Creepy - Day 25 - Wellness Check & The Backrooms

Episode Date: October 25, 2022

Wellness Check***Written by: Paul Caseley and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***The Backrooms***Written by: Samantha Ryan***Tickets for the "Creepy" live show can be purchased at: https://bit.ly/BloodyFM***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. 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 biocations of biocations. Silence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 25. Wellness Check. Written by Paul Casley. And narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. As a police officer in Ontario, I have had to take part in numerous welfare checks.

lately they've become a source of concern to some people because it isn't always just a walk-in and chat we are empowered to bring people into the hospital or other institutions if they're exhibiting signs of self-harm or severe mental illness still for the most part when i go in to check on a loved one of a concerned friend or relative i simply talk to them for a while give them a contact number and leave Most of the time those I visit are safe, and the person has just been overly quiet for a while. I tend to see a lot of elderly people who live apart from other families. Their grown child repeatedly tries to call them and there is no answer. Finally faced with being unable to make it from their home to their loved one in a timely manner, they call us instead.

That was the kind of wellness check that I was running when I met Donald Wilson. I had been with the force about four years by this point. Not a rookie, but not really fully seasoned yet. The family of Mr. Wilson had been trying to contact him for about three days, and there was a definite travel issue as their father lived in London, Ontario, and they were in Cornwall. This made the trip over 600 kilometers, or about six and a half hours to drive. If Donald was in dire straits, they would probably arrive too late,

and if not, they had wasted a day in travel. As a result, the family called London police and asked us to looking on him. The house itself was fairly well kept. The fact that he was still living in his own house, despite being 87 years old, told me that he had been physically able to care for things, at least until recently. That, or he had hired people to look after his yard, who would probably need payment and would have called if they found him unable to look after himself. Still, I put myself in the place of his family and understood completely that I would be concerned as well.

With that in mind, I knocked on the Wilson's door. Several minutes passed without me being able to hear anyone walk to the door or any voice within. As a result, I started to walk around the house and peered in through the windows. Along the back of the home, I could see a glow of a television set. One of those fairly large ones popular in the late 1990s. Through the window, I could faintly hear whatever program was on. I thought I could see someone sitting on a chair in front of it. I watched for several minutes but couldn't see anyone moving.

At this point, I was concerned for the well-being of who I was assuming was Donald Wilson. I walked a few feet to the closest door, the back one, which I assumed led into the kitchen and was surprised and gratified to find the knob turned in my hand easily. The door was unlocked. When I opened the door, the first thing that struck me was the smell. Not the smell of a corpse decaying, thankfully, but the smell of garbage that hadn't been taken out in some time. A bowl of fruit was showing definite signs of rot.

and it was fairly clear that the dishes hadn't been done in some time. At this point, my plan pivoted. I would check on, Wilson. If he was okay but feeling a bit ill, I would help with some cleanup and then call the family. I had done this before as well. In some cases, the family would then arrange a weekly caregiver, as it was entirely possible that after years of hard work and fastidiousness,

Mr. Wilson's age had caught up with him. I walked into the living room and could see Mr. Wilson sitting in the same large wingback chair I had observed from the window. His eyes tracked me as I moved in and I immediately felt relief. Um, Mr. Wilson? Mr. Donald Wilson. I'm Officer Mansour from the London Police Service. Your son David has asked me to check in on you. He's quite worried as you haven't been answering your telephone. Are you all right?

I fear to stroke as Mr. Wilson. Wilson just stared, didn't answer immediately. It was probably about 30 seconds that passed, but that could feel like an hour when you're worried, before he finally spoke. Are you here to help me? he asked. It's get me here, and I need help. His voice was a little more than tinged with fear. At this point, my mission changed dramatically.

Previously, it was a simple wellness check. Now I was looking at a potential home invasion and hostage situation. I put my hand on the butt of my pistol and lowered my voice. Who? Who's kept you here? Is he still here? To my question, Mr. Wilson just nodded and started to sob. It was so clear at the time that the tears were a mixture of terror and relief.

I knew I would have to act. Mr. Wilson, point to where he is. At that point, Wilson pointed towards the staircase, and I surmise that whoever it was must be up the stairs. I knew from visiting similar homes that bedrooms were usually on the upper floor and started to move towards the staircase. At this point, I should point out that real police work is not like the television shows. Just taking out your sidearm means hours of paperwork to justify your action. That's true even if you take out your conducted energy weapon, what the public calls a taser. You need to be able to justify it.

Still, something had this man rattled, and I wanted to check it out. I radioed my suspicions in and was told to proceed with caution and not to engage without backup. As I walked towards the stairs, I could hear Wilson croak. Don't. Don't go up there. Please. I don't want you to get hurt. I whispered back that I would be okay and started up, squeezing the pressure holster

so I could easily withdraw my sidearm if necessary. As I progressed up the stairs, I was immediately taken aback by the gloom that hung over the upper floor. It wasn't hard to immediately. see why Wilson was staying on the first. The top floor was cold. Something I knew was strange because the first floor was so warm. My science classes in college, I had always learned that hot air rises. So this cold upper floor made no real sense. The top floor was neat otherwise, although it was clear that it hadn't been vacuumed or dusted in quite some time. At this point, I couldn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary, so I started to...

a room-by-room check, something that I reported on. The bathroom was just a bathroom. It was pretty clean for a single elderly man, but it probably hadn't been used in some time due to Mr. Wilson vacating the floor. I moved from there to what I assumed was a bedroom on the floor plans, but was obviously being used as an office and for storage. Again, there was a fairly thick layer of dust on an almost. almost everything but the room was empty.

I looked at the desk and saw a picture of Mr. Wilson, probably 20 years younger, sitting with a smiling woman roughly equal to him in age. Didn't take a detective to figure out that that was his wife. I had little doubt that Mr. Wilson was more than a little lonely, especially with his children so far away from him. Still, I wasn't here to psychoanalyze or past judge. on their life at least his son thought to check up on him from here besides what was a linen closet the only room left was the master bedroom part of me suspected

that I would find that room empty and it would be necessary to bring mr. Wilson in for medical checks he wouldn't be the first older person I came across who had a stroke or some other ailment that altered their perspective causing them to see and hear things that weren't there. I felt sad for him as I went to confirm my suspicions. It was at that point that everything changed. I opened the door to the master bedroom and was immediately assaulted by what I guessed was the source of the odor, very different from what I earlier detected, reminiscent of raw meat and completely suggesting

death, I fought to keep my lunch down. I radioed in that there was a strong smell of decay in the room, and to keep a forensic detail on standby. At that point, I started to look for the source of the rot, but I couldn't find it. The carpet looked unstained and intact. The closet yielded only clothes, and the only ordiferous thing was a small collection of mothballs. I couldn't figure out where the smell was coming from.

As I ranged about the room, the temperature around me fell and the room became dark. Seconds later, the door that I had entered slammed, shut behind me. Had Mr. Wilson come up the stairs and closed me in? No. That was insane. When I saw him, he seemed like he could barely move. and he was certainly afraid to go upstairs. I grabbed my radio and attempted to call for help,

but all I was greeted with was the sound of static. Then, as I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, I could have sworn. I heard laughing on the other end of the radio. This made me more than a little angry. All the times for someone to be playing a prank in my dispatch, My voice grew taught as I scolded whoever was on the other side for the behavior and threatened them with reprisals when I returned. Still, the laughing continued and became even more clear.

The shrillness of it took on an almost otherworldly quality. I felt every hair on my arms stand on end. I had ignored my gut feeling that something was wrong as I had. I entered upstairs, but now there was no way to continue ignoring it. I moved towards the door intent on exiting the room and removing the owner from the home to safety. As I turned the handle of the door, I noticed that something was keeping the door shut. It wasn't locked.

The door locked from the inside, and unlocking a bedroom door is generally a fairly simple task from the inside. It felt like something was holding the door shut, an intent on keeping me in the bedroom against my will. I pulled using all of my strength to open the door. To find, it only gave a few centimeters, only to have something, some force, pull it shut again and slam it. I moved quickly to the window, hoping that I could get on to the roof and then out. Mentally, I composed the report that said the door was obviously swollen, and that's why I couldn't open it. I think that's the point.

I wasn't willing to see the truth about my situation, and that creating a mundane reason was preferable. The window from the master bedroom was a sheer drop. It did not open to the roof, or have the roof easily in access. There was a chance I might be able to get myself onto a roof above it, but I surmised there was an equal or greater chance that I would fall. It was while I pondered this that the curtains forcibly closed. This was something I could not explain through the same hopeful logic I employed for the door. Instinctively I backed away from the window in the seemingly living curtains and into the middle of the room. I peered around me, trying to figure out what my next move was and what I would do next.

At this point, a preternatural silence fell over the room and me. Even the heavy boots that were part of my uniform didn't make any noise on the floor as I shuffled around. The only thing moving beside me in the room was my shadow clearly projected on the wall. I looked away and glanced back only to see two shadows. Looking around the room, I could see no light source that could possibly create a shadow on the wall that it was appearing on. It made no sense. I started to feel panic invade me more fully at this point, and that panic turned into a fever pitch, as it looked like my shadows seemed to be moving independent of.

me and more of the same ringed the room still there was no central light source that could possibly create this effect not that I was calmly looking for one at that point had sound been allowed to escape from the room I have no doubt that the whole neighborhood would have heard me scream and beg for help I'm not too proud to admit it I was terrified. I had never seen anything like this before, and now understood fairly completely why Mr. Wilson was so terrified and why he was existing on the first floor. He had ceded his control to whatever entity I was now experiencing. He had given ground to a spirit, fearing that no one would possibly believe his story. He decided just to hide.

hopefully waited out. I also had little doubt that his not answering the telephone had little to do with unwillingness or any disability. The entity had simply not wanted Mr. Wilson to answer the phone. Perhaps it planned on getting me or someone like me here. Perhaps it hoped that the world would forget Donald Wilson entirely, and then it could do what it would want with him. One way or another.

I felt more than a little trapped. I had no idea what whatever I was dealing with could do to me, but I had no desire to find out. It was at this point that the shadows around me began to change. As I watched the shadows begin to lengthen and grow, the stretching had a quality that was painfully slow, and yet terrifying. Soon I watched as their fingers began to lengthen.

As they lengthened, centimeter by centimeter, soon reaching easily half a meter, they tapered as well until they came to a point. I still don't understand how, but these long fingers bestowed the idea of sharpness and deadliness, despite being built entirely from a silhouette. The penumbra's gloom spread and soon affected the heads of the shadows as well. Horns of various shapes and types sprouted from each of them. I am now certain that each shadow represented a different classification of demon. This was reinforced as gaping maus appeared.

Nonsensically, yet terrifyingly, on each. of the shadow demons. At this point, my mind fled back to my childhood, back to Madrasa, back to a belief system that I had long minimized, if not abandoned. I believe that Allah was with me that day, as I suddenly remembered some of what I was taught and started to utter prayers. I seek refuge with the Lord of Daybreak, from the evil of what he has created, and from the evil of the dark night when it penetrates, and from the evil of the blowers into nights.

And from the evil of an envious one when he envies, I said aloud. I'm not sure exactly where it came from, or how I remembered it. So I will just decide that I was being offered help, because at that point, the shadows receded slightly. All was not good, however, as a strange hissing sound started in the room. Whatever was here did not want to let go. That much was clear. I didn't care about clearing the room or cleansing the house. I just wanted out, preferably with Mr. Wilson. I had obviously affected whatever held us. So I continued.

I seek refuge with the sustainer of men, the sovereign of men, the god of men, from the evil of the whispering, elusive tempter who whispers in the hearts of men, from all invisible forces as well as men, I called out. I could have sworn I heard a roar at this point as I tried the door. again and found that it opened although the knob was very cold to the touch I pushed past my discomfort and opened the door making my way to the first floor and to mr. Wilson I found mr. Wilson in the same place I left him shivering with fear and tears rolling down his face I helped him up and paused for a second to put my

arms around him He shuddered with fear and also thankfulness as I began helping him out of the house. All while uttering, never will we be struck except by what Allah has decreed for us. He is our protector, and upon Allah let the believers rely. I would have been amused if not for the situation because Mr. Donald Wilson had joined me in uttering my prayer. We made it out of the house that day. Mr. Wilson and his son are still trying to figure out what to do with it. He's contacted a special realty company in hopes that they can help.

Mr. Wilson was put into a retirement facility, and I visit him pretty regularly. He seems happy. He has quite a few friends. As for the house. I feel a cold fear every time I drive past that place. Something. Truly evil resides there. For your bonus episode,

Creepy presents The Back Rooms Written by Samantha Ryan. I had been looking for a job for weeks. I was hoping to find some seasonal work with the holidays, something temporary that would work with my classes. That's why my friend Emily told me about a job she got at the mall, I immediately applied.

I always liked the mall. the slightly sickening smell of the food court, constant hum of people. All of it was full of nostalgia and fun. It wasn't that busy these days, and the job I got was a true sign of the times. The department store had filed for bankruptcy, and in its place was one of those pop-up Halloween stores. Halloween had always been my favorite time a year, so the prospect of getting paid to play with props seemed too good to be true. The first few weeks had just been us, preparing the merchandise, setting up the displays and costumes.

Everything had come in relatively organized, ready to be slapped on a rack and sold. Peak capitalism. Our manager was named Ron. He's a surprisingly decent guy who took his time to do the job correctly. He was also the first manager I had who ever explained how to do things instead of just getting on to us. It made him endearing, and we all liked him.

Most of us were college kids, and we took to calling him Ronnie, because it annoyed him, but I think he secretly liked it. There were only two rules Ronnie was strict about. Be on time and don't go into the back room. I got the time issue, that was easy. But I never understood the back room rule. I asked Emily once and she shrugged it off saying it was something about the safe they kept back there. That didn't really make sense to me though, unless they kept the safe open all day.

But I dropped it because they needed the job and didn't want to cause any trouble. I'd seen them fire people for it and preferred to collect my paycheck. One night it was just Ronnie and me working after set hours to get things done. We were opening the doors in two days. I had three more boxes and masks to put out before I could call it a night. I'm closing everything up. Mark all those racks and move them to the front. Let me know when you're done, he said, before walking away.

Alone, I surveyed the job at hand. Masks were terrifying. and for the first time since I started the place gave me a little chill. I looked around the large choir room and put in my headphones. If I buckled down and got finished, I could get out of your sooner.

Ronnie was hunched over at the register in his own little world. There's a kind of eerie quality about being in such a large space with the darkened night on the other side of the glass door. I'm not someone who gets scared easily. I don't, or maybe

didn't believe in ghosts. and think, well, thought, that there was a logical explanation for everything. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were both being watched. I glanced around once more to convince myself that we were, in fact, alone, before continuing with the stickers on the masks. Once finished, I looked back at the register,

but Ronnie was gone, probably in the back room. The feeling of unease returned. My eyes fell on the 10-foot skeleton display, and I made myself laugh nervously as anything. imagined it coming to life to kill me. I had to stop freaking myself out over nothing. I looked around, unsure what else I needed to do before leaving. Our piles were getting smaller and smaller. Suddenly the lights on the far side of the empty space turned off. Hey! I cried, pulling out my headphones. I'm still here. Ronnie? I listened but didn't hear

anything in response. Ronnie! I called again. Nothing. I started across to blank space. There was a connecting open area to the left where escalators let upstairs. It was possible Ronnie

had gone up there. We kept even more stock up there. I got to the open frame and saw only the escalators were illuminated by the overhead light, but everything else was dark. It looked wrong. Again, I'm not scared of the dark, but I'd seen enough horror movies to know that was exactly the wrong place to go in alone.

As I turned around, a door slammed out of nowhere, causing me to jump. Ronnie? The backroom door had slid open, and I guessed he just walked in. Maybe somehow I missed him behind me. I headed quickly to the door. Was it worth going in and risking my job? Emily had joked that since the past Tuesday had been her last day. She was going to go in and see what it was when her shift was over.

I had texted her that night, but she never responded. Who knows what she found? I pushed the door open carefully, unsure what would be on the other side. Would the mysterious safe be open? Ronnie's secret porn collection on display? Maybe even Ronnie's dead body? To my surprise, it was nothing.

Well, I mean, nothing weird. It was just a small room. that led to a larger room that looked like some kind of abandoned hospital or school building. Was this still part of the mall? I walked through the door, now fully curious what this was and why it was off limits. The door behind me slammed shut. A little unsettling. I took a few steps forward and began regretting my curiosity.

The rooms were a weird beige color that made the floor and walls almost blend together. The overhead lights were those large rectangle of full. fluorescence that only enhanced the yellow bath around me. And of course, like every good horror story, they flickered randomly. There was an odd feeling about the whole thing. It seemed familiar somehow. Yet, I knew I'd never been back here. But it wasn't even here that felt familiar.

Like, maybe I dreamed of this place before. Hello? It wasn't until I spoke that. I realized exactly how weird this place was. My voice was muffled as it came out of my mouth, like the walls themselves were absorbing the sound. This isn't good. I said out loud and no one in particular,

hoping the sound of my own voice would give me comfort. In its weird dampened state, it only made my heart race faster. Turning, I began to rush back towards where the door had closed behind me only to realize it wasn't there. It was like I'd already walked to the opposite end of the first strange hallway, which couldn't be possible. This isn't funny. I tried to call out as loud as I could.

Maybe it was just some kind of joke, like Ronnie punishing those who broke the rules. Knock it off! I yelled. I decided to push my luck and keep walking. Hallways have to end after all. There had to be some final destination. Realist, remember?

I continued walking for what felt like a lot. at least 30 minutes and started to get worried. There was no way I was still walking in the mall. You could walk a whole lap in about 15. Every hallway I turned in looked exactly like the others. The same pale hue in deafening silence. Can someone help me? I tried again.

This time it was different. Are you lost? It was so quiet I could barely hear it. The voice sounded like someone struggling to speak. Who's there? What is this? I asked, shifting quickly around, worried about something rushing up behind me. This is the back rooms.

How do I get out? I cried. You don't? I felt my heart drop into my stomach at the words and knew it was time to get the fuck out of there. I spun around, knowing at least if I went back the way I came, I had a better chance to find my original door. I ran this time, twisting back, hoping to a God I didn't believe in

that I wasn't too turned around to find the exit. In a panic, I began banging on the walls as I ran. Maybe if someone was near, they could at least hear that. I continued to run and bang my fist until I was out of breath, and my hands were pulsing in pain. I don't know how long I did that. It felt like hours,

but time had no meaning in the back rooms. It could have been a matter of minutes. Who knew? Suddenly I heard a noise in my left and saw a crack of light as a door opened up. Using every ounce of energy I had, I pushed towards the door and fell against it. As I did, I took one last look at the back rooms and saw a tall shadow creature standing in the corner of the yellow void. It was stretching its arms out towards me, desperate. That sight is seared into my brain.

I found myself on the ground at the main room, looking up at Ron's worried for it. face. He was looking at me like I had just drank poison. He was waiting for it to take effect. I tried to form sentences but could tell my words were coming out as random noises. He had my shoulders, shaking gently. Chris, this is important. Did you talk to it? What? I managed to say. Did you talk to it? No. I lied, unsure why. You need to leave. Don't ever come back here.

I'll mail you your final check. Just forget this ever happened. He pulled out his phone and stepped away as he dialed. What was that? What's going on? He ignored me. A security guard appeared from the mall entrance and walked over to where I was still sitting on the ground. All right, come on.

What's going on? What's back there? What happens if you talk to it? He ignored me, pulling his arms close to his chest. Ron! I demanded. What is it? Time to go.

With his only reply, motioning his hand toward the main door. The security guard walked with his hand around my elbow guiding me to the main mall area. The lights were dim in the entire building quiet. I wondered if this was somehow. connected and maybe I was being led to a place where I'd be killed or taken to some facility by men in black. The man took me to the main door and opened it up, waiting until I left. What is this? What are you doing? I asked.

Time to go. He said simply. Though I should have protested, asked questions, done something. I didn't. I just walked outside in the calm night air. and headed to my car. I don't know how long I sat in my car thinking through all that had happened. I knew if I told anyone they would think I was crazy. For a while, I began to believe it myself. If someone had told me what I had seen, I wouldn't have believed it.

That was three days ago. I haven't slept since. I've called Emily repeatedly and she never answers. I think she went into the back room. rooms on her last day and never came back. I've asked the other co-worker I had a phone number for and they acted weird and just didn't respond. Is no one looking for her? I'm going to go looking for her.

That's why I'm writing all this down here. I've got supplies, weapons, food. Maybe if I make a map as I go, I can find her and bring her back. If you don't hear from me in a few days, you know where I am. Woodland Creek Mall in the back rooms. 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 common share-a-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 stories author.