Creepy - Day 24 - Erma May & Casket Girls

Episode Date: October 24, 2023

Erma May***Written by: AJ Horvath and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Bonus Episode: "Casket Girls"***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***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.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing 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. who would never throw anything away.

It didn't matter if it was broken, dirty, falling apart. If he wanted to keep it, he did. I was removed from the house once my aunt found out that we had been living without heat or running water for six months during a rather wicked cold spell in my home state of Michigan. My aunt, bless her heart, raised us. But she was 15 years my father's senior, so her limited energy sometimes stunted us as kids.

She did her best, and I will never forget the sacrifices she had made for us. I resented my father for a long time, not understanding how the stuff was more important than I was. I got curious and looked into what he had been doing and realized it was a disease, a condition that took over his brain and caused irrational behavior that the average person would never consider. My father was a good man at first, but my mother's unexpected death when I turned five caused the poor fellow to spiral down into the depths of

depression, and then, of course, the hoarding began. It's funny how quickly you can just get used to piles of boxes, heaps of clothes, and stacked furniture, all of reaching the ceiling. You become what professionals say, clutter-blind. I remember just before my eighth birthday, a large stack had come loose and fell on me, breaking my wrist in two places. My father had brought me in and said I had fallen on my bike and the doctors didn't bat an eye at the explanation. I had to wear an itchy, uncomfortable cast for weeks, resenting the growing

mounds that my father kept well-stocked with his new purchases. When my father ran out of money, he would take to dumpster diving. The town all knew him as Rick the Raccoon, as he spent time rummaging through the town garbage cans for treasure. Many years of therapy, as well as my own natural curiosity, helped me to come to terms with my father's illness, and set me on the path to become the doctor I am today. My father passed before I could help him with his illness. He died surrounded by his eight-foot-high piles of junk from an apparent heart attack. I may not have had the best relationship with him. However, I was devastated to learn that the condition of the house was never addressed, and he never truly grieve the loss of his beloved wife. That brings us to today. Another client has been added to my

growing list, as I have started to gain quite the name for myself in the field. I had seen many different types of cases from collectors to non-wasters, animal hoarders and over-sentimental hoarders, and of course, just your garden variety hoarder which doesn't really fall into the other categories, or such a mix of them that we don't even really attempt to classify them. I have helped numerous clients clean up their acts, so to speak, and help create a better household environment and work on repairing their mental health. This can be difficult as hoarders can be set in their ways, struggling for what control they have left, which is the hoarding of their items. It takes patience, dedication, and a firm grasp on human psychology. Not every story is a success

story. I have had many who refuse to help themselves. Those we have helped to clean out their homes, only to find out upon checking up with them a few months down the road, they have started bringing in more and more junk. Each case is unique, and there are times when even I can be surprised. By the ingenuity of a hoarder, the rationalizations they have for the many items they need to keep, and the level of filth they can live in and not even bat an eye. The case of Irma Mae Wolford is one I will never forget. For those reasons. but for one so unique, so horrendous, that it still makes me shudder when I think about it.

It was July 22nd, a hot and sticky summer day in Michigan. I stood outside the home of Irma Mae Wilford, a 63-year-old woman who had lived in her home for 40 years, raising two kids throughout that time, and surviving her husband of 20 years, as he had passed from a liver disease back in the 80s. This was when Irma May's hoarding really kicked into high gear. Jimmy's old clothes, tools, and other items became as valuable as gold, and Irma Mae did not have the heart or mind to throw them out.

Irma May and Jimmy had spent their 20 years raising their kids in collecting cookie jars. Something they both loved, and Irma May made it her mission to continue their collection in his memory. In the past five years, Irma May's health had deteriorated significantly, and her mobility has been a huge issue for her and her family. She desperately needed knee surgery, but could not recover at home, nor could cover the cost of a separate medical care center to care for her during recovery. She had resigned herself to half climbing, crawling, to get even a few feet, rarely ever leaving her sagging recliner, which served as her dining room table, bed, and leisure spot. Her kids were growing worried with Irma May's declining health in the increased vandalism on the home. The neighborhood kids had taken to tagging the home, writing messages such as crazy old bitch and filthy old coot on the outside of her house. Windows had been broken on many occasions as the kids found destroying her home an amusing pastime.

She finally got the nerve to call the police when she thought a group of hoodlums actually had broken into her home. The police responded, but seeing the degree of filth and clutter in unsanitary conditions, they took action against her. There was nothing found to signal any break-in, and she was giving an ultimatum by the city to clean up, or they would forcibly remove her from her home. She didn't know what else to do and was desperate, which is usually when I, or another professional, are called in to assist. Her dilapidated ranch home seemed to loom in front of me.

Its window stared at me, resigned, sagging into the tired face of the home. The smell hit me at the small path that led from the sidewalk through the knee-high grass and weeds that dangled over the pathway, ineffective in their own effort to block off access to the house. The tan, faded siding was discolored in many areas. The remnants of neighborhood kids' graffiti still evident on her home. I grimaced as I stepped on to the porch,

which seemed to sink a good foot down as I made my way up to the front door. A sign hung lopsided on the front door that read, Home Sweet Home. I straightened the front of my shirt and prepared to knock on the door. The door opened before my hand reached it. The sound of crunching paper, clinking metal, were followed by a small yet firm voice. Who are you? What are you doing here? The shadow-faced questioned. What was visible of its eyes squinted in apprehension.

Hello, I'm Dr. Juarez. We talked on the phone the other day? I replied, putting on my well-practiced psychologist voice. Soft and soothing, many clients feel much more at peace and accepting of what is to come when you remove judgment and demeaning tone. I mean, who wouldn't? The door opened only a few inches more, and the old, weathered face of Irma came a bit more in view. Her soft brown eyes looked tired, defeated, and run down. The wrinkles on her face read more like an 80-year-old woman, not the 63-year-old she actually was.

She gave a toothless grin that seemed more like a grimace and sighed. Oh, yeah, Dr. Horace. I had almost forgotten about our appointment. Time gets away from me nowadays. She said trailing off, her eyes staring past me. Don't forget to speak up. My hearing isn't that great, and I'm sorry to say I lost my hearing aids in the house somewhere a few months back. That is certainly okay, Mrs. Wilford.

I'm here to help, just like we discussed in our own. Our phone calls, I explained. It was quite normal, for the first few sessions I held with a client to be strictly over the phone. Many do not leave their homes or do not do so without a good reason. Irma May and I had gotten to know each other over the phone, and she expressed her fear of losing more in her life, especially after she lost Jimmy. She also didn't want to live this way anymore. And that, all with the threat of losing her home, drove her to make the call for help.

Oh, where are my manners? The woman spat out, angry at herself. Please, come inside. It's a tight squeeze. Be careful. Her eyes were wary as I made my way through the crack in the front door. The smell was even stronger.

Mix of decay, mold, rot, mildew, urine and feces. All smells I had experienced before in other cases. This one, however, was unique in the fact that there was a sweet, cloying smell that seemed to permeate the typical hoarder perfume, as I've come to call it. My eyes took in the scene. A small path wound its way through the piles of possessions. Boxes, clothes, furniture, knick-knacks were piled as high as the ceiling in some points.

And we stood a good two feet off the ground, treading on a well-worn pile of trash and who knows what else. She explained that this was the living room, but she never used it anymore. After a bit more maneuvering, she showed me her chair, the center of her world for the past few years. It was once a nice, sturdy recliner, but its years of misuse and its current state of being covered in dust, dirt, and feces, had left it well beyond its days of usefulness. As we moved through the house, I watched as at least six different cats scampered and scuttled into their well-known and well-used hiding spaces. The smell continued to intensify as we were. we made our way toward the back of the house. The sweet smell evolved and stayed lodged in my sinuses.

The piles just continued as we stopped briefly at her bathroom. Her head hung in shame as she explained that she had no water, therefore, had begun using diapers. This isn't an issue in itself, usually. However, she left the used diapers piling up in the mildew-covered tub next to the sink filled with a murky, almost oily black water that stood stagnant in the dimly lit room. tears had brimmed in Irma May's eyes, and she hung her head as we made our way back to the back of the house which held the kitchen and small mudroom. The back door was completely blocked by a large china cabinet, numerous boxes, and other bags filled with various clothing and other fabrics.

The sink sat full of dishes, the pile exceeding a couple feet in height. Each pan, plate, and cup stacked precariously, as if any small move would topple it over. The cobwebs of the home were the most impressive I had seen. Inches thick in some places, made even more menacing by the dust that had accumulated on the thick strands. Movement caught my eye again as a large rat scurried across the counter, followed quickly by a skinny black cat, sporting a gaping hole where one of its eyes should be. I knew I was going to have to have the animals taken, and I wasn't looking forward to that conversation. Cockroaches crawled over the surface of everything in the kitchen, moldy bread, jars of unlabeled, unidentifiable food,

were stacked on the counters and laying haphazardly on the floor. According to May, the fridge hadn't worked in a few years, and I was loath to look inside. To my surprise, it wasn't just rotten food. The decaying remains of a lively colony of squirming, pulsing maggots covered its surface. The plume of rotten decay burned into my nostrils, and I used my well-practice mental techniques to avoid vomiting in front of Irma Mae. We made our way back to the front door with some difficulty

and took a seat in the rusting metal chairs on her tiny front porch. As we did, a group of kids drove by slowing down long enough to yell out, crazy bitch. Their laughter fading as they peeled out. Tears welled up in Irma May's eyes, and she played nervously with her fingers, which had been sitting in her lap. I don't want to be this way, doctor. I just don't know what to do. I'm scared. Irma May admitted, staring down at her fidgeting fingers.

I know, Irma May. And that is what I'm here to do, to teach you a new way to do things. Help you get a fresh start. Does that sound okay to you, Irma? Yes, it sure does. She choked on her tears at that moment, and I gently took her wrinkled hand in mine. We finished a sky. the rest of the week's plans, which included a professional organizer and a large crew of

of ten people who were going to help clear out the house, with her permission, of course. We hugged, and I left feeling like she was ready to do this, although I did expect some emotions to run high when we got to items from her late husband. I texted Tracy, the professional organizer to confirm her 8 a.m. arrival tomorrow, and read my emails when we got home from my visit with Irma May. My email confirmation for the work crew was in my inbox so I was ready to go. I slowly peeled off my clothes and threw them directly in the washer. The smell clung to my clothes, even during the short period I had been in Irma May's home. I made a mental note to wear some older clothes tomorrow that could be worn and tossed after the day's work. The sky was

overcast as I pulled my sedan over to the side of the road near Irma May's house. I noticed Tracy's signature silver minivan just across the road. Turning off the car, I checked for traffic, and made my way across the street to her van. She got out just as I got close. Morning, Alex, she grinned, pulling me into a warm hug. Good to see you, she added, letting go and stepping back. We both turned and took in the house. From the outside, it looked run down in indefinite need of some TLC, but it was the inside

they were more concerned with today. Their thoughts were invaded by the sounds of airbreak stopping, the three large junk trucks pulled up in a neat line. In a matter of minutes, the group stood in a semicircle, facing Dr. Juarez, and the shrunken figure of Irma Mae. Her kids, Johnny and Becky, stood to her left, ready to help, ready to see their mom live a better, safer life. After a brief rundown, we had explained to Irma May that due to the contaminants

and some biohazard materials, we would need to wear suits and masks to stay safe. I felt her shoulders tense as I explained that animal control was going in first to get the cats and have them taken for treatment. She nodded, her face grave. We prepared the shovels, bins, and other necessary tools, and proceeded to suit up as animal control worked to capture

the six cats that Irma May had kept in her home. Julius, sprinkles, baby girl, Donna Sue, Blackie and Arthur were captured and taken for care and Irma May took time at each cage to give them her love, soothed their fears, and tell them goodbye.

She spent the longest with Blackie, the cat I had seen chasing its prey through the kitchen. Irma May got up from speaking to Blackie, her red, wet eyes searching the yard blindly. Her son and daughter held her, their eyes brimming with tears for their mother. The animals were taken to be cared for and put up for adoption, and we set to work, clearing out Irma Sue's home.

Bins of compacted refuse, destroyed furniture, papers, cups, and cans were passed out of the house almost as quickly as they were emptied. Irma May told the kids they could throw away anything that was broken, covered in filth, or obvious trash, but she wanted to see anything else, which is quite normal for a hoarder. The biohazard team showed up about an hour into cleanup and made quick work of the bathroom, cleaning up the heaping pile of used diapers from the dirty bathtub. Jars of urine and other items were pulled from the cramped space, revealing the first of our tragedies. Three small kittens were curled in a permanent fetal position, dead for quite some time.

Irma May had no idea they'd even been there. These weren't the first, unfortunately. We found three more cats in various states of decomposition, not to mention the dozens of rat and mouse carcasses. The stench permeated our masks as we unearthed years of waste, unsettling dust, dander, and fecal matter with each shovel of debris. It was nearing the end of the day, and we cleared out the first two rooms. Over two tons of refuse had been removed from the home,

and Irma May was not able to salvage most anything in the front. front two rooms, and she wept quietly to herself throughout the day. We planned on tackling the remaining rooms tomorrow, which included her bedroom, the kitchen, and the back muddrum. We made our goodbyes, and I drove home with a nagging sense of apprehension in regards to the work for the next day. I let the warm water of the shower run over my body for a few minutes before my meticulous cleaning regime began.

Something I found helped me physically and mentally clear away the filth and emotions of a cleaning day. Exhausted, I was asleep before I hit the pillow. The second day of cleanup began quickly, and with little chatter as we were determined to clear out the remaining rooms in the house so that our mammae would no longer be in danger of losing her home. The fridge was too heavy to move with its contents inside. Believe me, we tried.

The crew chose two of the workers with the strongest stomachs to empty out the maggot-ridden food. We left them to it, as the gagging noises they produce. had caused a handful of other workers to throw up. We had Irma Mae and her daughter in her room, sorting through her possessions so she did not have to see the reactions of the crew. With the fridge emptied as well as a few stomachs, we plunged into the room with shovels and bins. Cockroaches and mice scrambled trying to hide as they were uncovered.

Cans of food over ten years expired were tossed quickly into the bins and brought out to the waiting junk trucks. With all that could be salvaged from Irma May's room, the family took a break outside as we finished the kitchen and her bedroom. Irma May had been devastated at the condition of her home, as large holes in the floor and walls were revealed, as we removed the years of filth and debris. We found an additional litter of kittens.

All dead and decayed. Their small bodies curled and withered. I suggested a break before we tackle the back room and everyone agreed. I sprung for some pizza for the family and crew, and Irma May genuinely smiled and laughed as we talked. talked about the cleanup. The possibilities opened her and now that her house was almost clear. We wrapped up the trash, throwing it in the conveniently located junk truck. Due to the small space, only a couple workers could begin pulling out the trash and furniture from the mudroom. As they

pulled the items out, the sweet rotting odor became even stronger. It hung thick in the air. The smell assaulted my nose as I was walking Irma May and her family through the cleaned-out areas of the home. She cried, tears of happiness as she saw each room cleared. There was work to be done, but the filth, the trash, and the clutter was gone. Reaching the back room, a young worker almost knocked her over as he pushed past. Ripping the mask off his face and unleashing the contents of his stomach. A pale-faced worker I knew as Daniel, walked up to me and whispered in hush tones. I asked Irma and her family to stay back with Daniel as I went to look into the muddrum. There was no way what he had

described was there. Not in the years I had been a doctor had I come across anything like this. He had to be mistaken. He needed to be. I walked with determination. Ready to be able to laugh about this. Ready to find a true explanation. As I hit the doorway to the mudroom, I realized that wasn't going to be possible. In front of me, the china cabinet had been moved in the body of a young boy. he looked to be about eight or nine lay on the floor. I heard a shriek and heard a loud thump behind me. It had been Irma. She had seen the boy and passed out from shock.

The ambulance came to pick up Irma to be looked at as the fall caused her to hit her head. The police were called as well and an officer accompanied her to the hospital to get more information, and another stayed with the crew and I at the house. A majority of the crew were able to leave quickly as they had not seen any of the mudroom nor touched any of its contents.

Daniel, the young worker who I discovered was named Tony, and myself were held back for further questioning. I shivered as I watched them collect the remains of the poor boy and zip him into a blue body bag. This type of day wasn't going to wash away in the shower. I found out later that the young boy had been missing for three months. This was around the same time the police had been called to her home about a possible break-in by some of the neighborhood kids. His name was Al Rivis, and he was a local student and athlete.

He was known to be a bit rowdy, but that is how most boys his age are, just wanting to show off and fit in. The police questioned his friends and the floodgates were opened. They admitted to messing with Irma May's house, writing obscenities and breaking windows. It was an initiation, a dare. Everyone was trying to outdo one another. Al thought he would do the most daring thing he could think of. Go inside and steal a few pictures of the inside of this crazy lady's house. When he didn't come out, the kids were too scared to say anything to their parents, so they sat in silence.

They lied to the police when they asked them if they knew where Al was. The autopsy report indicated that he died due to blood loss. A sharp piece of debris had impaled him in the stomach when he fell. His death was far from quick. They believe he may have tried to call for him. for help, but with Irma May's missing hearing aids, she could not hear his pleas, and as more blood was lost, so was his ability to fight for help. Irma May could not forgive herself, and we were forced to commit her. She spoke often of killing herself, that she would rather be dead than that

young boy, even though he was one of the group that had been terrorizing her. The house was condemned and is set to be demolished in the next week. This was one of those cases that we were. This was one of those cases that stick with you as a doctor, one of the ones that you will never forget. They say that smell triggers memories the most, and that is why that sweet, cloying smell will forever stay with me. For that was not typical hoarder perfume. That was the rotting flesh of a young boy, gone far too soon. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents,

Casket Girls. Ever you're the term brackish water, or brackerel? water. Basically, it's slightly salty water caused by salt water meeting freshwater. It happens at the base of the Mississippi River in Louisiana. I'd never heard the term until the first time I went to New Orleans on vacation, before I moved here permanently, before the casket girls changed my life. New Orleans is brackish beyond the water, though. Two worlds collide all over, Nola, ways people see things in the ways they don't. Bourbon Street and Tramay.

Oak Alley Plantation and the Whitney. Cafe Dumont and every other place you can get bignets that are just as good if not better and you don't have to wait in line for an hour to get them. You can have red beans and rice at original pierma sparrows and not notice the hidden floor above you. The one too short for people to stand up in. I had plenty of room to chain them up in. You can see the word exchange etched in the building across the street and not think about what word was sandblasted out next to it.

But you go ahead and guess what used to be exchanged there. Null is a place, a swirling history, as temperamental as the weather. The truth lies in those who endure the storm, not the ones who only show up for the sun. I fell in love with this place when I first visited. The only love at first sight I ever felt. The food, of course, but the feel, too. Walking along the broken and slanted sidewalks under a thick canopy of trees. Like a world completely content with nature taking over again.

Bourbon Street for the occasional shock of tourist energy. Then to Magizan Street for the real good eating. Random jazz bands meander and by. The event of Sunday brunch. I've always been a Halloween over Christmas sort of guy. I know the masks here aren't the same thing, but there's a thickness in the air. Maybe it's spirituality I've never known. Her ghosts have never really believed in.

All of it just felt right to me. The darkness, too. There's a vibe, no doubt. Maybe it felt this way before Katrina, but I don't know. They don't bury their dead here because of the water levels. It's all crypts. generations of bodies that had turned a little more than soup floating around in the floods. This is a place literally covered with the dead.

There's something else here. Sitting just outside what we can see. The hidden bars, the occult underbelly, not just the voodoo shops and fortune tellers in Jackson Square, the people who masquerade all year round. This is where I first heard about the casket girls. They arrived in 1728, arriving in the port of New Orleans. A group of young women touched dry land for the first time in six months, chancing the passage

across the Atlantic Ocean, carrying with them the only belongings they were allowed to carry, a small, coffin-shaped casket to hold whatever belongings they could fit inside. These weren't just any women. They had been hand-picked for the Bishop of Quebec, following orders from the King of France to be matched with French colonists in the bustling new Louisiana colony. I can only imagine what they must have thought stepping into the mud and filth of the streets at that time, all eyes on them, not just because they were new, but because of their pale skin. The Frenchmen all muttered about how pale the women were as they found their would-be brides.

skin more like porcelain doll than skin that had ever seen their blistering subtropical sun. These were the fillets alacassette. If these women were hoping for better lives, they were out of luck. Some were forced into unwanted marriages with abusive men, others had no choice but prostitution. Meanwhile, the sisters of the Ursuline convent were given the task of caring for the caskets the young women had with them, storing them on the third floor at the convent at 1112 Roushartreys. Still a popular stop for haunted tours to this day.

One such tour is where I first heard about them. Story goes that at some point the nuns returned to the third floor and found that all the chests were completely empty. Not had been allowed to the third floor, and their fear of intruders led to the doors of the third floor being bolted shut, and nails, supposedly blessed by the point. Hope himself were used to seal the windows. All the while, the whispering started. Like all stories from history, they changed shape and pick up flavor over the years.

And Noel has never been a place short of flavor. So it didn't take long for people to come up with their own answers and explanations for what went on. Vampires. Of course they did. I'm sure I scoffed during the tour. Who believes in vampires? I was drinking at a little dive on St. Charles when Michelle approached me. I'd officially moved about four weeks prior,

and I spent most of my nights walk in the streets, trying to learn them and find my place there. She asked me if I was new in town, and my hooker radar lit up. Not real interested in getting myself involved in that sort of thing. I must have went pretty cold at the question, because she laughed at me as she sat down. She ordered another round and said she was a tour guide with one of the haunted tours. She'd seen me on a couple of them, noticed me checking out some of the ghost books, a Reverend Zombies shop.

She asked me if I believed in ghosts. I said no. She asked me how about aliens? And I think I laughed. Vampires? No. That seemed to surprise her. She asked why, if I didn't believe, did I go on the tours?

But I didn't really have a good answer. They were fun. There weren't any stories like that where I came from. I just kind of like dipping my toe into that world, even if it wasn't real. Michelle didn't care for that answer. Said that was a coward's approach to anything. Like agnostics refusing to land on one side or the other, thinking they could just shrug through without the big decisions really affecting them.

Can't say I really cared for a complete stranger wandering up to me and judging me. So I put some money on the bar, excuse myself, and headed out. I was in that place between the air conditioning and the humid night air when it all went black. At first I thought the power had gone out. Then I panicked, thinking I went blind or even dead. But then I felt the pressure on my back. My head rocked against something wood. I tried to raise my hands to my face, but they were stuck against something close to my chest.

At some point I realized I was in a box. I'm not sure if I was willing to believe it was a grave. All kinds of things go through a person's head. Am I dead or alive? Am I just stuck in a box or am I buried in a grave? Can anyone hear my screams? Answering in order, No, no, yes, no, yes.

I wasn't dead, but I wasn't. I wasn't alive anymore. I was in a casket, in a room that had been completely sealed from the world, and there were three people there to hear my screams. They leave me alone during the day while they sleep. Nights are for feeding, either on one of you or me. It hurts. I'll tell you that.

Feeling their teeth sink in like pinky thick syringes. It burns when they take my blood. More like mosquitoes than I would have thought. I don't know if they can't turn me completely or if they just don't want to. Michelle treats me the most lovingly. The other two won't even tell me their names. They say I need to earn that. I need to bring them more.

Until then, I'm just Michelle's pet. That's what I do, you see. I bring them you. I bet I have at least one of you right now. One of you will be interested in the casket girls enough to take the tour, to hear the story, to find yourself lost in the feel of no-alon a warm night. You'll close your eyes as the breeze flickers across your skin,

and when you open your eyes again, you'll think you've gone blind. You might wonder why I don't run. I can be out in the day after all, right? But it's in me. This place is in me. They are in me. This is where I'm meant to be, whether you believe it or not.

Because I was dipping my toe in. I was more susceptible. I didn't reject the burning in my veins. The pain as my life was drained from me one drop at a time. See, they don't actually care if you believe. Just because you don't believe doesn't make a thing stop existing. Like any other thing, people aren't sure really exists, be it Bigfoot, vampires, or some omniscient deity.

It isn't about believing with your whole person, because it's in the back of your mind. The what-if of it all that keeps a whole lot of people coming back. Back to the woods. Back to haunted tours. Back to places of worship. They're looking for someone who wants to test the waters. Feel a little charge at the idea of it all. Push yourself a little further than sensible people would.

And when you do, they might just sit down next to you at a bar and ask if you're new in town. 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 Shera-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production. team and the story's author.