Creepy - Day 28 - One Last Drink

Episode Date: October 28, 2020

Closing time...***One Last Drink written by ShadowSwimmer77 and narrated by Mike Dent***Bye Bye written by sumgigh***See your donation rewards at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Music 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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A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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 28. One last drink.

Written by Shadows Swimmer 77 and narrated by Mike Dent. Frank slouched happily on his bar stool, riding the best buzz of his life. Joe sat next to him, nervously scanning the room. Holy shit, Joey. Just... Holy shit! There was something in that last one.

I don't know what it was, but oh, mama! I gotta get me another one of those. It was Saturday night, and the bar was crowded with 20 and 30-somethings. A dull roar of conversation. filling the air as they joked and flirted. Despite this, Frank was being loud enough to draw some annoyed glares from the patrons closest to where they were sitting. Joe gave the cute blonde next to him an apologetic smile,

and she rolled her eyes before turning back to the Clinties would lookalike, currently chatting her up. Joe swallowed hard. Would you shut the fuck up, Frank? Okay, first, you can't have another one of those because you guys kicked out of that bar. Honestly, man, I have no... idea you've survived this long the way you act. That chick's boyfriend is going to be pissed after what you pulled.

And I'm not totally sure they didn't follow us here. Frank's drunken abulience turned sullen in an instant as he sulkily leaned across the bar. His scowl fixed on the bowl of peanuts resting between them. Oh, whatever, Joey. Let him come. Flower power back there wants to make an issue of it. He's more than welcome to try. Oh, fetters, I do his own asshole.

prick is a problem with me. He should learn how to keep a tighter watch on his woman. Joe sighed. He'd been out with Frank long enough to know there was no reasoning with him when he got like this. Yeah, I'm sure you would, Frank. Anyway, we should think about getting back to the house. You know how piss Boris gets when we miss curfew?

It's getting late. And if we don't get back soon, we're going to be toast. Oh, Joey, you little bitch. Fuck Boris. You know that ass that just likes to think he's got control. all of us. What's he care if we come in at two or three? No difference. I'm getting another drink before we go. Joe reached over and pulled on Frank's shoulder. Damn it, Frank, you don't need another drink. You're drunk enough as is. Any more in you and you're likely to start something that'll have us

against the whole damn bar. And I don't care how tough you think you are. If that happens, we are going to most likely get this shit kicked out of us. Then we'll be lucky if we can crawl back to Boris's place and even luckier if he lets us inside. A cold, metallic sheen. A cold, metallic she slid over Frank's eyes, and his mouth drew into a hard line as he reached up and took hold of Joe's wrist and a crushing grip. Get your fucking hands off me, Joey. Joe let go of Frank's coat and gulped. Yeah, sure, Frank. Whatever you say, man?

A single bead of sweat rolled down Joe's forehead as Frank increased the pressure of his hold, tight enough to leave bruises. abruptly Frank smiled and released Joe's wrist. See there? That wasn't so hard, was it? Now, don't get your panties in a bunch. One more drink, and we'll head back to the house so old Mother Boris won't be concerned. Okay? Joe slumped unhappily in his stool, rubbing his sore wrist. Okay, yeah, okay. One last drink.

Just try to control yourself, would you? For me? Frank laughed. Ha ha ha! Only for you, Joey. Now then, let's see. What do I want? Better make it something special since you're rushing me over here.

And what is that smell? Joe noticed it too. The scent of fresh-bloomed lilacs ever so subtly laced with something muskier. The two men turned to look at the same time and were simultaneously struck, dumbfounded. The woman that stood in the entryway of the bar was a vision. Large almond eyes, the color of dark chocolate, were set above lips as plump as ripe in cherries. A careful tumble of jet black curls framed the incredibly pale skin of her face. Hair so thick it seemed to beg a man to run it through his fingers.

She was dressed in a modest black dress that nevertheless seemed to accentuate her soft curves. the effect exponentially more rousing than any of the far more revealing outfits most of the other female patrons were decked out in. The roar of the room had descended to a quiet buzzing. Taking a moment to survey the crowd, the ghost of a smile reached the corners of her mouth before she made her way to the bar, the gentle sway of her hips holding the profound attention of every man in the room,

as well as the unmasked disgust of many of the women. sliding smoothly onto a stool ten feet down the bar from Joe and Frank. The spell was abruptly broken, and threads of conversation began to pick up around them. Frank turned to Joe excitedly. Joey, I am gonna tap that shit. Joe sighed. Frank, really? Every other guy here just thought the same thing, man.

I mean, look at her. No way she'd dumb enough to go anywhere with you. Let's just get out of here. That chick is trouble. I can feel it. There's just something about her that isn't right, you know? Something off. Frank grinned. Yeah, there's something off.

You see that pale skin? Profound lack of vitamin D. Fortunately for her, I have the cure. Watch and learn. Frank, look, if she shoots me down, we go home, okay? I won't even try to get another drink. Fine, fine. I'm holding you to that. I'll see you back here in two minutes. Then we're gone. Frank flashed a tooth-bearing grin and laughed before sauntering towards the woman. He already had three other men clustered around her. Joe leaned back against the bar, ready to observe the comedy that was surely about to unfold. He could see her, watching Frank out of the corner of her eyes, he approached, only turning to give her full attention when he'd gotten close enough to throw her one of his Latinate pickup lines.

Here it comes, Joe thought. The part where she throws her head back and laughs her ass off. Maybe if he uses one of his extra special lines, those other guys will do me a favor and lay him out. Then I'll just have to get the bouncer to help me cut the shithead to a cab. He could see Frank say something. Then, to Joe's amazement, the woman's mouth curled into a wicked grin. Her eyes burning with lust-filled desire, as she had. hungrily stared at Frank.

She raised a single finger to the lips of the man standing next to her, who had been obliviously trying to carry on a conversation before grabbing Frank by the hand and pulling him behind her towards the restrooms at the back of the bar. Frank had little time to flash Joe

and excited thumbs up across the room before the door slammed shut behind them. Joe's mouth dropped open in shock. Holy shit, he muttered to himself. Maybe I should. should see about getting another drink after all. Instead, he simply sat at the bar, waiting for Frank to finish whatever the hell he was doing back there.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. After twenty minutes, Joe began to get worried. At thirty, he got up and started to make his way back to the restroom. Frank would be pissed if Joe was interrupting. But, Damn it, they'd already miss curfew.

He shoved through the bathroom door and stopped, unable to believe what he saw. Frank stood slumped against the back wall of the restroom, his arms held on either side by men built like professional linebackers, and looking like he'd been beaten to hell. The sultry woman standing in front of him was wielding a pair of pliers. As Joe watched, she reached into Frank's mouth with the tool, and accompanied by a sickening series of cracking pops ripped one of his teeth out

to join the small pile already on the tiled floor beside her. Frank moaned softly as bright red blood steadily pulsed out of his mouth and down his chin and chest. Joe stepped farther into the room. Hey! What the fuck are you doing to him? If he could get one of those guys off Frank, they just might stand a chance of getting the hell out of there. He briefly registered movement to his rear and realized another assailant must have been hiding behind the door.

Before he could turn, he felt the sharp stab of a needle. Then something like liquid fire injected into his neck. Joe fell to the floor, screaming and writhing in pain, as the poison did its work, before finally passing into blessed unconsciousness. Ice-cold water poured over his head, woke him up, sputtering. Joe coughed and blinked his eyes, a dull burning still echoing from his neck where he'd been injected earlier. His mouth was so dry it felt like sandpaper. He looked around.

He was sitting, tied to a chair in the middle of a nondescript warehouse, the pale light of dawn shining through the dirt encrusted windows high above. To his right, he saw Frank was secured to another chair in a similar fashion, so battered and bruised that if Joe didn't know any better, he would have thought the man was dead. The woman stood in front of them holding a bucket, flanked on either side by a pair of her black-clad goons. She'd changed out of her dress from the bar

into the same military-style clothing the men wore. She smiled, as Frank moaned through his mouth full of missing teeth, his head lulling in a circle. So sorry to wake you boys, she purred. Her voice fell over steel. But I wanted to make sure you were conscious for the big finish. Fuck, lady, what the hell is happening? Joe croaked.

Who are you? What the fuck are you doing to us? Please give me something to drink. She gestured to one of the men standing beside her. Maurice. The man stepped forward, and Joe saw he held a pint-sized bag of blood in his enormous hands. Fingers moving deftly for a man of his size, he inserted one end of a small plastic tube into the bag,

and held the other end over Joe's mouth. A few small drops bled from the tube onto Joe's tongue. Salty and so rich, he almost gagged. Then the man called Maurice was gone, administering the same to Frank before returning to the woman's side. There, the woman smiled. One last drink. In answer to your previous questions,

my name is Morgana Fontaine. What is happening? I am avenging the death of my darling sister and countless other victims of your horrific appetites. She turned and walked to the sliding cargo door on the side of the warehouse. And what I am doing, she said, heaving at the chain to raise the door, is spreading the world of two more god-forsaken parasites. Facing east, the light of the morning sun streamed through the doorway, directly onto the two prisoners strapped in their chairs.

As the first rays touched them, the men's skin began to blacken and steam, before spontaneously bursting in the flame. Now fully alight, Joe and Frank's screams echoed throughout the empty warehouse, pockets of fat under their skin bubbling and popping, their eyes melting in their sockets. Margana and her companion stood watching the conflagration, unblinking, until all that was left of the creatures were two small piles of dust and a pair of greasy black stains.

Approaching the remains, Morgana noisily hawked and spat a healthy wad a flam into the ash. For my sister. Let's get this cleaned up and get some breakfast, boys. I'm hungry. With that, the hunter turned her back, heavy boot heels clicking as she walked through the warehouse door, into the welcoming light of day.

From the Patreon Vault. Creepy Presents. Bye-bye. A few days ago, I was just a normal, single parent. My wife passed away about six months ago, and in a moment of total selfishness, I took a job about a thousand miles away and uprooted my daughter from the only life she knew.

I had convinced myself that we needed a fresh start, even though she only recently turned two. I knew that she would grow up and, solely the idea of mama not being around would fade away. Even at the funeral, my daughter didn't cry or squirm or do anything you expect a toddler to do. She just sat in my arms, her little legs squeezed on my hip, looked at her mother's clothes casket, and said, Bye-bye. You try not crying at that.

Still, I made the move as much for me as anyone else. Maybe that makes me a bad. dad. Maybe this is all my fault. It happened when we were waiting for the subway. I just picked my daughter up from daycare and I needed to go back to the office to pick up a flash drive. I left on my desk so I could get some work done after she went to bed. We were standing there on the subway platform. She's gone between wanting to be held, wanting me to carry her on my shoulders, and just wanting to be an independent little person pretty much since she turned two. There's nothing terrible about her twos.

She was just turning into a very determined and stubborn little girl, just like her mom had been. I loved her so much. So we were standing there. Her little hand wrapped around the pinky and ring finger on my right hand. I admit, I was distracted as I tried to scroll through a PDF I pulled up on my phone when in that split second, I realized something was wrong. Like, I knew. it was wrong the moment it happened. The moment the tension was gone from my fingers,

but my mind struggled to grasp for just that second that my daughter had let go on my hand. The wash of panic and anxiety hit me like a heart attack and lasted now much longer than a heartbeat as I saw my daughter just a couple of her little toddler steps worth of distance from me, but she was walking towards the edge of the platform. I took a step toward her, that moment of irrational panic when you, as a parent, suddenly think that your child will do something unprecedented, like launch from your reach onto the track. When I realized that she wasn't walking towards the edge of the platform, she was walking toward a woman who was looking down at her phone. She had had phones in, probably listening to music. She looked to be in her early 30s with long dark hair.

In hindsight, I could see a sort of resemblance to my wife, and maybe that was one of my my daughter was moving toward her. A heartbreaking moment where she thought her mother was back and standing in front of her. But that wasn't it. In my daughter's hand was a piece of paper. I hadn't seen her holding the paper earlier and I assumed it was something that she'd found on the ground. Maybe it was something she saw the woman drop and in her total sweetness thought that she should give it back to the lady. I watched as my daughter saddled up to the woman and poked her tiny finger on the side of the woman's leg.

The woman looked startled and took a moment to notice the little girl standing next to her. My daughter didn't say a word. She really doesn't speak that much beyond a few words. She tries really hard, but for the most part it seems like she just makes up her own words. No. She just looked up at the lady and handed her the folded piece of paper. The woman took the paper absentmindedly and didn't say a word as my daughter turned and hustle back to my side, reaching her arms up so I'd lift her up and carry her to what I realized was the sound of the approaching subway.

I stood there as the woman looked at the piece of paper in her hand and unfolded it. Honey, what was that? Was it something you made in school? My daughter just shook her head. Do you know what it was? Before I could register my daughter's answer, I heard a scream from the platform. It must have been from the woman. because when I looked her back was at the edge of the platform.

Her arms waving wildly. Her body slightly illuminated by the light at the incoming subway train. I barely had time to shield my daughter's face as the woman fell into the tracks. Just a second before the train came. Then she was gone. In that moment when life really does stand still, the sound of my daughter's voice finally registered in my mind. Bye-bye.

Of course there was chaos. People taking out their cell phones that take pictures and videos, post tweets about the lady who just committed suicide by jumping in front of a subway car, whatever. There was a pretty quick investigation. Transit police were there asking for statements, reviewing security camera footage. I was called in for questioning the next afternoon.

It was a horrible hassle because I needed to figure out a babysitter for the night after my daughter's daycare, so I could go down to the police station and say, What? I told them exactly what I told you, mostly. The video showed my daughter walk up to the woman. It wasn't very good resolution, so you really couldn't make out that she handed her anything. The woman must have turned when she read the note because I couldn't see it in her hands.

I tried to play it subtle. Was there a suicide note? The detective just looked at me. He looked tired, even annoyed, probably overworked. He shook his head. No. No note. Nothing.

I got home just after dinner and saw the babysitter curled up on the couch watching TV. Dirty dishes still on the table. I pulled out my wallet to pay her and asked how the night had been. It was the same old thing. My daughter was being her own little person, just playing in her room, mostly pretending her stuffed animals were little babies. No indication that anything had happened the day before. She's always been that way.

Each day is a new day for her, and I kept her from seeing the woman fall. No, not fall. She jumped. I said good night to the sitter. She lives just a floor above us and went to check. I know my daughter. When I opened her door, I saw her sitting at her little table. She had her crayons and markers splayed out on the table.

I walked up and she didn't even look at me. It wasn't until I started to reach for one of the folded little pieces of paper cluttering the surface that she suddenly squealed an annoyance at me and reached across a table to cover her little art project. I opted to leave it be. She'd gotten really good at throwing tantrums as of late, and regardless of them being for show, I had a lot of work to do, and figured it was better to just give her some more time before getting ready for bed.

It was only about ten minutes later that I heard her little feet pat her into the kitchen as I was cleaning up the dishes. She didn't say anything as she set a folded piece of paper on the table in front of me. She looked at me for just a moment. Her face had total blank before turning to leave the room. I stared at the note. My mind racing with the image ingrained in my mind from the subway. My heart's starting to pound, as irrational as I knew it was.

It was just a drawing, right? It only took two words from my daughter to change my world. Bye-bye. I've been staring at that note as I write this. My daughter is still playing in her room, writing, I don't know. I don't know. I'm afraid to look at the note. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. at creepy pod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at creepypod at gmail.com.

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