void with each bite.

I was swearing. My lungs burned as I turned and opened the door. Hoping I did this right and that I wouldn't just walk into father's mouth or be torn to pieces by mother. I was right. I was led into the living room. One more door. The chaos of mother's screams and father devouring the home echoed and tore through the silence behind me. I opened the last door and was greeted by an open hallway.

The darkness didn't allow me to see if there was an end. The audience began laughing hysterically. As I sprinted with everything I had, I acid pumping into my muscles, my lungs heavy, burning with the fire of fatigue. I don't run. I never run. I couldn't breathe. The chaotic sounds behind me growing closer and closer.

I turned my head to see Mother only a few feet behind me. I screamed and started crying. The audience left harder and harder. Something was wrong as I made it down the hallway. way. The noises were coming at me in front and behind. The noise of the father's giant had crunching down in the world around me approached from the front. Mother's metal screech or scream from behind me. I had seconds to make a choice. It seemed that jumping into the void was my only option. So I did. I really wish I had done so sooner. I woke up back in the museum,

with Lisa asking me if I was okay. However, I couldn't stop screaming. The audience's laughter still rings in my ears. I crawled away and ran out of there as fast as I could. I ditched my friends, missed the game. And as far as those pangs of nostalgia are concerned, the past can stay in the past where it belongs. Hey, John.

Look, I just wanted to let you know that I know what you're going through. You do? Yeah, I've been stuck before For a long time How'd you get out of it? I tried everything Butter, Crisco, WD-40 Finally, we just needed to use a saw

So, when you say stuck, you mean literally? No offense, home, but I'm guessing that was a little low stakes Compared to... Low stakes! I missed third grade! What? Where were you stuck? I got my head stuck between the spindles in our staircase. And you missed the third grade? Yeah, it was really in there.

And mom and dad really liked that staircase, so I just wrote it out for a while until they decided to sell the house. Then they cut me free. Do you need to talk about it? I just did. Okay, is there an Owen out there? Time for your story. That's me. Good talk, John.

Hey, everyone, I'm Owen. And this is my story about... The Coffin Interview. So, you traveled all this way on a night like this with that dirty sky, coming to our little village to talk about the coffin? What do I mean about a dirty sky? I mean there is fixing to be a storm, a big storm. You should probably get back into your car and drive on while you can.

You insist on hearing about the urban legend of our town, the story that only the people people here believe and you sure you want to know about it because right now I think I hope you still have a few minutes to escape the spell or curse as some people see it and if you leave right now there's a chance you could get out of here alive once you stay here a certain amount of time and I admit I'm not sure what that exact amount of time is well the spell is on you too I don't care if you believe me or not Whatever, have it your way. Well, sure, go ahead and record me.

No one will hear it. You'll die, and I promise you, whatever you attempt to record will somehow be gone. Well, let me start at the beginning. When the first settlers, our great, great-grand-something-grandfathers, came to this little valley and saw it for the first time, they thought this seemed like the best place to start a new life. They built cabins and barns. They cleared the rocks, tilled the soil, then they planted crops. But after three years of seeing their would-be harvest destroyed by first hail, then drought, then grasshoppers,

and surviving only on what they could hunt and fish, a legend has it, a group of seven of the village men approached a witch who lived on that far-off mountain over yonder. Yes, that one. I know it's a bit hard to see in the dusk with the clouds moving in. I don't even know how any of those men knew she was there, but she was. They requested that she performed a spell giving them the ability to see the future, per se, so they would know what and when to plant to have a successful harvest. She agreed to help them.

I understand right in front of them, she lit candles and read some foreign gibberish words from a book. Then, man, I understand how hard this is to believe. She kissed six of them on the cheek. but Robert McAfrey, she kissed him on the mouth. Rumor has it, she fell in love with him the moment she saw him. But he was promised to Sarah Quigley, so he showed her no attention, at least not then. Sure enough, every farmer planted his fields the following spring. Every field produced an abundance of grain.

Even the gardens planted by the wives flourished. The village was never hungry. Everyone just seemed to know when, what, and how to plant. Well, they still do. I mean, just look around. Everyone has a greenhouse. Everyone takes turns having the roadside stand. Everyone has an abundance of pumpkins and watermelons and cantaloupes.

Since that little witchy visit, everything that gets planted by any descendant of those seven men grows and grows well. Sarah Quigley McGaffrey, however, died. in childbirth 10 months after her marriage to Robert McAfrey. Per of the stories that have been passed down from generation to generation to my daddy who told me, Sarah McAfrey was the first to see the coffin. She moaned and screamed in agony as their child couldn't be born after hours, then days of labor. I understand she was sweaty and working to find the strength to breathe, and when she suddenly asked the midwife, why is there a coffin in the room?

am I going to die? The midwife, of course, said there was no coffin in the room. She thought Sarah obviously was delirious with pain and exhaustion. But Sarah went on to describe it as shining, glossy, dark wood with a pink silk pillow at the head. Then within minutes of seeing the coffin, Sarah slumped over and was dead. The midwife worked to save the baby, tried to cut it from her belly, but both mother and baby were lost. What? Oh, you think this is just a story? Yes, I know. Back then, women died in childbirth often. And only 50% of babies born lived to see adulthood. I get that. But I also know that the

witch came down from the mountain and offered herself to Robert McAfrey. When he told her he wasn't interested in her, or any woman, ever, she became angry and confessed to him the true spell she'd done the year before. She explained her spell did indeed promise successful harvests for the village for his generation and everyone following. Then she admitted that gave his generation and everyone that followed the ability to also see the future. What they saw would be the coffin in the hour of their death. Then, from what I understand, she enchanted him, and she gave him five sons. Do I believe this is true, you ask? Oh, you bet I do. Not only do we have a written testimony of it in Robert McAfee's journal,

which is in our archives at the library, but there are descendants of them who still live here. Also, my family has been the undertakers, then funeral directors, since the start of this village, so we understand death. Oh, from the sound of that thunder, the storm's building and growing closer. Where was I? Ah, yes. Now, my family has best. buried or cremated everyone in this town who's died. And all my life, I've heard every story of how the deceased person dies.

I've heard and seen too much not to believe it. Well, that lightning was really close. Did you see that? I think we're in for a real gully washer. What are some of the stories I've heard? Well, in 1922, everyone in town had a telephone, and we had four operators. one night when Annabelle Reed was working on the night shift, she connected Sue Connor to her sister Mary.

Now Annabelle Reed was known to listen in on the conversations of others on the telephone. She distinctly heard Sue tell her sister Mary that a beautiful, golden-stained, shiny wooden coffin was now in her front hall. She admitted to feeling fine and was certain her soon-to-be ex-husband, Randall, was trying to scare her. But she wasn't afraid of that bastard. When Annabel repeated the story for the newspaper, which I probably have a copy of somewhere around here, she emphasized Sue called Randall a bastard. Sue said she didn't believe in any old legend or prophecy or any old witch mumbo jumbo.

Then there was a loud thud that came distinctly over the phone line, which no doubt was Sue hitting the floor. And Sue said nothing more. Annabelle at the switchboard called out to Sheriff O'Leary, who drove to Sue, straight away. There was no coffin in her front hall, but Sue, still holding the phone to her ear, was dead on the floor from an apparent heart attack. And I know what you're thinking. This was a single incident before my birth. So, let me tell you about a few happenings of which I'm certain. In the meantime, let me close this window since it's starting to rain. When I was 12 and just beginning to venture into the abalming area, I heard about the woman on the table, Edith

Rogers, who was in her kitchen when she died. Her husband, Thomas, was two rooms away when she started screaming to him that she saw a huge coffin in the kitchen. Now old Thomas's joints were overtaken with arthritis and it was hard for him to even get out of the chair. He found her dead on the floor when he finally reached her. There were many more instances of people claiming to see the coffin just before dying. However, the incident that stands out most happened when I was 26 and well into taking over the family business. My own dear Aunt Agatha was seated in her favorite rocking chair on the porch of this very house. She was shucking corn. She'd been the family cook for my entire life. She spent the whole day preparing meals, doing everything by hand.

I think that's why it always tasted so incredible. I was in what we call the end room, where we bring the bodies after we pick them up, where we bathed them. It was a perfect fall day. and I had the window open. The breeze was blowing in such a way it carried sounds to me perfectly. I could hear the way she pulled the husks away from the corn. I heard her call. But Jamie, dear, why did you put that lovely golden casket out here in the yard? And my goodness, wherever did you get such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship?

Those were her exact words. I'll never forget them. I got to the window just in time to see her slumped in the rise. rocking chair and the bowl of corn slipped from her now dead hands. Corn has never tasted the same since. Sorry about my reminiscing. She was my favorite aunt. And even after 25 years and hundreds of other death stories, hers still sends a shiver sliding up my back. Oh goodness, look at that rain. You can't even see the house across the street when the lightning is like a light show. I understand you don't care about the storm.

You're interested in other specific stories. Well, of course, there was Henry Gibbons about five years ago, a man who managed to get a blurry photo of his living room with a text sent to his daughter that read, The coffins in my living room. I love you. He died of a massive stroke at the young age of 53. And there were Kara and Liam Fitzgerald crossing the street together,

hand in hand, heading into Merv's diner to grab some breakfast, when a lost drunker from the city came barreling around the corner and ran them both down. The bastard was so drunk, he didn't even know he hit them. It killed Miss Kara instantly. Liam lingered there on the sidewalk long enough to tell Finn O'Brien, who was one of the EMS at the time, about the beautiful and huge coffin he was able to see on the other side of the street. He asked Finn to bury him and Kara in it together, with her in his arms so he could hold her for all eternity. I made sure they were buried as he requested. Romantic, I know, but I like to fulfill one's last wishes as much as possible.

I'm sorry, what did you ask? I couldn't hear you over the sound of thunder. Has there been anything more recent, you ask? Yes, as a matter of fact, just last week we laid out old Mr. McGregor. He holds the record for being our oldest village resident, passing away at the ripe old age of 102. He was found just off his own front porch, lying dead in the dirt as if he had fell down the stairs. And the dirt next to him, he'd written the letters, C-O-F-F-I and part of an N. I had no doubt he saw the coffin in his front yard. Perhaps he was trying to reach it before he died, I don't know.

There was just no one there for him to talk to about it, so he wrote it in the dirt. I think everyone in this town has a picture of those letters on his phone. Would you like to see mine? No. Oh, you think anyone could have written that word into the dirt and then taken a photo of it. I suppose you're right. You're hard to convince, but you aren't alone. Most of you investigative reporters are hard asses.

What? Or do you think you're the first investigative reporter to catch wind of our story and come here and check out our village witch's spell? By the way, how did you hear of our little village curse? Ah, you refused to reveal your source. I understand. Well, if you're going to investigate at our cemetery first, you would have found five graves of the others who ventured in and heard the story before you. And if you'd really done your homework,

you would have found the three others whose families paid to have them shipped from here and buried elsewhere. Because it's almost as if they weren't able to get out of town alive after hearing our story. I never know how the story of our curse ever really gets out, considering none of the reporters ever do. And they die horrible deaths before managing to escape the village limits. One fell down the stairs of the hotel and broke his neck, as I recall.

One crashed his car into a utility pole. Well, that was a mess, and we were without electricity for almost two days over that. One reporter choked on a bite of stake at Mervs and died despite everyone's efforts to save him. Only one investigative reporter has come here searching for the story of the decade and managed to live beyond our lovely witch's curse. That would be my wife, Helena. That's right, my wife.

Helena breezed into town 25 years ago, driving a flashy little convertible, asking questions, ready to use her phone to record every word, every story. The people in Merv's diner sent her to me. I fell for her the moment I saw her. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I could not let her fall victim, so I lied to her. I told her I didn't know a single story that I'd never heard anything about any spell or curse. I told her I couldn't remember any of those names of my ancestors,

and I knew nothing about our village founders who sought out a witch on a mountain. I never said, the coffin, a single time to her. She left pissed off, but she left alive. and then she came back to have dinner with me. Perhaps I enchanted her. Now she's the mother of my children and I sleep beside her every night. Without trying to write any story, she now understands the curse of the coffin and what she'll probably see on the day she's to die.

But we don't talk about it. We do, however, enjoy every day we're given. I've often thought of the Fitzgeralds, and I can only hope to be buried with my Helena, holding her for all eternity. No, there isn't a single clear photo of the coffin. Just stories, just phone calls, just texts and letters written in the dirt. Sorry.

I'm gathering your things, I see. Are you sure you want to venture out into the storm? We have a spare room upstairs. You're welcome to stay. In fact, I would recommend you stay. It would definitely be safer for you. No? All right, then, have it your way.

You don't even have an umbrella. You'll be soaked before you reach your car. Is there anything else I can do for you before you head out? No. Then please, drive carefully. Perhaps you'll be the first to break the curse and make it out of town. But before you go, would you be so kind as to write down your name and number and an emergency contact just in case you don't? The sheriff will need that.

Thank you. Hello, Sheriff Branigan? This is John McAfrey. Yes, unfortunately, there's another one. A reporter by the name of... Just a moment. Let me look at the information she left. Yes, I convinced her to leave her information

with an emergency contact. Her name's Ashley Brinkman. The card she gave me says she's a freelance journalist. She wouldn't tell me how she came to hear about our curse. She was struck by lightning right after she stepped out into the storm. I'm looking out the window out of the storm. right now. I see no movement. Do be careful in the storm, Sheriff. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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