Creepy - Day 26 - Her Favorite Time of Year & The Sailor's Curse

Episode Date: October 26, 2024

Her Favorite Time of Year***Written by: Emily Jones and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***The Sailor's Curse***Written by: Allie Harrison***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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

It's day 26 of the 31 days of horror. A time of screaming winds, rotting bodies, apple orchards and cider. A time when we all face the inevitability of why we're here, where we're going, and what's brought us here, Do you know what's brought you here? Are you even supposed to be here? Or are you hearing something you weren't meant to hear?

Yet. You're listening to KREP and I'm your host, The Creep. Caller, you're on. Can... Can you... Can you tell me if I'm supposed to be here? That's not really for me to say, caller. But I'm guessing that if you're calling in now, it was meant to be.

Do you have a story for us? Yeah, I think I just wanted to tell you about her favorite time of year. They say that love can overcome anything, and I believe it. Martha and I are living proof of that. Through all the hardships of the past few years, our love has sustained us, given succor to our weary spirits, and we needed every bit of it to get us through since the accident. I looked up from a hearty pile of scrambled eggs and bacon, courtesy of Mitch Connell's farm down the road, and smiled warmly at Martha across the kitchen table. She was just as beautiful as the day we met four years ago. maybe more so. The fresh country air agreed with her.

The fall colors are really exploding right now. Maybe we could go for a drive later, I suggested. She didn't respond. She couldn't. The accident had robbed her of her speech, but I could still see the twinkle of excitement in her eyes at my words. I reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Great. We'll head out in a bit. I released her hand and used my fork to pick up a steaming bite of egg. I need to do some work after breakfast, but then I promise you I'm yours the rest of the day. When I had cleaned my plate, I sat back in my chair, shooting a meaningful look at Martha's plate. Can we try the toast again?

Martha could make feeding time very difficult when she wanted to, and it seemed that lately she always wanted to. We were down to toast as the only acceptable option for most meals, and even then it was a struggle. I picked up the plain, scratchy bread, and brought it up to her mouth, but my hopes were quickly dashed. I could tell from the rigid, set of her lips that this was one of those times when she wanted to be difficult. It wouldn't do any good to try and change her mind. When she didn't want to eat, she didn't want to eat. I dropped the toast back on her plate and held my hands up in surrender.

All right, all right, I'll give up, but you need to start eating more. I studied her face, looking for a muscle twitch or something. to indicate she had heard and understood me. Nothing. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the rooster clock over the kitchen sink, and a sense of helplessness stabbed my gut. I stood up and grabbed both of our plates before heading to the kitchen. After I had cleaned up, I got Martha into her favorite easy chair in the living room,

positioned where she could both look outside the picture window and at our modest-sized television, although she didn't seem to pay much attention to either these days. Once I had her settled, I put on her shows and gave her a peck on the cheek. I'll be as fast as I can, and then we'll go for a drive, I said, as I pulled a blanket from the nearby couch and draped it over her lap. I had done what I could to keep her comfortable and entertained, and so I left to tend to the farm. The dimly lit. barn with its sweet smell of dry hay was a welcome change from the somber mood in the house. I took a moment to close my eyes and listened to the world around me.

The buzz of insects, the chirping of birds, the sound of life connecting me to something larger, something greater than the struggles Martha and I faced in the private sanctuary of our home. reluctantly, I opened my eyes. I couldn't treat Martha later if I didn't get my chores done, and there were so many chores. I had cover crops to plant and winter squash to harvest, and I would have to do it all with the ATV, because I still hadn't gotten the damn tractor fixed.

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I didn't think of Martha again until well after lunch, When I realized what I'd done, mostly because the gurgling of my own stomach had become impossible to ignore, I quickly packed up and ran to the house. She was just as I had left her. It was difficult to tell if she was distressed by my extended absence, and I assumed the worst. I got down on my knees and held her flaccid hand in mine. I promised. I would never leave her so long. I would never leave her so long, again, I made several heartfelt apologies. Finally, I realized she probably wanted food more than she wanted an I'm sorry, and I got busy making lunch. I quickly checked the weather on my phone to

confirm that there was still no rain in the forecast this afternoon. You can never be too careful, and Martha's condition, moisture is the enemy. I chatted while I made sandwiches, keeping my voice light and upbeat. We should grab some pumpkins while we're out today. What do you think we should carve? I paused, giving her time to think. What about a werewolf this year? I think the kids would really like that.

We put a lot of effort into our jack-o-lanterns, and it made our home a popular spot on beggars night. Our full-sized candy bars didn't hurt either. It was one of the few joys Martha had, watching through the picture window in the living room as kids paraded up to our doorstep in their bright, festive costumes, their voices filled with excitement as they shouted, Trick or treat! This was Martha's favorite time of year, and we were going to do what we always did. Make the most of it. I settled Martha in the car, tucking a pair of sunglasses over her ears to protect her sensitive eyes from the sun.

before shutting her door. Once we were both settled, I drove down the long gravel driveway and pulled out onto the highway headed towards town. On the way, we passed the trot stop where Martha and I had first met,

and I felt a surge of bittersweet nostalgia. The first time I saw her, she had been passed out in a patch of grass near the edge of the parking lot, plastic cups and wrappers scattered irreverently around her, conscious body from the overflowing trash can nearby. While sitting in my car observing the scene,

I had witnessed several men glance over at the unfortunate woman before continuing to their vehicles. It had been clear to me that no one cared about her, and so I decided to do something about it. After pulling the brim of my ball cap down to obscure my face, I had walked nonchalantly to the edge of the parking lot, picked her up, and put her in the batch seat of my car. I kept expecting someone to yell at me or say something, but no one did.

To this day, I am still shocked that no one stopped me. Things were difficult at first. I wasn't prepared for the uglinesses. of detox, and sometimes she seemed to be completely out of her mind. It took two full days before she would even tell me her name, Martha. Years later, I can still remember the rush of elation I felt in that moment when she spoke her name to me for the first time. I had gone to bed that night knowing that she was the only woman for me. Not long after the high of that moment, the accident happened. I had thought we were past the worst of the mania and delusions.

I had let my guard down, and I had been wrong. Martha had an episode in the middle of the night, one of the worst ones yet. We struggled, and we struggled. And, and and she was left in her current condition. In trying to save her, I had left her entombed in her own body. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I glanced over at her to see if there was any flicker of recognition or reaction as we passed, but it was too hard to read her when I was driving. I focused my eyes back on the road and made a promise to myself,

yet again, that I would give her the best life possible. So, we got caramel apple milk shakes, and I described the flavors to her as her own milkshakes sat untouched. We drove through the countryside, basting in the splendor of autumn. Towards the end of our journey, we stopped at a farm stand to buy some pumpkins, and I presented each one to Martha for her inspection before loading them in the back.

Satisfied, we drove home, and her silence felt lighter, happier. Hopeful to continue this sense of goodwill, I placed a few of the pumpkins on the kitchen island and made dinner while Martha sat in the kitchen table, watching me cook. Although she refused the mashed potatoes in Salisbury steak I had whipped up, I was pleased to see she made more of an effort with her toast. It was progress. our shows had ended for the night. I carefully placed Martha on the seat of the chairlift and strapped her in, waiting until she had traveled all the way to the bottom of the basement steps before

following her down. With an efficiency that comes with practice, I got her into the wheelchair and rolled her over to the custom-built freezer. Once she was safely nestled inside, I brushed a few stray hairs out of her face and kissed her forehead. Sleep well, my love. I whispered before closing the lid. Modern embalming techniques have come a long way, but I still felt it was best for Martha to sleep down here, even though that left me alone in our bed, staring at the space she should have occupied.

It was a minor. Discomfort. We had already proven that our love could burn through the darkest of times. I could and would bear any discomfort for the privilege of getting another day with Martha. Alone in my room that night, as my thoughts drifted closer and closer to the absurdity of dreams. I thought of Martha. Martha and I, we were going to stand the test of time. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever tear us apart. And now a word from our sponsors. Are you still with us? I hope so, because we're back on KREP and I'm the creep.

Sometimes I think I'm a romantic at heart. A black little heart, but romantic nonetheless. And I don't think I'm alone. There's romance in the air this time of year. There's something magical that goes beyond the ghosts and ghouls that attracts so many people to October and Halloween. Some people find particular and vitality when it comes to the darker corners of the world.

Like the story from this listener who wants to warn us all about, the sailor's curse. No one would be caught dead in a graveyard at night, especially Halloween night. No one but me, that is. Fog snaked between the tombstones, in the daytime in the graveyard birds would be heard, but now, in the dead of night, there was the songs of crickets. Ghostly damp mist surrounded me. Ordinarily the night would be cool, perhaps even sent a shiver through me. But my job called for exertion and was generally a workout,

keeping me warm and at times almost sweaty. And I didn't care that it was Halloween. For me, one night was the same as any other. And of course, leave it up to old eccentric Winston Crow to be buried on Halloween. wean. Heavy earth filled my shovel blade. A waff, a mustiness reached my nostrils, but I was used to this too and thought a little of it. At least now I stood above the hole instead of within it, working to make it large enough to accommodate someone. That was last night. I listened to the sound of the shovel full of earth as it landed

into the open grave and onto the casket which rested there. shiny, wood, smooth, silver decoration. What a waste. Spending all that money on a box to hold a dead person? Something that was only going to be covered with dirt? I generally didn't judge. I've been doing this grave-dicking job for years. I'd seen every make and model a casket available.

As far as I was concerned, people could bury their loved ones any way they wanted. It wasn't up to me. I just dig the hole and fill it after the funeral's over That's my job It's what I do Every day I mean every night

When there's a funeral Kind of keep your opinion to yourself, thank you Someone has to do it And doing it at night is much cooler than under the afternoon sun Besides, space is great And when I'm done filling it in the hole And I put away my tools My work is done

at least until the next person in town bites the dust, so to speak. Also, working at night gives me the chance to have my days to do as I'd like. These days, I enjoy spending some indiscreet time with Kaylee Jackson. She's not going to tell anyone about us any more than I plan to. After all, her husband would probably kill me. Just as my wife would probably kill us both. More earth rained down into the grave. I didn't even have to think about the job, which is nice.

I thought instead of Kaylee and all the things she did for me and to me, things I knew she never did with her stupid husband, who was more concerned with his golf game these days than he was the needs of his sex-deprived wife, which, of course, worked out better for me. I planned to meet her at Greenwich Church, an abandoned place. We always meet in places where no one else would ever be. Attempting to meet at something like even the hotel in the next town where someone might see us would be a risk I'm not willing to take.

But I plan to make tomorrow's special. With candles, a blanket, and a picnic breakfast, complete with champagne mimosas. I believe in food before fun. I have to eat first to keep up my strength when it comes to Kaylee. Lost in the dark and in my job. Thinking what Kaylee would do to do. me with her soft tongue and wonderful mouth.

I didn't see the woman at first. Most of my nights in the graveyard are filled with just my own thoughts, as well as the sounds of my shoveling and cricket singing. Never have I ever seen another person. I mean, really, no one, absolutely no one, comes into the graveyard at night, except me. Over near a tombstone with a broken cross on it Instead a woman wearing what appeared to be a long white nightgown She was pretty with blonde waves that blew in the night breeze

And blue eyes that seemed to glow and grab me Even at this distance I didn't want to admit it But she was prettier than Kaylee Her lips seemed more inviting I was held spellbound by her beauty so much that I didn't even question at first why she'd be in the graveyard in the middle of the night or how she came to be there.

I certainly hadn't heard her footsteps crunching in the scattered dry leaves. Quiet touched me like cold fingers of terror as I realized the crickets had stopped singing. And the silence sent my heart pounding. Elise. I knew her name. At least I thought I knew her name. Residents of my town long spoken of the woman in white and how there was no escape once having seen her.

She was believed to be part of a sailor's curse placed by a witch on one of the early sailors who cheated on his wife a century and a half ago. Time only fueled the urban legend, the rumors, the stories of men who supposedly died by her hand after catching sight of her. Anytime anyone left town, or even if he hadn't been seen in some time, everyone was certain he was dead by Elisa's hand. It was always men, never women, even though they cheated too. I knew that to be true.

Now, a shiver slithered up my spine like a snake. His shadows and moonlight dance between the tombstones. I felt trapped, unable to move or run or breathe. Virtually every fiber of my being felt as if icy claws scratched to my insides as she floated closer to me. Still, there was no sound with her motion. She was a ghost for certain. I had had this job for years, working night after night in the graveyard. And until now, I had seen no ghosts.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I felt frozen with fear. I couldn't look away from her. My knees became weak, as if I was suddenly exhausted. I think she somehow sucked all the energy from my body. I dropped my shovel. It made a thud in the mound of earth near my feet.

This couldn't be real. She couldn't be real. I thought any moment my knees would buckle. Stiff-legged and feeling as if I no longer had control on my own body. I tried to step away from her. Anger filled her lovely features as she grabbed me and pulled me closer. Her beauty vanished in an instant, and her face was replaced by monstrous features, including a gaping mouth with pointed, horrid teeth.

Cheater, she said. Her words sounded like a screeching whisper in the night. Death is the punishment for all those who cheat on their wives. He cried out that Kaylee cheated too. I wasn't alone in my cheating. Kaylee was just as guilty. You lured her. She loved her husband and you lured her into the affair.

Escape was impossible. Her lips closed over mine. The taste was rancid, horrific. Just when I thought I might vomit, she shoved me away. I felt a heartbeat or a relief thinking perhaps I could get away now that I was free of her grasp. But then I fell back. backwards into the open grave that I've been filling. I landed hard on that beautifully polished wood casket with a thud.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs and sent pain shooting through the back of my head. As I struggled to work a breath back into my lungs, clumps of earth rained down on me. I knew the prophecy of the sailor's curse was true. I should have never cheated on my wife. When I tried to scream, Dirt filled my mouth. Thank you for listening tonight, dear listeners. We're in that final countdown to Halloween.

As much as I wish I could stay around all night, unfortunately, that is all from us. This is The Creep, and you're listening to KREP today, tomorrow. 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 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 story's author.