Creepy - Day 27 - A Gentle Trick & Roszie

Episode Date: October 27, 2023

A Gentle Trick***Written by: Samuel Minier & Tommy Reed***Content warning: suicide***Bonus episode: "Roszie" Written by: William Presley and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing 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. Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror.

Day 27. A Gentle Trick. Written by Samuel Minier and Tommy Reed. My father was never scared of anything, except Halloween. Six foot five, 280 pounds. The other cops nicknamed him gentle, as in giant. They love to describe suspects doing double takes when dad entered a room like some law-enforcing eclipse.

These stories always led other tales of him patiently removing insects from his squad room, his car, the station bathroom. The punchline was always some version of Big Jim's Got Your Back, unless there's a spider crawling around. Then he's on his hands and knees with a paper cup and you're on your own. When I hit my growth spurt, they dubbed me Gentle Junior. I tried hard to live the part, hoisting up cars by their bumpers on dares, play-acting and hitting my head in doorways. But I knew, the end was proud as hell, that I would always be junior.

I could have never taken my dad. Not when I was all-state defensive end, not when I served in Afghanistan, not even on the day he died. October 31st, last year. When he was alive, I never understood he was afraid. Couldn't really conceive of it. Growing up, we were at church three times a week, twice on Sundays plus Wednesdays. And I heard a lot of hellfire and brimstone. This world is brimming with evil.

You're always just one trip on a tightrope away from damnation, on and on. and I would look around and could plainly see. Even as a kid, a lot of adult men were absolutely terrified. They were agreeing and amening and praised Jesusing out of desperate fear of hell's torture, of God's wrath, of both. But not that. He sat there, consuming twice the pew space these scrawny other men did. listening quietly.

Every once in a while, in response to some line of scripture, he would give a nod, which impacted me ten times more than these lesser men leaping up with their too loud, hallelujahs. To me, the lesson was clear. True faith is quiet, calm, gentle. His cop buddies would make the same mistake, usually after a few beers at dinner or parties, society is a cesspool, too many wolves, too many sheep. I put my life on the line every time I punch my time clock, etc.

More worry hiding behind cynical bluster. But dad had the perfect response to all that. He'd wait for the guy to pause in the middle of his tirade, and then dad would exhale, which was like a cold front entering the room. And mutter, definitely. leave some ugly smiles out there. But I can smile back real pretty.

Then his whole face would fill with teeth and the room would just lose it, especially me. Even as an adult, I love that exaggerated, gleeful, slightly creepy grin, which I'm just realizing was sort of like a jack-o-lantern smile. Not that I had experienced with those. Halloween at our church was no laughing matter. It was when the devil was strongest, when the people actually sanctioned their children to wear adornments of the adversary and his minions.

In jest! The pastor always looked ready to cry or spit when he delivered that line. But me? I could only ever imagine the devil as some wimp and red spandex with a fool's grin and a prissy mustache and a limp pointy tail. If that was the poster child for evil, then the notion that something so weak could be a match for my dad, let alone God?

No way. No, sir. And yet, every October, this vague feeling would carefully creep into our house. I'd recognize it again, years later during deployment in Kandahar, an uncertain expectation peering at you through the typical haze of a day's normal routine. Whatever you're supposed to be doing gets shifted to the sidelines of your mind, sometimes even before you realize it. You don't worry, you're

fret or dwell. You keep living, but you make some changes. Scrab down the jeeps a little faster. eat a little slower while you listen for distant sounds. Even breathe deeper. Taking in the baked air through your nose and holding it inside you. Seeing if it has anything to reveal. Because you're waiting. You know something is out there and you're waiting for it. That's what Dad was doing too.

So, like I said, no jack lanterns on our porch. If we're buying pumpkins, he would say, we're not wasting them. We're making pie. No paper witches or cloth ghosts hung in the windows. You ever try home decorating while your mom supervises? That's scary. No lights on during trick-or-treat. Makes it easier for those little sugar-fueled missiles to lock onto better targets.

But I don't just mean no porch light. I mean no lights in the whole house. An entire evening of reading by flashlight. Board games by candle flame. A house of quiet darkness amid capering leaves and sing-song laughter and shiny latex faces. I never told him this. I was worried Oterd's feelings. That what he was doing could actually be having the wrong effect.

But I was pretty sure our no-light ritual made the house. house look haunted. It goes without saying that I never went trick-or-treating. He didn't lecture about it, or raise his voice, or quote scripture, didn't need to, because I never asked. I didn't need to hear the no from his mouth, because I could read it in his eyes. Those big wet marbles swollen as he stared out our picture window. the autumn twilight seeping through the shedding trees like golden blood,

flooding the room, but leaving his huge silhouette looming against the ghostly curtains. Standing guard. I would think of him when I was on night patrols in the provinces. In an unknowable land with stars overhead like shattered glass on blacktop, I would remember his calm nodding, in his deep sighs, and his Mount Rushmore stairs. I would take comfort in remembering what utter certainty looked like.

That comfort got me through four tours, 15 firefights, and a roadside bomb that saturated my uniform with the guy next to me. That's also why I never asked him why we did or didn't do those things on Halloween. Because what I had in his actions was a reassurance beyond explanation,

beyond even faith. A truth is fundamental as gravity, morality, love. After he died, that certainty fell off me. Sink into the ground at my feet and drained into the bowels of the earth.

I began staring out windows at night too, though for no clear reason, no clarity at all in fact shapes would just sort of start to melt into mysteries is that a person a shadow a ghost for a while things with me were not good and then just a few weeks ago i found that certainty again 328 days after he died 37 days until this coming Halloween which now of course is even closer even in late September

my parents' attic was still summer smothering the desert had been worse but the desert didn't have the humidity of being slathered in soddened wool. Mom had been asking me to help her clear out the attic since March, saw this seemed an appropriate punishment for making her wait. Then the box I had just hoisted, leapt out of my slick hands. The cardboard disintegrated on impact, spilling portions of Dad's childhood across the splintering

floorboards. Yellowed grade card, fire truck pencil sharpener, flat as roadkill, baseball miss. and a piece of notebook paper folded into thirds. When I lifted it, the creases were as sharp and serious as knife blades against my palms. It was almost cemented shut, like he wrote it, copied it, then tried to seal it away forever. I say copied because this must have been his first draft. That only makes sense. Of course, an 11-year-old cop to be with practice writing a statement to the police.

Yesterday, on 1031.86, I, James Thomas, went trick-or-treating with my friends Aaron Lake, Brian Tribran, and Matt Zeller. I was Rambo, Aaron was Skeletor, Brian was a blood monster. Matt was a messed up man. We started out getting a lot of candy. Then all of a sudden I got this feeling like something was really wrong. But he struck that part out. Felt too old to do this.

But we kept getting candy and having fun and continued on with the night. Then out of the blue, Dale Winchester, a big football player, pretended to trip and knocked Brian down. Brian said, Why the hell? Which he scratched out. Heck, did you do that? Dale said, Oh, the baby is mad. Brian said,

whatever, fatty. Dale gave us the finger and walked away. We watched Dale walk over to Peter Messenger. He had a trick-or-treat bag with no costume. That was weird, but that was Peter. Weird. Hello, Peter, Peter, penis eater, said Dave. Peter just stared at Dale.

Then Dale's friend, Chuck Welling, a ninja, yelled, nerd, right in his ear. Peter looked at Chuck and then looked back at Dale, and then pulled a gun out of his trick-or-treat bag and shot Dale. His head-pop brains explode. He crossed that part out. Face kind of splashed on Chuck's face and Chuck screamed something, but I don't know what, because Peter shot him too. And Chuck's ninja, a mask hit the ground like a wet rag. I screamed, run, and we took off down the street. Everyone else around us was screaming and running too.

I was trying to lead us to the police station, but it was far away. I heard something and looked over my shoulder, and Peter was right behind us trying to aim while he was running. I screamed faster. Then I heard a gunshot, and Matt fell down and was crying and trying and trying to, and trying to drag himself on the ground. Then I heard another shot, and I think I felt the bullet tickle my ear when it went by. I guess Matt hid somewhere.

He wasn't with us after that. We all dodged down this alley, and then I jumped over a fence into his backyard, and Aaron and Brian followed. We ran over to this shed and got inside. I grabbed an axe, and Aaron grabbed a shovel. And Brian said shit. which he crossed out, and picked up a rake. Suddenly we heard footsteps.

We got quiet and got ready. The door swung open, and it's a guy in his forties. Get out in my yard, he said, and Aaron whispered, be quiet. And the guy started to say something else, and then his blood just went all over us. He fell, and Peter was standing right behind him. He started shooting. and we tried to charge, but he hit Eric in the lag and Brian in the stomach and me in the shoulder, and I almost did a flip and landed on my back, and Peter was standing over me.

I thought about everything I've ever done in my whole entire life. But Dad crossed that part out too. Then I heard someone yell, hands where I can see them. I could see the police officer behind Peter with his gun pointed. Peter didn't turn around. He just looked at me with this Weird, evil, sad And he crossed those three words out

Ugly smile And put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger And then it was all over But he crossed out and then it was all over The end I think I read his statement five times in a row Sweats splattering under the attic floor as I shook I remember how he'd set his shoulder I was ached from an injury and self-defense training,

which I guess is sort of true, but that kind of truth still hurt, still made me cry harder than I did at the funeral. So hard that I buckled in half and nearly fell off the ladder coming out of the attic, I managed to stagger into my old room, broke part of the bed frame when I dropped onto it. Mom came in response to the crash. just laid her hands on my shoulder. I guess she assumed this was a tidal wave of grief and nostalgia. She didn't look at the piece of paper smashed in my fist.

Didn't say anything at all. Did he ever tell her? Am I the only living person who knows? I spent that night in my childhood bed, convulsed myself into my first migraine, worried mom enough that she'd tried to get me to take her left over tranquilizers from the funeral. I begged off.

I knew I needed to follow this thing to wherever it led. I couldn't lift my head because of the pressure behind my eyes. This great force trying to shove my pupils past the tears and out of my skull. Straining to focus on some huge, blurry truth sort of shape, like a gentle giant man, but also like a small, faceless demon. By the next morning, I understood. I'd staggered through the wilderness, returned from the vision quest.

Questions unasked about dad's life and unanswered about his death had been resolved. For the first time since he'd been taken from us, I felt relief, clarity, certainty. Everything made sense now. My misjudgments were laid bare. Yes, Dad's nodding and breathing and staring have been filled with certainty. The certainty of fear.

My father had been scared. He'd been right to be afraid, certainly on Halloween. It's truly when the ugly smiles are revealed. He knew even back when it happened. That's why he crossed out and then it was over. He knew it wasn't. That Peter kid was dead, but whatever had been inside him, whatever evil had been driving him, it never really went away.

It never does, I guess. It just waits, looking for the next broken soul to use, next victims to ravage, stalking the one that got away. Oh my God. How could I have been so naive about the devil? I don't care what the autopsy says. I don't care that his service revolver was in his hand. I don't care about ballistics or entry angles or any of the other red herrings.

Decoys. Tricks. My father didn't kill himself. He didn't blow his real pretty smiling teeth all over the inside of his backyard shed. No way. that thing is back it took over some other hollowed-out husk of a person and finally laid claim to my dad 36 years later

and it's still out there so this Halloween I'm finally going trick-or-treating for the first time I'm not looking for candy though I'm looking for well of look in ugliness masquerading as weirdness masquerading as human. I'll walk the streets carefully amid the glow of false flame porch lights and front yard cemetery monsters.

I'll glide through all the other disguises as pervasive as the musk of burnt pumpkin on a crisp dark winds. I love my father, but I'm not going to make his mistake. When I sense something is wrong, I'll do more than pay attention. I'll take action. I will not be scared or gentle For your bonus episode Creepy presents

Rosie Written by William Presley and narrated by Daniel Hewitt There it was again The breathing That goddamn breathing Every inhale a labored wheeze Every exhale

A death rattle and still they kept coming one right after another with almost mechanical timing in and out in and out in and out the noise bounced off of every surface in the bedroom bearing down on me as if i were trapped inside a failing iron lung it was hard to believe that something so loud could be coming from such a tiny shadow no that was the wrong word There was no light with which to cast a shadow. This was just a spot, darker than the darkness. I watched it crawl backwards up the wall and onto the ceiling, a little bit more of the infant's body coming into view with every disjointed movement.

A limp head that bounced along behind it, pudgy limbs that jutted out in all directions, and those hands, pure muscle. They released their grip. and sent the creature into a perfect 180-degree back swing. Its fingers rejoining the plaster just before the bedside lamp switched itself on. She always made me look at her. Rashi.

The baby girl's body had decomposed into an androgynous patchwork of greens and grays held together by red seams. Bones and mummified organs showed through where the skin had split, the edges of each tear vibrating in rhythm with her breath as if she were sucking air through every hole in her body. Regardless, nothing was worse than the face. The infant's features were somehow old and decrepit. Deep lines crissed crossed her forehead and framed her permanent smile, her lips having long since receded over the roots of her pointed teeth. And yet, even the thought of those needle-like incisors ripping into my flesh

wasn't enough to break her spell. I was stuck there, heart beating in my throat, body paralyzed beneath the weight of her predatory glare. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. I whispered. Rashi's face fell into a scowl, her back grinding against the ceiling as she pulled herself forward. Blessed are though amongst women. I could barely get the words out. She was directly above me now, and by the gleam in her dry, deep-set eyes, clearly about to pounce. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. With that, the creature dropped down onto my chest, her hands landing not on me, but in me.

And that sensation, that painless tickling of her palms caressing each and every one of my internal organs, as if sorting through toys in a toy box. Dear Lord, all I could do was shriek at the sheer impossibility of what was happening. The baby shrieked along with me, her voice bubbling with delight. She'd found what she was looking for. The next thing I knew, my liver had been ripped from my abdomen and a gaping wound had opened in its path. I was expecting a torrent of blood to follow, but it never came. My insides were completely dry.

Even the newly removed organ was yellow and clay-like, both loaves crumbling between the infant's fingers as she squeezed the last few drops of crimson into her mouth. The sight jolted something in the reptilian portion of my brain, something even deeper than fight-or-flight response. And I finally regained control over my arms. You little shit, I hissed. I was going to tear her apart, to throw her head across the floor and shred whatever was left until my fingernails were nubs. Unfortunately, I woke up before I got the chance.

The room was dark again, the creature gone. I threw back my sweat-soaked sheets and tried to stand up, but my muscles were so weak I had to rely on the wall for support. Eventually I made it out to the patio and sat down slowly, careful not to dissolve into the fabric of the chair. My elbows were tucked snugly against my waist. My trembling fingers wrapped around room temperature instant coffee in a cup I should have thrown out years ago. It was a custom art piece from my little sister that originally had my name spelled out in rainbow letters across the surface. After years of running it through the dishwasher, however, what had once been Lauren, now simply said Earned.

fitting. I looked like death. My hair was an ombray rat's nest, and the straps of my tank top dangled loosely over my arms. Mornings like this just made me extra grateful for the full yard that obscured the view of my balcony from the street, a rarity in the south loop of Chicago. I glanced back at my apartment building inside.

There was a lot about this place that didn't make sense for Chicago. While the brick exterior of the three-story Edwardian townhouse, may have looked the same as every other on the block, right down to its stone window crowns and gabled roof. The creature feature going on inside would have been far more appropriate for the Western Michigan farm where I grew up. I could almost hear my grandmother's voice,

recounting the origins of the Puranic, her Polish accent in full flare. The baby demons, she called them, sprang up from the remains of improperly buried infants and attached themselves to living hosts. drawing life force like formula. The only way to get rid of one

was to find its shallow grave so it could be reburied in consecrated ground. I let out another sigh and made my way to the living room, where the death certificate was lying on the table. I'd found it online after moving in and experiencing the first cliche sign of a haunting, weird noises, electrical problems, that sort of thing.

It was only after the paranormal activity escalated that I was sure I'd found who I was looking for. Rashi Stivak, aged six months, died during the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918. Place of burial? Blank. Where the hell did they dump you?

I whispered. No sooner had I finished my sentence, than a dark mist began pouring out of the vents. It filled the room almost instantly, pulling me off the ground and enveloping me in a weightless black abyss. For a few seconds, anyway. Then I was dropped on to my stomach, and though still blind, could feel myself being dragged by the ankles.

My face bounced across something rough while rodent-sized jaws clamped down on any exposed skin they could find. The only hint to as where I was came in the form of a smell. Damp like mineral water, but with a hint of cigarette smoke. The cellar. Rather than scraping together the money for a grave, the infant's parents must have left her downstom. stairs for the rats. As if to confirm my theory, the vision ended, I was back in the living room, my eyes fixed on the cellar door and an uneasy feeling rising in my chest. I could end this thing right now, find her body, bury her in the Catholic cemetery a block over. But why would a

demon want that? Why would she help me by telling me exactly where to find her? Unless, of course, she was as tired as I was. Maybe she was finally ready to see. sleep like the dead. Unable to think any more over the buzzing in my head, I convinced myself that I must be right, and took a first careful step onto the basement staircase. God, I hated the cellar about as much as I hated the landlord for sticking the communal washer and dryer down there. Every square inch of that room was beyond gross, definitely not where I want to take my underwear and bed sheets. The concrete floor had degraded into a series of uneven slabs, sinking into the dirt. and the rotting beams that ran along the ceiling were insulated solely with cobwebs.

Even worse were the piles of junk from every decade since the house had been open to renters. Art Nouveau, candelabras, and termingled with 70 swag lamps and cheap modern futons from Target. I looked around wildly, searching for something, anything, that might hint at Rashi's final resting place. And then I saw it. The tombstone-sized wooden door at the base. of the far wall. I grabbed a pickaxe from the workbench and broke the lock, grimacing at the drainage tunnel that opened before me. It looked like it could just barely fit an adult in the Army crawl position. I took a deep breath and started by sticking my whole arm in,

but I didn't feel anything. Not that I expected to. If she were in there, she'd be far enough back that nobody would accidentally find her. So with no better plan, I got onto my hands and knees and took a plunge back into the darkness. In no time, the claustrophobia set in. There wasn't even enough room to lift my head, let alone turn around. The curved bricks pressed against my back and arms, my chest barely hovering above the ground as it bowled over rat carcass after rat carcass. Things got so tight at one point, in fact, that I was more slithering than crawling. Still, I didn't really panic until I hit the end of the passage and heard that high-pitched gigo echoing. from behind me.

Heart racing, body slick with sweat. I tried to back out. But Rashi was ready. Two tiny claws clamped down on my calves holding me in place. That's when the tunnel began to shake so violently that the ancient mortar holding it all together dissolved into powder. The smell also changed to one of animals,

of hay and manure. The last clue is what made me realize more than just stories had followed me from my childhood home. There was no baby under this building. Never had been. No. I was facing up to the sins of a terrified 16-year-old who'd given birth in her parents' barn and tried to hide it by burying the little girl alive. And as the walls came crumbling down, I couldn't help but think that I'd finally given my daughter a name, if only by accident. including how to submit your own story for consideration. Please visit creepypod.com.

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