Creepy - Day 29 - Always Check the Candy & Post Pardum

Episode Date: October 29, 2023

Always Check the Candy***Written by: MakRalston***Link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Always_Check_the_Candy***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/***Bonus episode: "Post Pardum" Written by: Juan Cardenas and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***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. purchased a Walmart the day before and shoved into a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl. You probably have realized that most sane people don't poison candy or put glass in it or

whatever cautionary urban legend you've heard. The only guy who did that did so to his own son. So those neighbors' ears, don't treat them like criminals. They're just trying to innocently give the kiddos some sweets. This warning regards a phenomenon that has no apparent origin. What I mean is no one's really sure where it comes from. The candy in question isn't even so. You can't purchase it at any stores and looking it up online results in no results.

The candy, the aforementioned phenomenon, appears to be that of a cinnamon job, breaker, not to be confused with the Atomic Fireball brand or any other similar suite. It may resemble a red-tinted gumball or a red lollipop with no stick. The point being, it's rather generic in appearance, which makes it tricky to spot the real deal. The candy is something branded under the H.H. Suites Company, a corporation that doesn't exist, at least not one registered by any agency since 1999. If you search the internet, you might find some H.H. Sweet's businesses, but I assure you, they aren't the real deal.

Merely a namesake coincidence. If the label carries the H.H. name, beneath it, a tagline will read something to the effect of hot as hell, sweet as heaven. Not all the candies sport the branding, but it certainly helps to spot it. That's why I advise if you find yourself or you. your kids with an unmarked red candy, the safest bet is to throw the sucker away. Documentation of the phenomenon only dates back to 2007. But there is the possibility that it's gone on for far longer.

As of this recording, a known nine people have ingested the candy, four of which being children under the age of 18. Each case has happened on October 31st, with the most cases occurring during 2016, with a total of three victims. The only clues is that the candy's appearance and branding is through the eyes of witnesses, and subsequent investigations of any nearby and opened candy wrappers. Each of the victim's corpses, aside from the heads, remain untouched. The heads, however, are where things get strange. Each of the heads is completely burnt, like a used match. This would make identification of the victims troublesome,

except for the fact that fingerprint analysis lent itself fittingly to the nature of these deaths, considering the hands of the deceased were completely intact. None of the victims were related in any way, with the only exception being a father and his nine-year-old daughter, Andy and Mary Kay Winfield from Lexington, Virginia. All the others shared no relation, other than the aforementioned candy. An eyewitness report from Brevard North Carolina documented the full story behind the mysterious death of a 12-year-old boy, Shane Davis,

who died on the Halloween of 2009. I was leaving the pharmacy at around 8.30 when it happened. He, Davis, was walking down the block in his zombie costume. I didn't even notice him at first because it was dark, and the costume was dark. But then there was this flash of orange light, like someone lighting a candle. I turned around and this heat wave hit me in the face. And the smell. Oh Lord, it smelled like cooked meat.

His head was on fire. There were people screaming, but there was nothing we could do. He screamed only for a moment. then he hit the pavement. I'll never unsee it. There were rumors it was a hex from a witch or something. I'm not a superstitious man, but when you see something like that,

superstition doesn't seem too far off, you know? Similar reports are documented for many of the other victims. Shortly after ingesting the candy, the victim's head would burst into flames, and soon thereafter, the victim would succumb to the injury and die. Many rumors and theories have since popped up surrounding the deaths in candy. Many include witches and spells, but some have garnered significant following beyond regional folklore. One of the most popular rumors cites the deaths as a result of the 1782 execution of Henry Heisen Cassidy, H.H. Cassidy, a candy maker from Anankok, Virginia, the site of the first documented death from 2007.

Cassidy, a local candy maker, was placed on trial for the disappearances of two young girls from the neighboring town. Despite having no apparent motive for abducting two young girls, the candy maker was charged as a reasonable suspect, having access to sweets for luring the children. Following a local investigation, where one of the girl's bodies was discovered with candy in her pocket, Cassidy was charged with the murders and sentenced to death. children from the town, who once loved the sweets made by the candy maker, began calling Cassidy the witch of Onondcock, making him one of the earliest male witches of legend. Being found guilty in a hasty trial, Cassidy was sentenced to death by molten metal,

a process considered barbaric, except in a case of an accused witch. Cassidy, who swore his innocence until his death, had a molten metal ball dropped into his throat, while a quick death, it was certainly not painless. The townsfolk remarked that justice was served on that day, and the body was buried in a shallow grave. Given that Andy and Mary Kay Winfield were also from Virginia,

many speculated that the spirit of Cassidy returned to punish those responsible for his death, using his signature candy as a way to torment the dissenders of his accusers. The name, too, H.H. Cassidy, would explain the name on the rapper's H.H. Sweets. Another popular theory is usually referred to as the Jackalantron story. Based on the Irish myth, the story goes that a man known as Stingy Jack tricked the devil on multiple occasions,

resulting in his banishment from hell as well as heaven. As he was a trickster at heart, the man, forced to roam the earth, lit coal within a turnip, and has been using it ever since to light his eternal path. The story, clearly rooted in the Halloween tradition of carving jack lanterns, has been used to explain the candy too. Stingy Jack, as he's referred, seeks out souls to join him in his eternal punishment.

The candy, which burns the heads of its consumers, turns them into a somewhat crude jack-lantern. This would explain the fiery demise of the victims, as well as its connection to the celebration of Halloween. In conjunction with the Stingy Jack narrative, there are some who conclude the candy as the work of the devil himself, tormenting unsuspecting holiday celebrators with death merely for the fun of it. A rather sick trick, yes. But then again, mischief is commonplace in the celebration of Halloween.

As for this theory, the H.H. label would stand for Hell's hottest, or some other variation of the Hell alliteration. Despite these varying backstories to the candy, there's a far more grounded explanation that many have subscribed to. Rather than reading into the H.H. Sweets mythology, some conclude that H.H. Sweets is precisely what it claims to be, a candy company. The motive for committing these crimes is, at large, still a mystery. But this theory cuts out the claims of ghosts and devils, suggesting instead that a select few sickos had the willpower to conjure up sweets with the intent to kill. In the end, no one theory is correct, at least not one that can be confirmed by traditional means. And candy, that is, for lack of a better term, supernatural, can only be explained by the supernatural,

making it extremely difficult to verify any of the information regarding it. If you wish to avoid the gris of the candy, it's advised to always check your children's Halloween candy. Better yet. avoid the trick-or-treating tradition altogether. Or, if you're highly concerned, perhaps it would be best to simply skip Halloween altogether. For your bonus episode, creepy presents,

postpartum, written by Juan Cardenas, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I haven't slept in days. I cannot sleep. with that thing in my home. He is not welcome here. It is no son of mine. He's not like Rose. Everything about his delivery was wrong, different. It was often a way that I could not ignore. When Rose was born, the heavens opened up for her. It was a sunny day when my water broke.

I had a bag packed. Her father drove me to the hospital, chose. The birthing sweet was immaculate, clean, smelling of lavender and crisp, fresh linens. I can still remember the sweet smell of her short hair. The pleasant smell almost like bread. My love. My little piece of bread, as they say. Then, when this new boy came out, this wailing, blue-skinned creature. It had split me nearly in two, and now it was letting me bleed out in a gaping, screaming mass, with nurses and doctors gently carrying it,

as if it had no heart in my trauma. There was no father. Not anymore. There was no family with a bouquet, no set birthing suite, and I just went to the first hospital that I could find and was assaulted by the smell of Santa Claus and old blood. The baby shower was me shoving whatever I could find from Target underneath my dress and into my purse.

I knew that each birth was different, but the red flags were flowing like that blood elevator scene in The Shining. The doctors were softly asking me to put the creature on my skin, but why couldn't anyone else see it for what it was? Everyone was cleaning him, cooing, attending to it like it was a normal baby. They wrapped him up, and then were all goading me into putting him on my bare chest. I unfurled him from his white blanket with the red and white edges. He was breathing sharp little breaths, too deep.

His fingers were like little knives, scratching and hacking at himself, and at me, and I swear that I could still see the inhuman blue tone that I observed earlier. Only now it was hidden underneath a bright red blanket of crimson wrinkled skin. It was red-hot on my bare chest. And I know they are supposed to be barely aware, but it looked right at me and it had malicious intent in its eyes. It looked at me, and in its own way, it laughed at me. That wrinkled, hateful stare was burned into my memory just as the nurse came over and took it from my arms.

The nurse was cooing and patting the baby dry after his wash. I looked at him with contempt. There was something terribly wrong about him. but I couldn't articulate it. I had to be vigilant. He didn't sleep. It barely drank from me, and when it did, it would cut me with its hateful little fingers.

There was a growing concern among the nurses and doctors, so much so that I had an official speak to me and asked me about my mood, my upbringing, and my feelings. I answered flatly and distantly, because I could tell that the creature was listening, and I did not want to give it any ammunition. And I could tell when it was in my hospital room because the temperature would suddenly drop. I kept bringing it up to the nurses, but they kept insisting that the heat was on and that they didn't feel the cold, and they didn't hear its whispers.

The same official who spoke to me said that I would be going home with an escort, and that the insurance might be able to send us with a home health aid, that I should put my mind at ease, that they were on top of things. Her sad eyes behind the big wide glasses she wore were darting around, like she was nervous, and I think she knew. Despite all these promises, when it came time to go, no one had escorted me or made any fuss about me leaving with the infant.

So I knew I had to take him home. and care for him. I tried to leave him in the lobby when a security guard pushed his stroller along, following me to the cab. I didn't protest. Protesting never helped me. And when he was strapped in the car seat, he just sat there, silently. They just left me with this thing.

It turned its head and looked right at me. And then I saw that same smug. mile spread across its face. And then I was at home, in my bed, staring at the crib. It hurts to go to the bathroom, to do anything but laid down. I haven't eaten or drank much either. Since using the toilet with such a pain, I'd rather avoid it. My milk was running dry, but the newborn, he didn't seem to mind. He just, sat there, silently, until I started to feel like I could relax, and then he would scream so loudly that I felt my mind shatter. Rose was my benchmark, and I knew that she was nothing like this new baby.

She was warm, bright, and her big, beautiful eyes were so full and loving. But this, this boy. He had these tiny, senseless eyes. Like imitations of eyes. Too black. Too dark. Too much like little beads. His inconsistent wailing kept me awake long enough. And so I brought it a bottle of formula as he drank it.

Daniel would be his name. I had decided then. And that's when I thought how. funny it was, that no one at the hospital thought to file any birth certificate paperwork with me. I don't remember writing his name down. Why was I even giving him a name now? After some moments, he seemed to fall asleep. I resolved to not let him out of my sight, but I was so comfortable on the bed, and I fell asleep. I dreamt of him, multiple versions of him, crawling around, climbing the walls, climbing the ceiling, the blue-skin goblin-like monstrosities.

They all smothered me with their bodies. And I still felt the painful pressure on my face as I woke up. And as I woke up, I could see that Daniel was standing in his crib. I couldn't close my eyes in the darkness of the room, but he was definitely standing. and his black eyes shone in the dark like they were LED lights. I blinked and saw that he was laying down again, gently breathing, softly scraping the bed with its nails. I didn't know what to do.

What did it want from me? What do you want? I asked. The question made it fall completely silent and still. waiting for a response. I held my breath and after what seemed like several minutes. It spoke to me in a deep voice. I want you, mother.

I need you, mother. All of you. Every single drop of you. They called me a monster. They found me with him, what was left of him, and the spell had been broken. Everyone saw the monster within, but I was not absolved. I knew this. I had ingested enough medication to end it and join my rose, but it was not to be.

The wellness check they had scheduled meant that I was discovered, throving, vomiting, standing at the gate of death. I pleaded with them to let me die. Yet this small mercy was not allowed. Sometimes. I still hear its hateful whispers, and if I let my guard down, I can feel its claws digging into me, attempting to consume me, and I still see it from time to time,

giving me his hateful, evil smile. 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

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