Creepy - Day 25 - Nobody Gets Out Of This Extreme Haunt Alive

Episode Date: October 25, 2021

Alive...***Written by Olivia White and narrated by David Cummings***Link to Part 1 on the NoSleep Podcast (also available wherever you listen to podcasts on their free to all feed): https://www.thenosleeppodcast.com/episodes/extras/nosleep-podcast-sleepless-decompositions-vol-6***Bonus Episode: "Would you spend the night in the Yellow Room?" written by Gregg A. Alexander on ritual83.rip***Check out the Grim Harvest podcast at: https://grimharvestpodcast.com/***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Wait, don't skip forward. I know this is the part where we normally thank new patrons, and we'll get to that. But I just needed to tell you something quick. This episode is something special, a little bit of a dream of mine, as it's a collaboration with my favorite horror podcast, the No Sleep podcast. The story you're about to hear first was written as a part of a joint effort between creepy and No Sleep. What you're going to hear is actually part two of a story started over on No Sleep's Sleepless Decomposition Volume 6, which is available now for everyone over at the No Sleep podcast feed,

wherever you listen to podcasts. If you want to listen to this one first, by all means, but I strongly suggest checking out the story over there. Not just because I wrote and narrated it along with fellow creepy narrator Nate Bufort and the amazing talents at No Sleep, but because it'll save you a couple of spoilers that appear in this show.

I've added the link in the show notes, but like I said, you can find no sleep everywhere. Not only that, but they're ramping up for their 17th season, which is going to premiere on Halloween. There might also be a story from a familiar name on that episode, Anyway, make sure to check out the No Sleep Podcast and in particular Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 6, available to everyone. Okay, patrons. This podcast has made possible thanks to them.

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please check out the donation tiers at patreon.com slash creepy pod. Okay, one last thing. I know it's been a lot, but trust me, it's worth it. the weight if for no other reason than to hear about the Grimm Harvest podcast. The new podcast from our former producer, Steve Blizzen. Many of you know Steve is a long-time producer who recently stepped away to work on something new, along with a phenomenally talented T.W. Grimm, the author of the fan favorite tales from Henry's Farm series. They recently teamed up to create the Grim Harvest podcast, a horror anthology series that features fully produced audio dramas

and immersive readings by a single narrator. All the stories produced by Grim Harvest will either be the work of T.W. himself or curated by T. W. and Steve. for episodes featuring special guest authors. The first episode is now available on all your favorite podcast apps and make sure to subscribe to the GrimHarvest YouTube channel. You can also visit them at grimharvestpodcast.com and use the contact button if you'd like to ask a question

or even just say hello. They love to hear from you. The link's also in the show notes. I'm actually so excited for this. Now, 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. Presents the 31 days of horror. Day 25. Nobody gets out of this extreme haunt alive. Written by Olivia White and narrated by David Cummings. Never saw the point of horror for entertainment. Didn't as a kid?

Still don't now. Those shit machines, they can't get enough of it. couldn't get enough i guess when i was a kid i wasn't a fan because i found it too scary imagine that even as a teenager i was kind of frail sickly well not kinda very could barely leave my bed most days wasn't expected to survive past eighteen for some reason i always took that as i'd die on my eighteenth birthday like the doctors knew that as if my condition was one that guaranteed death 18 years to the day I was born. Hey, it's not as dumb as it sounds. Medical knowledge was a lot less advanced in 1842. People these days are fucking stupid, though. You can't deny it. Imagine, for instance, that you're some bored, middle-class white guy in his 20s, someone who's never been through shit. And because you've never been through shit, because you don't know what it's

like to suffer. You pay. You literally pay money to get your shit fucked up seven ways to Sunday to see how much punishment you can handle. And you call that, you call that horror entertainment, extreme haunts. They're incredibly popular, I found out. Take as much punishment as you can handle, see if you can win money you don't need. And there ain't nobody who wins the money. Nobody. ah people these days don't fucking listen you can't deny it imagine for instance that you're torturing some guy really going to town on him because he has information on the whereabouts of the one person you really love the one person you care about more than anything he has that information and you want it you need it his lackeys all they could say was sorry and if you're honest you don't try all that hard to get anything meaningful out of them you just wanted them to die in fear and oh boy even the cops that found the bodies they wouldn't know just how much fear these fellows died in but there's this one the boss man and you're doing things to him that no mortal man should be able to survive for a moment you wonder is he somehow but no no he's just really fucking lucky or fucking unlucky or fucking unlucky

lucky in this case. His muted pain receptors just mean he's gonna suffer for longer because there ain't no scenario where he gets unstrapped from this gurney you've, I've, let's not be to run the bush, there ain't no scenario where he gets unstrapped from this gurney I've got him on. And I'm pushing for the info I need, pushing and pushing and pushing. We've gone way past the fear now. Way past asking him, do you know, Allison. I promise to end things if he tells me where she is now, but he won't. Sure, he told me where they took her, claims it was just him. I know that's a lie. Shit stains like this rarely get their hands dirty. He's told me all this and can't grasp why it isn't enough. None of them could. They tell

me they dumped her in the ditch. I push for more. They repeat over and over. Hell, one of them even gave me map coordinates before I made him cut his own cock off. And I push for more info, and they're too stupid to get it, too dense. Even when I show them the truth, they don't put two and two together. Because these guys, they're like their clients, the bored middle class white guys in their 20s. Dudes who never really suffered. Never seen the true, real horror the world has to offer. So they can't even comprehend when I show it to them.

Just like they didn't comprehend what was going on at the haunt itself. Grief and anger alone doesn't cause a man in his 50s to take a preternatural amount of punishment without even fucking flinching. But they don't grasp it. So all they tell me is where they dumped Allison. And I'm starting to think, fuck, maybe they don't actually know any more than this. Maybe they really are that stupid. and in which case I'm back to square one. But that can't be right.

One of them had to know. One of them had to notice. The driver. He's the only one left. Could it really be him? That pasty, skinny motherfucker who didn't even have the balls to get involved in the torture? Really? Because it sure his shit wasn't the boss, Michael.

Just like the others, he thought I was pushing for an apology. An apology to my... To Allison. What the fuck do I care about apologies? I wanted to know where Allison is. I wanted to know where Allison is now. I want to know where Allison is. What more can I say?

We dumped her in this ditch. I'm literally pointing at the fucking spot. What more can I possibly tell you? The truth for a start. Why? Why? Why are you certain? I'm not telling the truth.

Because if you dumped Allison here, then where the fuck is she now? What the... You really are fully ass insane, huh, old man? How am I supposed to know where she is now? It was over a year ago. What usually happens to corpses over a year? Animals got her, she decomposed? Fuck, who knows?

This guy, the driver, he'd already explained exactly what happened from his perspective. It was the same story I dug up myself, and the same story each of the guys responsible had also told me, how Allison, using her Heather identity, had booked a spot on their extreme haunt, how she endured more than anyone they'd ever seen at the time, but then eventually just died. They realized she drowned, dry drowned, in fact, her lungs having filled with water during a prior waterboarding torture and only kicking in a bit later. This all made sense to me.

What didn't make sense was why she was still missing. They dumped her in the ditch, thinking they'd gotten away with murder. But it would have only taken a few hours at most for Allison to cough it up and snap out of it. I told the driver as much. What the fuck, man? No, please.

I swear to you, I'm sorry. more sorry than I can ever be, but please believe me. She died. She died and she was dead. I'm the one who called it. I'm the one with medical training. She had no pulse, no heartbeat. I checked her when we had her at the haunt.

I checked her in the van, hoping I made a mistake. And I checked her after we put her body in the ditch. She was dead, man. And I'm sorry if you're in denial or can't accept it. And I'm sorry that I can't tell you where her body is. It's not like we even tried that hard to hide it. Part of our cover story involved her getting discovered. She'd been beaten and smashed up and... You don't want to hear this, but it would have looked like she'd been hit by a car, fell into this ditch, and drowned in the

water that was here that night. Or something. I don't know. We're not... We're not the smartest guys. But fella, please, you need to accept the truth. truth, for your own sake. Kill me if you gotta, but being in denial that she's dead is going to torture you forever. That's definitely true. I sucked my teeth. He was right about one thing.

Being in denial would be bad for me, and there was only one possibility I was ignoring. But this idiot, he had no idea what he was talking about. So I figured it was time to stop being subtle, time to show him. Has it not struck you as strange that the two people to last the longest in your haunt just happened to be father and daughter? I hadn't really thought about it too hard, but I guess not really. Good genes, maybe, or you could be some of those mad survivalist types.

Oh, come on, you have medical training. You must have... I worked as a lifeguard for one summer in college, and I barely paid attention. I'm not house or some shit. Listen, you must at some point have questioned how either of us could take that much punishment. I did, but I never put two and two together at the time. Why would I? And I don't understand what you're getting at regardless. What would this prove? Okay, how about this? When did I come to your haunt? When did all this start? Fuck, I don't know. Just over two weeks ago now,

a couple of days before Blur died, before you killed him, I guess. It wasn't... I could tell from the expression on his face that something had clicked into place. I almost wondered if he was going to try to run. You were fucking destroyed when we were done with you. Barely alive.

And not only am I now, two weeks later, as fit as a fiddle, but I was clearly recovered enough to kill all your little pals over the course of the last couple weeks. And that just ain't normal. He flinched backward at my words, like the cowardly rat he was. I rounded in on him.

His back pressed against his truck, which I'd saw fit to drive here instead of one of my own vehicles. From my back pocket, I withdrew a switchblade. As I flicked it open, the driver cowered even more. I laughed. Watch. The sun had almost set, but there was enough light for him to observe my demonstration. An open palm, a quick slice. Then I used my other hand to hold him against the truck just long enough for him to see the wound begin to close.

I explained to him that we have a degree of control over delaying the healing process, and that there's some damage that takes longer to recover from than others, such as drowning, for example. but not that much longer, not more than, say, a few hours. Now, are you beginning to understand? The driver nodded, swallowing hard. You got extremely lucky with Allison. I imagine that once she'd beaten the haunt, she would have ended you all.

God knows she doesn't need the money. And by pure, dumb, idiot luck, you managed to knock her out in one of the few possible ways. But unless you're all refusing to tell me something, even in death, there is no way that the events of that night would have resulted in Allison's permanent forever death. You understand that, right? You understand that she and I and many others cannot be killed on a whim like that? You conceive of what you're dealing with here, yes? And you understand why I'm being so persistent? You're immortal or something? I don't know. No. And what we did to Allison couldn't have killed her, which means something else happened. Because she shouldn't be missing, am I right? I suppose. We're not immortal. It's fairly obvious what we are, if you think about it. Especially if I tell you that Allison isn't my daughter. She's my twin sister.

Again, realization dawned on the driver's face. And then... inexplicably, a grin. Holy shit. Holy shit, no way. Are you honestly genuinely not shitting me right now? I took a step back, puzzled. Once he realized what I am, he should have been even more afraid, just like the others had,

just like everyone did. But this guy seemed happy, excited even. The transformation didn't scare. him either. Instead, he was gazing at me now with a wide-eyed reverence. And then another shift in his expression, like a lightball that'd gone off over his head. Wait,

holy shit. So Allison was like you, right? Is like me. Okay, so do you like, know she's alive somewhere? Absolutely for sure. Like, some kind of magic power? Is it twin or vamp? Yes. Then I think, now that I know all this, I think I have a fucking theory of where she might be.

I'd not expected to find myself that night in the corner booth of a diner discussing my life's story with the man I believed responsible for Allison's disappearance. We talked of many things. I laid out the numerous reasons why someone might hold a vampire captive. I explained how bloodlines work and the connection between members of the same. same cabal. How this was strengthened, particularly between Allison and I, due to being twins. How Allison was turned in her early twenties, before she had a chance to succumb to the genetic condition that both of us suffered from. How I had believed her to have disappeared back then,

and yet somehow knew she was still alive. How she re-entered my life without having aged a day since I last saw her when, in my 50s, the condition began to take me too, how she turned me, and then a very truncated rundown of the subsequent century plus of our lives. Why father and daughter was a convenient lie, since, as was the case with these extreme haunt idiots, people assume that anyway. By the end of the story, the driver, whose name I had now discovered was Stu, was grinning ear to ear and acting like he had just heard the greatest story ever told. I could tell he was itching with questions. He'd just discovered that one of his all-time favorite horror movie monsters was real, after all,

but I'd given him all I was prepared to offer. Now it was his turn. So obviously I'd never once entertained the fact that Heather Allison wasn't actually dead. But there's this chick I heard about. I'd never ever put two and two together before. But now, now I know what I know. Despite the boiling in my blood telling me to rip his throat out here and now, I remained patient as he fumbled for the right words.

So I heard it as a rumor. And our busy stay in contact with other fixed haunts around the country, you know. And in the run-up to Halloween just passed, the one where you... You know, there was a buzz on the socials about a traveling haunt. Run by a real scumbag, apparently. Worse than Michael, if you can believe it. I was trying to steal all the folks' ideas and gimmicks. Never had any real success, but never gave up either.

And the buzz was that this year, duded it up his game, been bragging about it to other hot operators down in the Midwest, gave him a walkthrough, and they said the shit they saw was fucked up. And the one part that sucked with him the most was this chick, right? this chick had got working for him. And they said her show is, well, she'd hurt herself and take pleasure in it,

like real serious slicing and icing. And she'd do it all with this spaced out smile. And they said, you for real wouldn't be able to tell it was fake. And even they, the hardcore dudes who run these things, question what they were seeing. I'm failing to see the part where there's any indication at all that this could be Allison. So here's the thing. The rest of the hunt went on for about, say, 45 minutes. Then in the final room, out comes mistorture. Good as new, and the show ends with some doctor strapping her in a straitjacket or some shit. I don't know. I didn't pay much attention to the narrative strands of the haunt.

Typical hokey shit. But the rest of the guys, they were pretty wild about this chick. And wild about how this no-hoper had rigged up a show that believable. I could feel my rage building it. again. This was all ludicrously tenuous. Point! Reach it! My patience is running thin, and I'm thirsty. Stu grinned again, like this was the best experience of his goddamn life. This asshole! He was in the area of the night Allison came our way. Him and his whole stupid haunt. I remember because he came slinking by like he always does when he hits our patch, and Michael and the others chased him off with chainsaws we'd just gotten in.

But now he's got this slice and dice chick who can't die in his entourage, and he was in the area on the night we, the night she went missing. You got to admit it's compelling. To me, it felt like an extremely big reach. And yet it was more than the precisely zero I had otherwise. Fine, so give me the details on this guy and I'll go scout things out and see if he really does have Allison. Stu looked nervous and a little sly. Problem.

I give you the deeds. What's to stop you from tearing up my spine and beat me to death with it? Or whatever fucked up punishment you had in mind for me. I need some assurance. Insurance. I was legitimately unsure what I could offer him other than my word. But one look at his face told me he had something in mind. You got to turn me.

You gotta turn me and I'll come with you and we'll bust her out together. I mean, I'll practically be family then anyway, right? And you know, if you do decide to turn on me, at least I'll have a fighting chance. Plus, I gotta be honest, it's kind of a life goal. Horror's been my entire life. And now I find out that you're real? Come on, man. I can't pass this up.

Can you believe the fucking balls on the guy? Tortures my sister, dumps her on the roadside, thinks he's family. How about you tell me now, or I pull your fucking skin off and make you beg for me to kill you, and we'll go from there. He made some calls while I stared at a fat, juicy vein on the side of his neck. I drained the little fucker and left him in a ditch, just like he left Allison. It felt poetic. So here I sit, staring at the entrance. to the haunt. All the pathetic little meat bags waiting in line to see what they'll try and convince themselves it's just a show. If I didn't fill up already, I'd give them a real show.

She's in there. I can feel her. I can smell her. She's weak, but she's there. Just got to wait for the sun to set. And I guess we'll see if Stu follows my directions and shows up once he wakes. up. If he can obey orders despite a fuck of a headache and thirst that he doesn't understand. Kind of curious to see how that turns out, or if I'm going to have to finish what I started with him. Then, with or without him, I'm going to attend my second extreme haunt of the year, and I'm going to show them what I learned from Blur, Paul, Gaggs, Pete, and Michael. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, would you spend the night in the yellow room? Written by Greg A. Alexander on www.Ritual83.R.P.

I spent a lot of time in Warrington back in 2018. Mostly high, sometimes drunk. Moving from squat to squat. From back room to couch, I was somehow always able to find a place to sleep, despite not having a lease to my name for the duration of the year. The town treated me well. There was always a house party going, pub to drink at, floor to pass out on. I took full advantage of the kindness of strangers and the goodwill of friends.

It was in Warrington, though, that I began to hear talk of the yellow, room. It was something like a kid's dare but for grown-ups. Can you spend a night in the yellow room? Let's see how long you last. I had no idea what the hell the yellow room was, but I never met a dare that a couple of lines couldn't get me to try. I was at the horse and jockey with my friend Baz one night. Bass was a weird aging metal head with a taste for quailudes, but he was always a good laugh. We were down in some pines of something rancid when he mentioned he might have some work for me. Before my switch to full-time fuck-up, I'd trained as an electrician. Baz did some contract to work and floated me little gigs every now and again.

Nothing huge, but enough to keep me in booze and pills. He'd started laying out the deal when I overheard the words, Yellow and Room mumbled behind me. Immediately I turned around. A girl with a shaved head in what were either tattooed eyeballs or Halloween contact lenses with sat three bar stools away from us, chatting away with another lass with some kind of geometric design face tattoo. I turned back to Baz, it was clearly unimpressed that he lost my attention.

You want the gig or not, mate. Yeah, I just... I thought I heard one of those girls say something about the yellow room. He interrupted rolling his eyes. I keep hearing about it. What the fuck is it? He smirked a little and explained it to me. In the outskirts of Warrington, there's a big housing development. Or rather, should be a big housing development.

The company that was putting it together went bust in the 2008 financial crisis, leaving a big empty lot. save one house. This was supposed to be the model home, the one that estate agents would show potential buyers in order to get them to sign on the dotted line. It stood empty ever since the owner's filed for bankruptcy, ignored and forgotten.

Its future probably a footnote at the bottom of some 20,000-page legal document that no one's ever read. This house has gotten a bit of a reputation. Well, I was initially a bit of a destination for Tramps to junkies, and other near-do wells. They apparently stay the hell away from the place nowadays. One of the big reasons seems to be the yellow room. So the paint in the place is, or at least was, white.

That's everything, from skirting boards to walls, just pristine white. One room, however, had inexplicably been given a yellow door. It's one of the bedrooms towards the back of the house on the first floor, overlooking a giant patch of grass where 20 other houses were supposed to have stood. Something about this room scares the fuck out of people. So, of course, there's a dare. Can you spend a night in the yellow room? Let's see how long you last.

It took me an hour and a half to convince Baz to drive me out to the house. Took me another 20 to get him to promise to come pick me up in the morning. The front door of the house was closed. but unlocked. So I made my way inside, keeping an eye out for any security cameras or anything else that might cause me any trouble. Walking inside, I saw some graffiti takers who got into the walls already. I saw names, swear words, accusations of promiscuity and crude depictions thereof tattooed on the walls of the model home. Slowly I walked through the house, finding the staircase and carefully ascended.

The stairs creaked and buckled under my weight, but I made it up without a problem. Upstairs was more the same. Spray paint tags all over the walls in the upstairs corridor, leaving all the way down the hall, stopping about six feet before the last door, the yellow painted door on the far right-hand side. I twisted the handle and opened the door to the yellow room

and stepped inside. The following is my attempt at explaining what happened to me inside the room. I had the voice notes app on my phone all the time when I was in there. So I recorded myself talking. Some of the things I said in the voice recording conflict completely with what I remember happening. When there's a conflict, here's whatever accounts seem more plausible. 10.45 p.m. I entered the yellow room.

I found myself standing inside a bedroom, like a student's bedroom at a desk and a bookcase and a bed. There's no graffiti on the walls here, which I noted as odd. It was on almost every wall in the rest of the house. I eyed the bed. I was feeling like I could get sleepy in the next couple hours. I wondered if it was comfy. I hoped no one had fucked on it.

11.05 p.m. I realized that I had spent a lot of time. last 20 minutes staring out the bedroom window, watching two rats fight violently over what look like a chocolate digestive biscuit in the field outside the house. 11.06 p.m. I screamed as I turned around, and the haggard face behind me stared into my eyes. I felt like an ass when I realized that haggard face was, in fact, mine. I had noticed that there was a mirror on the wall of the room when I came in. Fuck!

I cackled. Then I heard the creak. Turning around again, I realized that I'd left the door to the room slightly ajar. Something in me decided that would be against the spirit of the yellow room dare to keep the D-O-O-R open. So I decided to close it. As soon as I did, it creaked open again. So much for that. I sat on the bed.

It felt cold. I reached down to feel the blanket. It felt damp. I stood up again. My jeans were wet. I felt sick. 12 a.m. Midnight chimed.

My ass was slowly drying off. I looked out the window again and saw that there were the dogs sitting on the field, looking back at me. I turned around, expecting to see my face in the mirror again, but the mirror was so filthy that I couldn't see anything in it. I swear that just an hour previously, I could see my own features as plain as day. 12.10 a.m. I looked through the crack in the door at the corridor outside. I wondered about the graffiti in the corridor and wondered why it seemed to stop some six feet before this room. My nausea started kicking in again.

My stomach was churning. Something fell tight in my throat. I heard a dripping noise. I scanned the room looking for the source, but finding nothing. 12.45 a.m. The dog had gone. Outside the window, all I could see was the empty field.

The grass was swaying in the breeze, lit only by the moon. The dripping noise had only gotten louder. I looked around the air. yellow room trying to find the source. My eyes glanced back at the bed, and I saw that water was dripping off the blanket draped on top of it. I padded my jeans, noticing that they'd managed to dry off. I looked out the crack in the doorway. The far wall of the corridor seemed further away than before. My stomach was in knots. I dropped to my knees and began to dry heave, but nothing

came up, 1 a.m. There was a man in the field. I could see him clearly through the window. He was dressed in a large brown overcoat and a pair of blue jeans. His face was angular and stern. He made no movements, simply staring up at me from the field outside. 11.15 a.m. I considered smoking the emergency joint I brought with me in my pocket to try and take the edge

off my nausea. I decided against that when I looked out the door again and saw nothing outside, not the wall, not the corridor, not even darkness. There was nothing outside the room, 1.20 a.m. The window was gone. The window had been taken away, 1.30 a.m. The power came on in the house. The overhead light in the yellow room switched on immediately. I don't think the model house had ever been connected to the power grid, and if it had, it would have been disconnected years ago.

Now the light was on. I could see details in the room I hadn't noticed before. The walls each had small holes drilled into them, some at eye level, some much lower. I tried to peer through one but couldn't see anything. I also noticed that the far wall facing the bed was actually not there. and had never been there. And why did I think there was a wall there to begin with? Clearly, the bedroom was much larger than I thought.

I stepped around the bed to investigate the rest of the room and found it to be completely empty. When nausea was joined by a distinct feeling of sorrow, I felt sad that there was nothing in this part of the room, that it was empty and ignored, 1.45 a.m. There was a man watching me through the crack of the door. I couldn't see much aside from his wither, deep-set eyes.

I stared back at him until he went away. 2 a.m. I wish that the window was still there. I knew I could climb out and probably survive the drop to the ground outside. I thought I could take my chances with the man or the dog or the biscuit rats if I needed to. but I couldn't stay in this room much longer. The steady drip, drip with water from the bed had become a trickle. I walked to the bed and felt the blanket.

My hand passed through it like water. The blanket was dripping away. The bed was dripping away. Everything was dripping away. There was nothing left. But the room. I reached for the room. joint in my pocket. I had no clue what to do otherwise. Instead, I pulled out a child's severed

finger. I did not smoke at 2.10 a.m. The nausea in my stomach became a shooting pain. I dropped all fours again and I threw up everything in my stomach. When I glanced down, I saw nothing but red. I looked up at the walls of the yellow room. They pursed like lips. Then I folded open and grinned. I looked up at the walls of the yellow room. My iPhone went dead somewhere around this time. All I remember past this was a bright glowing light my friend Baz standing over me.

I was in the yard outside the model house. I'm told that I'm the person who's lasted the longest in that room. Or at least the person who's lasted the longest without dying. I was in the hospital about a week. I couldn't stop throwing up. I couldn't keep anything at all down. Three days of IVs pumping fluids in my body and I was able to eat soft foods. A few days later I was fine to leave, crashing in Baz's back room until I was able to find myself a room to rent on my own.

Every now and again, I wake up or come to, and I know that I'm in the wrong place. I look up at the ceiling above me and notice that the ceiling's a few inches higher than it should be. Perhaps one of the pictures on the wall is missing. Or the couch that I'm sleeping on is pulsating. It takes me a few minutes, but I always come back to what I understand as reality. I spent the night in the yellow room, and now I'm carrying a tiny sliver of it with me. For even more from creeping, including how to serve. 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 used under license and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of the story's author. Please contact us at creepypod at gmail.com for further information on obtaining. the rights necessary to rebroadcast or distribute a particular story.