Creepy - Day 23 - The Killing Room & Trick

Episode Date: October 23, 2024

The Killing Room***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Tricks***Written by: N.M. Brown and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. listener discretion is advised. It's midnight, it's October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magical time of year.

It's day 23 of the 31 days of horror. A time of cool winds, pumpkins, and falling leaves, the shadows on your wall that move just out of the corner of your eye. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, The Creep. Supposedly, when things are going well, you're said to be killing it. While this listener wants to share a different sort of success when it comes to a place he calls, The Killing Room. Have you ever wanted to kill someone?

I mean, really, kill someone? Like, you were 99% of the way there. And if there had been one slight difference in how they acted or how you acted and be forfeiting part of your life to the penal system, Most people get mad, seemingly more people every day. But how mad? Most people have said something along the lines of, I'll kill you, or I wish you were dead, or something like that. It's usually a statement of passion.

That passion can lead to action and does more often than we might think. But a lot less often than the words. That's good. If everyone who had ever said they would kill someone, actually killed someone, we'd have a hell of a population drop all at once. Having researched what I research for as long as I have, I've come to the conclusion that there's really just one constant and why more people don't commit murder. And it has nothing to do with their religious beliefs.

It has everything to do with getting away with it. I find that in the moment, religion actually plays very little into the choices people make. sure you may live your life by a certain code or whatever you want to call it but have you seen social media someone on instagram with a private account and the only thing in their bio is a bible quote one time i saw a woman post a video and you could see from the scars on our arms that she'd probably bent into self-harm and what was the top comment looks like you missed a spot guess what is bio looked like, I honestly wish I was making that part up. I really do. That's life, right? Our core beliefs only really come into play when other people are involved, usually when someone

is shining a spotlight on us. I'm not saying this is constant, but it's common enough, and it lends itself to my point. If you could get away with it, you'd probably do it. I think that's where the room came from. I know enough about enough to know that I don't know shit. I'm not going to sit here and tell you some divine truth or reality or anything like that, because that's just not how the world works. We never really get answers, just reasons and motivations. People often get those things confused.

I don't exactly know what the room is, or where it came from or when. The earliest recorded incident that I could even come close to tying to the phenomenon was back in the 1690s in Massachusetts. See, by that time, the rest of the world had gotten pretty disgusted with itself over the Spanish Inquisition and torture in the name of God or the devil or witches or whatever, and it had quickly gone out of fashion. It's just that no one told the new world, I guess. The report came from the diary of one Martha Bishop. whose diary had been entered into the town public record the following year's evidence of the evil that it infiltrated their colony. It read. She confessed to me, before the door in the woods, her words of, I will do, upon entering with the man, she was gone. His widow cried to me,

as I told her of this. The eyes call upon me in their veil of judgment. This act in question turns out to be referencing the disappearance of George Parker, a local merchant who had gone into the woods with a young woman whose name I can't find. In the woods, they met Martha, who'd been foraging due to poor crops that year. When asked why they were there, the young girl simply said, I will do, before walking through a freestanding door that had appeared out of nowhere in the woods. When Martha fetched her husband, no sign of the door, George, or the girl were ever seen again. Martha had been suspected the disappearance before her death of pneumonia the following year. Was this the first sighting of the phenomenon I've come to call the killing room?

I have no idea. But it's the oldest record I could find that I could potentially tie to the occurrence. I got a job out of college working for a transcription company. Then my first assignment was working as a police transcriptionist. Basically, if you don't know, transcription involves writing down dialogue and actions that occur in a video or audio file. Tends to be an important thing for the police, especially when it comes to going to court.

Cops use transcriptions for traffic violations and accidents, interrogations, witness interviews, wiretaps, security footage, etc., etc. Over the next 12 years, I collaborated with attorneys, security companies, prosecutors, law enforcement agencies, public defenders, and other police departments. I recorded video or audio, listened back, and transcribed a word for word.

I wasn't actually a cop, just a contractor. But I was good at it, didn't complain or make mistakes, at least that anyone noticed or told me about, and generally it was easy to work with, probably why I got assigned to so many homicide investigations. That's the only reason I know any of this. Because of the confession of Darrow Bridger

some unemployed middle manager who got downsized at his job and ended up killing his wife in her side action. The way Darrell said it, and this information is public because of the trial, his relationship had already been rocky at best, but then losing his job sent it into a full downward spiral. His wife lost all respect and all capability to filter her thoughts about him and his lack of manhood. Finally, according to Darrell, during a fight one night, his wife confessed the cheating on him, went into detail about it,

graphic detail before packing a bag and leaving him. She must have forgotten the locator app on her phone because Darrell followed her about an hour later, caught her in her side action in bed, stabbed him with a kitchen knife before killing her. The issue was that while the lover's body, or what was left of it, was phoned quickly, the wife never was.

Her family wanting answers, the DA even offered a reduced sentence if Daryl could produce the body. But Daryl claimed he couldn't get it. According to Daryl, Anne transcribed by yours truly, after he killed a lover, he just stood there staring at the knife

in the corpse. He said he was pretty sure his wife had been screaming, but it all felt like white noise to him. I knew he was dead. He had to be dead. And it made me upset. I wanted to kill him and I did. But when it was over, I felt empty. It wasn't fair. It wasn't satisfying. It was over for him. The pain was gone. I hated that. I wanted him to keep hurting, but he was gone. And then I noticed the screaming. I pulled her through the door to the dark place, the humid place that smells like pennies. That's where I left her when I was done. Just go there and get her. He wouldn't go into further detail about the dark place,

but his descriptions would serve as baseline for other cases I'd come across over the years. References of a dark place that most cops and attorneys brushed off as metaphor for a person doing something evil. but I've come to realize that it's not a metaphor. It's real. Not that the cops would listen to a transcriptionist. Even when I point out that no one is able to match the blood on the footprints that seemingly appeared by magic in the middle of the floor, matching Daryl's shoes,

before leading out of the bedroom, tracing the path Daryl followed after he was done. Noah could ever explain how the blood that didn't match any of them could just start in the middle of the room. almost as if someone had just stepped through a door. I have at least 10 other cases that I've been a part of personally that have similar, if not identical statements. People describing a dark place, warm, damp. Some say it's covered in blood.

Others that it's sterile and empty. They were counted in almost dreamlike trance, like remembering a nightmare. The details are sparse, but follow a similar. pattern. In a moment of pure rage and hatred, it's as if a doorway appears to a place, a room, a killing room, a place they can go to without being bothered or interrupted, to do terrible things, only to disappear afterward. It isn't a place you can find. It's just a place you find yourself when you're so filled with directed hate and intent to kill a person, that it's as if the universe is taking away all your reasons not to kill them. A place the police can't find. A place where a

body will never be uncovered. A place born out of pure darkness that hears your inner loathing calling out to it. Obliging to take away all your reasons not to do it. If it's magical or alien or some other answer, I have no idea. I think there's too much to this world for anyone to really have any idea what's going on. It could be some kind of shared delusion, or just some excuse that started to float around on message boards for all I know. Like how a lot of people who have sleep paralysis all claim to see a dark man and a top hat appear in the doorway, or the darkness.

Something about how our minds are wired to react to scenarios that's shared in ways we don't understand. Or, and working with homicide for as long as I have, will do this to a person. Maybe the world is so terrible that we literally manifested it ourselves. The collective wrath and guilt of just being a human being. Knowing how insignificant we really are in the grand scheme of the universe, wants to burn it all down as an affront to whatever created us in the first place. but the inherent conflict on our own personalities, where we know the difference between right and wrong regardless of our upbringing, fights the actual creation of that sort of place on earth.

So we made a doorway, a place for the worst of us to do the worst things, things that have no resolution, no closure. Even if you knew the exact answer, it provides you with nothing positive in your life, just the darkness in knowing how terrible we really are. In which case the killing room is a gift, isn't it? A place where we can be content in our ignorance, just so we can get through the day.

Good or bad. The killing room is a place. I'm sure of it. I've seen and heard too much to think it isn't. I'm just grateful at the end of the day to know one simple truth that should make anyone sleep a little better. At least I've never seen it. And now a word from our sponsors.

Welcome back. Looks like for the first time in a while, all the lines are open and lit up, so let's dig in. Caller, you're on with the creep. You can't run from us forever. You have a... Sorry about that, folks.

As we get closer to Halloween, the kiddos out there tend to get a little overzealous about prank calls. Kids will be kids. I'm just impressed to know how to make a call anymore. Caller, you're on with the creep. Hi, um, I have a question. You sound familiar.

Have you called in before? Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I think so? I can't really remember. It's okay, caller. What's on your mind? I was just wondering about those weird questions your producer asked when I called in?

Those are standard. Okay. but why would I need to tell... Did you have a story for us, caller? Sure, it's about trick-or-treating, or more specifically, just tricks. It was cold for Halloween night, nipple achingly cold, in fact.

Mason let out a whine of distress, prompting me to lower the lid to the stroller to see what was a matter. His cowboy hat had fallen into his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time. It's mostly my fault. He'd have been much happier to throw the damn thing on the ground, squealing with joy at the bump of the wheels as I ran over it. But this was my last baby's first Halloween in a new town, and I selfishly wanted his costume to remain as cohesive as possible.

It would have been helpful if his dad, Michael, had been able to join us tonight. However, my husband was stuck on a late shift at work and wouldn't be able to join us until much later. And if Mason grew fussy or got tired early, he may not be able to join in the trick-or-treating fun at all. I know it's not his fault, and I don't blame him for having to miss out due to work. I won't deny, it would be easier, though. Someone to help carry the candy, someone to help check on Mason, someone to alternate walking him up to doors with. Besides, our other two children had grown and moved out, meaning we had spent many a Halloween evening together, holding the sticky hands of our children in their earlier years. To Michael, this night was the same as all the others we'd celebrated through the years, but to me, it was different.

Mason was our last child, a miracle in the truest sense of the word. We brought our first daughter into the world when I was just 19 years old. Her sister arrived just three years later. We thought we were done with having children until our little boy showed up. Despite the consequences of starting over at our age, going from high school diplomas back to diapers, I have no regrets. Mason captured my heart and soul the second I saw him. And, ashamedly, even after giving birth to the most beautiful healthy baby girls, I felt a love of for him than I can honestly say. I'd never experienced before. It was as if I'd gained access to a piece

of my heart that had been locked away before, dormant in shadow. My spine tinkled with anxiety as I found a parking spot on the grass and pulled into it. There were already throngs of people. Some were walking with their children. Some were in cars driving their kids from home to home. And the kids too old for trick-or-trading zoomed up and down the road on four-wheelers. I sighed in relief, remembering Michael had thought ahead to pack the stroller. Mason was old enough to walk, but we figured it wouldn't hurt to wheel him to a few houses here and there to avoid him getting overtired. Plus, the bottom of that thing is perfect for stashing waters, snacks, and all sorts of other things we may need along the way. Mason was already fidgeting.

with the restraints of his car seat, his pudgy fingers fumbling desperately with the chest clip to free himself. I chuckled, reminding him that he didn't have much longer to go. I cheerfully asked if he was excited for candy. Knowing candy for him meant candy for me. Don't act like you haven't done at a time or two, especially during the toddler years. Michael and I had a tradition that was 20-some years strong and growing.

We would take the kids trick-or-treating until we were all too tired to continue, with me usually pinged the last one to say, Oh, come on, don't tell me you're tired already. Then we would stop at a gas station for cold drinks. Upon arriving home, we would put the kids to bed, telling them we would be searching their candy for tricks and suspicious-looking candy. We never found anything bad, but it was always more than fun to look. In the morning, their dad would admit to taking a few pieces for ourselves, calling it the parent tax. Michael and I would sit down on our bed, turn a scary show on, smoke some weed, and take our pick of the treats. We were able to do this guilt-free for the first five years or so of the kids' lives.

Then, as they grew older, the parent tax became smaller, and we would just buy candy of our own. Unfortunately, for us, it seemed like everyone in town had chosen to travel to the exact same route that we did. I could barely walk 20 feet without someone bumping into me or hitting someone's ankles with the front of the stroller. Kids were zooming by, yelling and screaming due to the sugar inducement and excitement of the holiday. I traveled with the peck, so to speak, for the first few streets, sighing in relief as I saw the final road diverge into two separate ones. To my surprise, everyone around me followed each other down the road on the right, leaving the left one looking eerily vacant, despite the porch lights glowing and decorations present. My social anxiety hasn't always been the best,

coupled with me being a mother of a small child again. My mental resources felt burned out before they ever had a chance. That's precisely why I veered off, pushing the stroller toward the start of the empty road to the left. The first house was unremarkable in decoration, save for a glowing pumpkin in the front window. However, the porch light was on, and according to the unwritten law of Halloween,

you needn't have anything more than a lit porch and a bag of candy to participate. So I rolled Mason up the front walk, unfastened him from his seat, holding his hand as I lifted him to ring the doorbell. Our little boy's excitement was almost palpable as he yelled, Fricker freets! Holding his candy bucket high as the door began to creak.

A soft mingling of baby powder and freshly baked cookies drifted into the air as the door opened, revealing the older woman inside. She smiled softly at my son, cooing about how adorable his costume was before turning behind herself and grabbing his treat. A sequence of gnarled knuckles tightened around a plastic sack before dropping it into the bag.

And just like that, we were on our way to the next house. I approached the lawn of the neighboring house warily, deciding to leave Mason in his strollers for this exchange. While I adored the motion-activated mechanical werewolves in the yard, I wasn't sure my little guy would feel the same. An older man's voice rang out from beneath the barking of dogs. He stepped out onto the porch, closing his door behind him. But for the second it was open, it looked like there was one of the largest dogs I'd ever seen in my life.

He dropped a handful of something into Mason's bucket before bidding us a good evening. I turned around in a hasty retreat before he could open the door and go back inside. Piercing melodic tones rang through the air as my Halloween theme song ringed. tone blared from my cell phone. Figuring there was a 99% chance it was my husband, I answered it without checking. Then I was right. He was calling me to check in on us and apologizing for still being at work. He promised he would be able to leave in the next 20 minutes to come and meet us. I was trying to tell him that we would most likely be done by then when the phone went completely dead. The third house was eye-catching in the most literal way.

It was a white house with eyeballs projected all across the front in random formations. Mason emitted a squeal of giggles as we wandered up the paved walkway leading to the front door. A man in his 30s with a smile far too wide dropped a wax paper sack into the bucket, smiling at us until he was nearly out of sight. Houses 4 through 7 were much the same. People excited to be caught up in the Halloween spirit, albeit at sea, Some of them a little odd. A tall house loomed at the end of the street, the last one.

After this one final house, I could call Michael and tell him we were on our way home. A woman answered the door without a word. Not a hello, happy Halloween, go fuck yourself, nothing. She stared at me with cold, dark eyes, her gaze unwavering. To be fair, I didn't say anything either. Maybe she was waiting on me to initiate? I cleared my throat lightly. Hi there.

Trick or treat? The statement came out as a question, though I couldn't explain to you why. Mason responded to my voice by reaching his hands toward the woman, breaking her from her icy fixation on staring me to death. A soft smile bloomed on her lips as she regarded him tenderly. It kind of bothered me, if I'm honest. Plenty of people have smiled at our little guy before, but the adoration, glowing in her facial features, was unsettling.

She had a slight scar trailing up from her top lip, but it wasn't jarring. It seemed like something I was used to, like I'd seen it before. I should have done something. I was in control of our eyes. lives. Why did I have to go down that damn road? We would be most of the way home by now if we hadn't. How much candy did we really need anyway? Mason is still too young to become hyped by sweets.

And Michael was diagnosed with pre-diabetes almost two years ago. So yeah, I should have done something. Only I didn't. I just stood there blankly watching the two of them. My head swimming with questions and thoughts that ultimately would never matter. Mason darted inside of her house before I could stop him. My fingers grasped for the back of his costume, only to feel open air. I closed the distance between us and between embarrassed apologies, scooping him up in this stranger's living room. Of course, he started crying immediately, which I was planning to also apologize for. However, the words died in my throat before they could be uttered. The woman had closed her front door, planting herself firmly in front of it. Her arms were crossed defensively,

as if she was the one on the ass end of this awkward situation. I'm so sorry about that, I said in what felt like the dozenth time. He usually doesn't do things like this. She only stared coldly in response. The longer I stood there, the more I got the feeling that this lady absolutely loathed me, like hated my guts. Though the reason why is somewhat unclear. She was younger than me, but her face held a sadness,

far beyond her earthly years. You can go. My son must stay. My blood quickened, causing my heart to pound in my ears and temples. A sickeningly sweet poison of acid crawled its way up my stomach and through my throat. I forced it back down with a heavy swallow before it reached the recesses of my mouth. Your son? I asked incredulously. hoping my voice didn't give away the panic attack that was quickly consuming my soul.

I jerked the top of my jeans down on impulse, revealing the thick scar I received during my last C-section. He's my little boy. I gave birth to him. Not that it's any of your concern, but here's a damn scar to prove it. Now move out of my way and let me go. The scar, in fact, wasn't from Mason's birth, but how the hell would she? ever know. Mason, completely oblivious to the tense and most likely threatening tone of the room, dumped out his entire candy bag on her coffee table. Then he proceeded to sit down in front of all his treats, staring up at me defiantly, almost daring me to move him from the spot. Thoroughly and deeply unimpressed with the current treat in his hand, an apple, he threw it down on the table disgustedly. It bounced one time before rolling off the tabletop,

hitting the corner on its descent to the floor below. I picked it up without thinking twice, only stopping to look down at it as a sharp stabbing pain radiated through my fingers. It fell from my hand, trailing drops of blood with it. When it landed, a glint of silver was exposed that I hadn't seen before. Upon further inspection, I was more than horrified. I was more than horrified to recognize what it was, a razor blade. My eyes drifted back to the table. I didn't know if I was more terrified by what I just found or the fact that we were still in this house. It was then that I noticed some of the other contents that were in my child's bag. My heart dropped as my son's tiny little hand reached for more. Mason, no! My voice came out louder and harsher than I intended,

but it did the job. About a quarter of the unremarkable candy he had gotten was speckled with a red rust and golden fluid. I looked down at my hand, making sure it wasn't my own blood that I was seeing, but I hadn't moved it from my waist where it was wrapped in the loose fabric at the end of my shirt. I followed the trail until it ended,

right under a wax paper-like treat bag, the possibilities of what it could hold became more sinister by the second. My hands shook as I picked it up from the table, the paper wrestling innocently, as if it wasn't about to unearth the most terrifying thing possible. I peeked inside. A gag shuddered through my body as I recognized two bloodied, oozing, human eyes

disconnected from their sockets. There were too many terrible things for my brain to focus on for fight or flight to fully register in my system. I did my best to dull the adrenaline coursing through my senses, picked up Mason, his tricked treats left where they lay on the table, and made a beeline for the front door, all the while promising myself that if we could just get out of that front door and into our car, I'd buy Mason an entire damned candy aisle if he wanted. The woman, all but

forgotten until now, shot her hand out toward me, fingers wrapping tightly around my wrist as I grabbed for the doorknob. Then the world around me went white. I was taken back to a somewhat foreign scene, the familiarities of memory coming in slowly at first. It was a place I'd definitely been into before, but not for a long while. The pieces of the puzzle filling in with memories of my past. I saw myself wearing scrubs. I found myself fully conscious within my own body, yet powerless to intervene. A woman had come in, presenting with the middle stages of labor. Her face was dirty with a scar jutting upward from her top lip. Her body seemed medically and nutrition, ill-prepared for the task it was about to undertake. She admitted through painful huffs that

she hadn't been receiving prenatal care, and that the father was completely ignorant to the pregnancy. The labor was intensive, but nothing out of the ordinary for what I had assumed was a first-time delivery. In under eight hours, she had given birth to the most beautiful baby boy that I had ever seen. I recognized the familiar sadness well up within my heart as I remembered that Michael and I only had daughters and how I'd wanted a little boy since I was old enough to have children. That sadness melted before forging itself into a hardened, steely determination.

When she asked me to wheel her outside for a cigarette, a familiar hum of unease began to resonate through me, but I pushed it away. I chose to ignore it as I watched myself, inject her with the contents of a vial that was in a patient's pocket at the beginning of the shift, a patient who had been given Narcan to save his life. I don't know why I took it at the time,

but the reason was later revealed to me with the pregnant patient. My stride was straight and confident as I helped Michael put her unconscious body in the back of his vehicle. My voice didn't falter, as I explained to the night nurse that a woman had been seen earlier in the day that had given birth to a baby before fleeing the hospital with the child in tow. I was surprised at how convincing I was when I assured her that a report had been made with proper authorities and asked her to keep me informed of any updates. I was even more surprised at how willing she was to dismiss the situation with no questions asked or, were concerns shown, only gratitude that it wasn't her problem since it didn't happen on her shift. I smiled while installing the hospital-issued infant seat in the back of my car,

chuckling at how much the assembly had changed since our girls were babies. A new little life cooed along to my off-key singing as we drove to his new home, our home. A montage flashed of Michael and I, changing diapers, buying formula, marveling at how fast he grew out of his baby clothes, and all the other things that the first couple of years of life involves. The next vision was one of the discarded woman, waking up from a failed, ill-intended drug overdose. She was filled with haze at first, then quickly wailing for her stolen child. I watched her get arrested, her appearance and behavior making her nothing more than an undesirable disturbance.

I watched her being called a liar, a junkie, and a fraud, before being sent to the mentally ill ward of the facility. Then I watched as a piece of her died each day, accompanying the realization that the only path to a normal life was one where she, along with the rest of the world, denied her child's existence. By the time I snapped back to reality, Mason and her were hand-in-hand.

He glared at me. His tiny face scrunched into menacing features. And I wondered if she had shown him the same thing she had shown me. You can leave, she repeated. My son stays! The front door flew open at her final word, whipping the leaves on the stoop in a furious frenzy of chaos. Mason?

Come on, baby. Daddy's waiting for us at home. I said gently, holding my hand out toward him. Although it seems impossible, I swear his eyes flashed black. As I was pushed out the front door, my feet fumbled beneath me, barely able to keep up with the unseen force shoving into my back. Mason!

I yelled tears robbing my lungs of the urgency attempted in the word. Then I was outside, the night air biting into my face like tiny needles. My hands fumbled for my phone, desperate to call someone, anyone to report what had happened. I knew the police wouldn't help me. If anything, they'd lock me up like they did Mason's mother. Sobs racked through my chest as I trudged the long walk back to my now childless vehicle. I dreaded looking into the back seat and seeing his. little toddler seat there, cold and abandoned. However, that didn't happen. I was shocked to find

the back of my car empty. Heartbreakingly enough, the house wasn't much different. It seemed like each and every sign of Mason's existence had disappeared without a trace, scrubbed from my existence forever. It took me quite a while to convince Michael that I was. was telling the truth about what happened. He agonized for hours about how in the back of his mind he always knew this would happen. My husband and I rifled through the house for days, searching for anything left of our borrowed son. In the end, we were finally able to find one single photograph tucked into the mess of books on my husband's desk. It was from the day I brought Mason home from the hospital, and Michael held him for the first time.

But I noticed something I never had before. Michael and I were standing there, shining with pride as we regarded our perfect baby, one with round, black eyes. Thank you, caller. That's all from us tonight. Hopefully those pranksters got it out of their system, and we can get back to our regular dark deeds again tomorrow night. This is the creep, and you're listening.

to KREP today, tomorrow, and forever. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherylite 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 story's author.