Creepy - Day 26 - The Figurine

Episode Date: December 17, 2017

Life is complicated. Families go through their ups and downs. Sometimes a vacation is just what's needed. Other times...well, it just makes things that much more complicated... ***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***Written by Max Shephard***Music composed by Steve Blizin***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.

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Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents The Bad Days, Day 26. The Figurine Written by Max Shepard and submitted for consideration at the creepy pod forum on Reddit.com There are two things I'll never forget about the Friday and my mother came to pick me up

from her girl's trip in Cozumel when I was 10. The sparkling her eyes as she handed me the gift she brought back just for me and the look on her face when I asked why she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. She blushed, quickly jamming her hand in her pocket,

and retrieving the large diamond ring. I didn't want to lose it on the flight home, she replied, admiring the stone like a beautiful but poisonous bug. Then she slipped it back into its usual spot before turning her attention to the small box in my hand. Open it, silly? I reached my hand in and pulled out the small figurine inside.

Whoa. It looked like some kind of warrior. He stood about five inches tall, bare to the waist, and held a metal spear that was just about as thick as an ice pick. I picked it up at a roadside stand on our last day there, my mother explained. It's hand carved, just like the box. I tried to ask the man who sold to me about it, but he didn't speak much English. He kept saying, ten quito, ten quito, or something like that. But I only ended up paying five for it.

She smiled, proud of herself. I ran my hand over the long, dark hair that fell to the figurine's shoulders. It felt so real, and the detail on the warrior's face was incredible, much more lifelike than any of my other toys. I have no idea why the head is so big, or why they had to make him so gruesome-looking with those big yellow teeth. My mother continued shaking her head. That's what I like about him. He's so cool, I shouted. Thanks, Mom.

I held it out for her to see. You're welcome, hon. She reached her hand out to pat the warrior's head, but I moved it at the last second and her finger pressed onto the top of the spear. Ow! She jerked her hand back and examined the red droplet on the tip of her finger. That thing is sharp. Let me see it, she said, holding her hand out.

I groaned and handed her the figurine. She sighed. Honey, this spear is much sharper than I thought. I think we need to take it off for now. But maybe Dad can file it down for you. After several tries, she pried the spear from the figurine's hand. Then she handed it back to me. I glared at the empty-handed warrior,

face frozen in some eerie battle cry, and he glared back. Mom, he looks like a retard now. Henry, you know we don't say that word. What would your cousin think if he heard you say that, hmm? I lowered my head. He wouldn't like it. No, he wouldn't, she said softly. And I don't want to hear you say that again.

Now go play, I need to unpack. By the time I made it to my room, I'd forgotten all about the figurine's missing weapon. He looked cool as heck, even downright scary, and I knew the other kids in the neighborhood would be jealous when I showed them, with or without the spear. That night I placed him on the second shelf of my bookcase facing the window, where a thin strip of light streaming in through the blinds illuminated his face. In the flat glow of the street light, his teeth looked even bigger and more yellow. It might have even scared me if my mind wasn't elsewhere.

I couldn't stop thinking about something my mother said earlier when she was talking about her ring. She said she wasn't wearing it because she didn't want to lose it on the flight home, suggesting she'd taken it off that day. But that didn't make any sense. When I looked at the hand holding the box, I'd noticed something. She didn't have a tan line on her ring finger. Three hours later, I bolted upright in my bed, ripped from sleep by the feeling I was suffocating.

I heard a single word spoken in a gravely accent I'd never heard before. Just before a pair of small wooden hands pressed a pillow to my face. Gemi Spah, I had no idea what it meant. Maya shot to the figurine still standing on the bookshelf and bathed in the glow of the street light. He was now facing the bed. His face shrouded in darkness. Holy crap, I thought. My heart was pounding.

If you get under the covers and go to sleep, you'll be fine. Yeah, idiot, but then if he jumps down and comes after me, I won't even see him coming. Smooth move, X, Lex. Terrified, my 10-year-old brain formulated a plan. If you can't see me, he can't get me, I thought. Just like pulling the covers over your head, but in reverse. Back then, it made me. perfect sense. I pulled the covers off as quietly as possible, rotating on my butt and swinging

my legs over the edge of the bed. The old boards groaned as my feet met the floor. I bent, grabbing my t-shirt from the floor, then straightening, watching the bookshelf the entire time. The figurine hadn't moved. I took one step toward the bookcase, then two, tiptoeing around scattered Legos and just barely missing the loudest, creakest board in the room. When I was three-quarters of the way there, I stopped, pinching the shoulders of the shirt in both hands and holding out in front of me. One, two, three. With a deaf flick in my wrist, I sent a shirt sailing,

landed right on top of the figurine, covering it completely. Gotcha. I sat under my breath. Now fully awake and realizing how ridiculous I was being, I strolled the rest of the way to the bookshelf and grabbed the figurines still covered by my shirt. Retard. I whispered, both in defiance of my mother's admonishment and triumph over the five-inch piece of wood that had tried to murder me in my dream. What do you have to say about that? In the still silence of my bedroom, the figurine's muffled response was deafening.

I'ma Spaba Orimada Ufeli I dropped it and bolted out of the room running down the hall into my parents' room My mother was fast asleep on her side of the bed The other side strangely empty

I shook her until she woke What are you doing, Henry? I couldn't find the words to explain what had happened I had a bad dream about the warrior I ended up saying tears threatening to burst from the corners of my eyes. She sat up rubbing her eyes and she ran her hand through my hair. It's okay, honey, you can stay here if you want to. I'd climbed in beside her before she even finished the sentence,

lying in the spot where my father should have been. And I pulled the covers up over my head just for good measure. That weekend I tried talking to both my parents about what I'd heard but neither wanted to listen. Something was definitely up with them. When they were around me, they tried to act like nothing was wrong. But when they were alone in their room or thought I'd gone outside to play, I could hear them fighting.

After several tries, I finally gave up. My mother had obviously listened, though, at least a little bit. Before I went to bed Saturday night, she told me she'd taken the figurine and put it in a box in my closet. That way, I wouldn't have to look at it. I wouldn't have any more dreams, she promised. I thanked her, and she kissed me on the forehead before tucking me in. The next morning, the figurine was standing outside my closet, facing the bed.

You can't do anything to me, you little pipsqueak, I thought. I grabbed him, marched down the stairs and into the kitchen, and turned the gas stove on. The burner clicked, then lit. I smirked as I held the figurine over the open floor. flame, but my mirth was short-lived. He wouldn't burn. I spun him around like a pig on a spit, trying to find an area that would catch, but the flame didn't even make a black spot.

So I did the next best thing. I tossed him into the kitchen trash can. I've been conditioned to believe that what had been put in the trash was gone for good. I'd find something else to impress my friends with. When my eyes fluttered open Monday morning, I knew something. something was wrong. It was a school day, and I couldn't remember the last time one of my parents hadn't had to wake me up and forced me out of bed.

I lay there, staring at the fans spinning on the ceiling, and listened. Nothing. The house was silent. I pulled the covers off, stepped into my slippers, and slowly made my way out of my room, and onto the landing at the top of the stairs, craning my neck to see if my parents were downstairs in the kitchen. It was empty. Mom?

I announced to the silence. Dad? When no one answered, I turned down the hall toward my parents' room. They shouldn't still be asleep, but it was the only place they could be. The door was already open. I peered my head in and found my parents inside. But they weren't sleeping. My mother was crumpled on the floor, her nightgown soaked in red.

The blood, a deep crimson, which was not like in the movies at all, had spread into the carpet around her. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, frozen in a mask of surprise and fear. I fell on my knees and screamed as loud as I could, crawling towards her and collapsing just beyond her outstretched arm. When I turned to see what she was reaching for, I cried out again. My father was slumped against the back wall of the closet with several dark stains in the front of his shirt. I didn't need to get any closer to figure out he was dead too. My father's cell phone was charging on a nightstand. I crawled under my knees and grabbed it, somehow managing to dial 911 with shaking fingers.

All I could tell them was my address and that I needed help. I was still lying beside my mother, holding her cold blue hand when the police arrived. I went to live with my aunt Cindy, my mother's sister, after my parents were killed. At the time she told me that the police believed an intruder had broken and killed them both. The murder weapon was never found, but based on the shape and depth of the wound on their bodies, they thought the killer had used an ice pick. I already knew that part, because they had questioned me relentlessly about what I'd done with it after finding them in their room. but I never saw it there.

I was devastated, but accepted what she told me as the truth. I moved on as well as a 10-year-old could, but as I got older, I started to wonder. It wasn't until many years later, when I was in high school, that I finally realized what had happened. I went to talk to my aunt immediately. We talked about my parents, and somewhat got on the subject to my mother's trip to my mother's trip to

Cosamel. I told her about how cold my mother was to my father after the trip, about how he wasn't sleeping in bed the night that I had a dream about the figurine. I think my mother was the reason they were fighting, I explained, and I don't think it was an intruder that killed them. My aunt's face once slack, a color draining out of her cheeks. I hoped you would never find out, but you're old enough to know the truth, Henry. Are you ready for it? I nodded. She sighed, dropping her head, then she straightened up, looked me in the eyes, and began telling me a story.

As it turns out, the day my mother got back from her trip to Cozumel, she called her sister Cindy and told her she cheated on my father with a man she'd met while her and her friends were drinking at a bar on the beach. My mother thought she was in love, apparently, was planning on leaving my father for him. Twelve years together, gone, just like that. My aunt said she wasn't surprised, though. She knew they'd been having issues. Then she dropped a bomb on me. He killed her, Henry. She said, sitting across from me at her kitchen table,

she reached across the table and put her hand on mine. That's what the police really thought happened. He couldn't bear to see her with another man. Your mother was always a fighter. She must have gotten the ice pick from him and fought back. I'm sorry for keeping it from you, but I thought it was for your own good. I was shocked. It certainly explained why my mother wasn't wearing her ring when she got home,

plus all the fighting. But I knew my father didn't kill her. It was my turn to tell my honest story. I told her about the hand-carved figurine in the morning my mother had received from the man she bought it from. Yes, a warning. In high school I'd taken Spanish for the first time and finally figured out what the man had told her. He'd said ten quidado.

Not ten quido. Be careful. Then I took a piece of paper and wrote the three words of figure and said to me that night in my room. Gimmis paba or imata ufali. Another warning. She pushed it back to me with a sad look on her. her face. Oh, Henry, stuff like that doesn't happen in real life, but I know it's probably easier to believe than the truth. I'm so sorry. She glanced down at the three words.

This is just gibberish. It doesn't mean anything. I thought so too, but I was wrong. Have you ever heard Bad Moon Rising by Creedness Clearwater? It was one of my dad's favorites. The first time I heard it, I thought one of the lines said, There's a bathroom on the right. I sang it that way for a long time. I heard it again, and the line was obviously, there's a bad moon on the rise. Bad moon, not bathroom.

Rise, not right. I wondered how I could ever have heard it any differently. That's what happened with the words the figurines said to me. I pushed the paper back in front of her and tapped it. In my mind, I saw a deep, clotted red seeping from the corner. to devour the ink. He didn't say it give me spaba or Ymaida Ufali. He said, get my spear back.

Or I'll murder your family. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. Instagram and Facebook. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.