Creepy - Day 29 - My Son Has No Mouth...

Episode Date: October 29, 2020

What's a father to do?***Content warning: animal death, child death**Written by Edward the Crazyman***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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graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents The 31 Days of Horror. Day 29. My son has no mouse and yet he must eat.

Written by Edward the Crazy Man. His mother died giving birth to him, and I couldn't forgive him for it. If that makes me something rotten, then so be it. I wept dryly by her side, stunned, and as a doctor's and nurses chided me out of my seat so as to attend to the paperwork for the mutant responsible for the death of the bloated woman lying in the plastic hospital bed in front of me. The doctors ushered her body away and brought me to the boy with rope. tumorous skin covering his mouth.

They assured me that a procedure to remove the fleshy patch keeping his mouth shut could be exercised, and they would just need me to sign off on it. I did, and handed the cold and whimpering child with no mouth off to them, excusing myself to the bathroom. The primary physician seemed to regard me with some understanding pity. But how could he? I stood in the bathroom, stomping my rubber soles against the solid tiles beneath my feet.

The man looking back at me from the mirror seemed to be much smaller than I remembered. I'd been so red and boisterous and ready for the family life. Now the man there slumped his shoulders, and his hair seemed to be greasy and gray. His eyes, that of a stabbed bull in the arena, looking up and accepting death, terrified. and darting. I briefly wondered what it would be like to kill myself. I could buy a gun. Go home, paint the walls.

This conclusion was wholly unreasonable. I know. This would leave the boy alone in the world. Though, more importantly, everyone would regard me as a poor parent. So I was stuck. Adoption? Perhaps. Call it a grief-induced confusion if you want.

But I prefer to call it being taken away on a wave of extremes. High tide, low tide. Moving quickly between the proposition of acting as a good newly single father and being the bastard that ducks out what need of most. I was deeply sad. That is my only defense. And that sucks. After washing my face in the deep bowl of the high.

hospital bathroom and wandered back down in the lime green hallway to press my face against the window of the nursery where my son lay. He rolled back and forth, twisting his small and inconsequential limbs in all directions, with his eyes wide open in terror, nostrils flaring. He wished to belt out a scream like any other baby might, and yet was refused even that. The muffles came from him small. They cut him a new mouse, and as he healed, it was almost easy to ignore the jagged look of his lips. The doctors assured me they'd heal nicely with time,

and that I would hardly be able to even notice they'd ever been sealed shut. I took my son home, and within the week, I buried my wife. The funeral was brief, and small. The baby did manage to cry out with its new phone mouth on that day. So did I. I cried into my pillow as a small boy lay on the bed next to me. He would look up at me with curious, blue, milky eyes, and the world would fall away for a little while. Time went by. Weeks. One morning I awoke to my alarm and was stunned to find that my baby wasn't crying from his I could hear him struggling in his haphazard blankets, and I could tell he was attempting to

muffle out a high-pitched baby scream. I darted to the crib, terrified that he was choking on something. As I looked into the crib, I saw him staring up at me with those pleading blue eyes. He had no mouth. It had sealed over again. His nostrils flared hysterically and his soft feet kicked out below his twisting. torso. I panicked. I took my child up on my arms and rushed him to the kitchen, phone in hand, ready to dial 911. I could feel the boy thrashing in my arms and I almost dropped him,

but abandoned the phone instead. The cell phone shot from my hand and slid across the kitchen tiles. He was gagging and snot and vomit shot from his nose. The image of me holding the limp form of my dead baby, my outstretch hands shot through my mind, and I decided that was not going to happen. It was quick enough work. I grabbed a long butcher's knife from the block on the counter and held them over the sink as I carved him a smile. Was I doing the right thing? The dam and his throat broke and the sink drain pooled with blood and vomit. I screamed.

He screamed. I was terrified and sick to my stomach. I was immediately struck by how small I felt. Was this what being a parent was like? Surely no one in the history of the world had ever performed such a macabre act on their infant. Tears streamed down my faces I patted him on the spine and he choked up in the sink. Years passed. He would come up to me in the morning.

I would brush his hair neatly, straighten his shirt, cut him a new mouth for the day, and send him on his merry way. I'd be lying if I said the thought of sending him off to school with runny red lips didn't eat me up most nights. Beyond his poor eating habits and his strange mouth problems, he was a lovely child. I swear, I can't get that kid to eat anything. Sometimes, after dinner, I find the contents of his plate in the trash, although he must be getting enough nutrition. He doesn't seem to be wasting away. The first startling clue was when the dogs in the neighborhood started going missing.

It wasn't the craziest thing in the world to be sure, but seeing as we live in a rather upscale gated community, it was definitely odd to have a dog burglar on the problem. Then the dog's mutilated corpses would be found in undeveloped portions of the community are in sewer drains. Each of them had massive hunks of flesh taken from their bodies as though they'd been dined on. Speculation of wild coyotes or mountain lions ran rife through the neighborhood, and I was sure to keep a closer eye on my boy so he wouldn't be munched up by some wily beast. I purchased him a puppy for his fifth birthday.

And he said something to me that showed me to the bone. Thank you, Daddy. I've been so hungry. I thought this was a strange quip and nothing more initially. But I sleep with my dog in my bed these days as sometimes I can see my son giving the poor thing a sideways glance with a twinkle in his eyes. I'm beginning to wonder whether or not he was born without a mouth for a reason.

I don't know if I plan on giving him his smile this morning. my son has no mouth and yet I love him so I posted on here a while back about my son's strange condition and I'm starting to think I might have come across as a little melodramatic I hope I was

maybe I don't know every day I have to give my son what I've come to call his smile every night his mouth seals itself shut and every morning I have to use a razor to cut it open other than that he's almost an entirely normal sweet wonderful great adorable kid almost

it is obvious to me that most kids love candy or ice cream and have a difficult time eating their vegetables my son loves small animals not in the way that most children love small animals mind you he he eats them i've come to accept that now I'm sure that I have, I think. Since my previous post, I found him kneeling over the body of a possum. Do not ask me how, but my son somehow figured out a way to withdraw the poor thing's solid, tiny heart from the jacid's spot in the possum's chest. I looked at the dead animal, and then back to my son.

He stared at his shoes, sniffling. Are you sad it's dead? I asked him, maintaining eye contact with the ground he shook his head. Hey. Still, he looked down, rubbing the tip of his shoe into the grass. I reached out and grabbed his chin with my forefinger and thumb, pulling his watery face up to meet mine. It'll be all right, buddy. I said, hoping that saying it aloud would somehow make me feel better about it.

I'm honestly terrified of the boy. But I cannot let him see that. I don't want him to think that his father thinks he's a monster. I also don't want him to think about taking a nibble off me. I dug a less than perfect grave in the backyard after wiping the red grime from my son's mouth and chucking the possum in, pinching it by its fur so that I wouldn't have to touch any of the bloody mess. I made my son brush his teeth and floss. Then I put him to bed and settled in.

on the couch with Captain Tripps lounging on my lap. Oh, sorry. Captain Trips is the puppy. Yes, I remember. Lots of you were worried you would die. He is fine. He's a good boy. I scrolled through Google on my tablet

while rubbing Captain's soft ear absomindedly. Grusome images past my eyes as I looked over picture after picture of disfigured children with medical issues. I've been looking up similar to my eyes. conditions in children, wondering whether or not there was a possible solution to his issue. There are plenty of children born with disabilities and sealed orifices. Did you know that some people are born without anuses? Doctors are left with no other option in the cases, but they've got the skin covering the sphincter.

That's horrifying no matter how you slice it. I didn't mean that to come out like that. You know what I mean. It's terrible. I apologize to anyone who might have been born without an anus who heard that. Anyway, yes, plenty of children are born that way. Have yet to find any children whose orifice has sealed up overnight, every night. I've also yet to see any cases of children like that who have an insatiable hunger for live, small game.

So, here's what I'm thinking. And don't laugh at me, please. I think there must be a paranormal reason behind all of this? There must be something going on here beyond human understanding. I was pulled from my thought as I felt a pair of eyes on me. He was my son. He was rubbing the corners of his eyes. His mouth had partially sealed shut so that his mouth was a little more than a pinhole.

After some motioning, I realized he was thirsty. And so he went to the kitchen and I poured him a small, glass of water, pushing a straw into his mouth. He slipped it down and I kissed him on the head, ushering him off to bed with a pat on the shoulder. At least that was something I never had to worry about. He'd never been a bedwether. Captain was asleep on the couch when I returned, sighing heavy as I sat next to him.

I resolved to think some more on it in the morning and left the captain off the couch, taking him to my bed and tucking him under the blanket so that his snout was well-lawful. above the blanket. Even with my mind racing, I was able to sleep easily enough. I was startled awake by a high-pitched yelp. In seconds, I was wide awake, flicking the lamp on my bedside table on. My stomach churned as I felt sick and cold all of a sudden. I had never been so fucking scared in my life. There was my son at the edge of the bed, eyes wide as though he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It took a moment for me to realize it, but Captain's tail fell from my son's open mouth, and the pup quickly shot over to my side of the bed, tucking his injured tail

beneath him. My son had one of the large kitchen knives I usually keep in the wooden block near the sink in his hand. His mouth was open. He'd given himself a smile. His hand was not as trained his mind so his teeth were exposed in a snarled and wriggly fashion. The knife clinging to the floor. Hey, I whispered to him. Hey, he whispered back. What are you doing here? Nothing.

He held back a quivering, bloody bottom lip. I scooted across the bed, throwing the covers off and grabbing him on his small shoulders. "'Don't do that, all right?' I was still whispering. He cocked his head to the side. "'What do you mean? You scared me. Don't do that.' I nervously chuckled while sweating bullets.

He stayed quiet for a moment, looking absently around the room. Then his eyes shot up to mine. "'You're scared of me?' Even thinking of the way he said that now, it makes me uneasy. I've started hiding all the blades in the house, and I make sure my bedroom doors lock tight every single night now. It was difficult to tell with his wonky lips. But I swear to you that when he asked if I was scared of him, he was smiling. My son has no mouse.

and yet he must be destroyed. I took up hunting, given some of your advice on these posts before. Now I was hoping that perhaps raw, fresh flesh could see she ate my son's growing hunger. The small traps I started setting up around the property were simple enough, but trudging through the woods and looking for larger game is way more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I can safely say this. Hunting is not my forte. Don't worry, I brought Captain with me. I don't think I could leave him at the house with the boy.

He's just a pup, so it's not like I could expect him to keep up with me on his own. Instead, I had deposited him in my backpack so he could poke his snout out and enjoy the ride as I move through the forest. I never did shoot anything, though. I had the opportunity once, but just as I was about to fire, Captain let out of wine and scared the young buck off. It darted into the brush and vanished completely. and I was left with nothing but a little puppy. Maybe I'll just give you to him then, I playfully said to the pooch.

Of course I wouldn't. After giving up on that endeavor, I sat on a leafy embankment in the woods, drank from my canteen greedily, and poured a bit into a plastic bowl for captain. He's a good boy. I knew I couldn't bring my son with me on this trip, so I'd got him a babysitter.

Telling the young girl of his special condition was strange. I'll say that much I didn't tell her everything I simply told her that he had a difficult time eating so if he fussed she shouldn't reprimand him I also told her of his disfigurement

to this she simply nodded and told me her price I paid so I could be left alone to go in the forest and hunt but this had been a bust the traps too have proved to catch nothing this is something I'd expected

We do have the occasional varmet, but given my son's previous discrepancies, I'm fairly certain the small game tries to give our home a white birth. Maybe that's just me attempting to rationalize it, though. Who knows? I never would have guessed the babysitter would die. I'm so sorry. She was a young, fit girl, and I was certain that if my son had given her any problem, she could call me or she could overpower him. This was apparently not the case. Upon returning home sometime in the afternoon,

I was jamming out to some pearl jam with Captain lazily stretching in the passenger seat. I clicked the garage door open and pulled in, sighing and preparing to relieve the young girl at Redudis. I reached out for the door leading into the kitchen with Captain underfoot, and as soon as I pushed the door in, I was slapped in the face with a stench of something not quite right. I'd smelled it before. metal like pennies in my nose.

It was strong and permeated through the house. I rushed through the kitchen, grabbing the frame leading into the den to support my weight. There it was. There he was. He was crouched over the poor girl. She was possibly 15 or 16. Too young for this.

It took a long time for my eyes to comprehend what I was looking at. long, looping entrails torn to shreds. She looked up at the ceiling with a pale expression of fear plastered across her still face. Some one had finally died due to my incompetence. My son, upon realizing I was looking at the mess he'd made, dropped her heart, and it plopped with a floor all soft and wet. His expression was one that probably matched my own, wiping his hands and mouth down quickly.

He looked at me while placing his hands behind his back. I was horrified. I was broken. I knew he couldn't stop. It takes a really long time to get blood up, especially when you're cleaning it off wood, especially when the blood has been sitting on the wooden floor long enough to settle in and stain. I tried using a straight mixture of bleach and water.

But after the initial wipe down, there's a little more I could do. The world was a haze as I lugged the young girl's body into the bathtub and took a hack saw to her limbs. When you attempt to cut into flesh with little experience, it sometimes pulls away and thick strings. That's something I never thought I would know. I had no idea what I was doing, but the legs and arms came off well enough after snapping the bones. The head was a different matter altogether. I couldn't look at those eyes, and so I shut them as I placed the saw against their throat. I removed the teeth and ground them into a fine powder with a meat tenderizer.

I still haven't figured out what I'm going to do with the body. Burn it? I'm unsure. I am now a criminal. My whole life is spiraling. Still, I knew what came next. I bag the pieces and put them in my shed. Maybe I'll just call the police on myself.

After this was done, I washed the tub down. I fetched my son and bathed him, washing the red residue from his body. We were quiet. I think he knew I was upset with him, which, I mean, I was. This isn't the part of the road for normal parents, though. This wasn't something I should have to do.

This isn't the sort of situation I was supposed. supposed to be in. I'm sorry, he mumbled. It's okay, buddy, I told him. I forced a bright disposition over my whole face and body. Want to watch a movie? He perked up. Yeah.

I put on finding Nemo in the living room and we watched it together, laughing at the fun antics of the animated fish on screen. When the DVD flipped back to the main menu, he swore. smacked me in the head with the pillow. I lifted him up by the ankles and swirled him over the couch, swinging him and dropping him onto the cushions and a fit of giggles. He put on his little plastic Batman mask and I sneak through the dim house, playing the part of the newest escape from the asylum. He would catch me and we would be locked in mock mortal combat with one another. We would fall to the floor together in a barrage of laughter. I got you, Daddy. He shrieked as I would

lay on the floor with my tongue stuck out. We played the board game life until it was pitch blackout. I'd long since turned off my phone as the phone calls from the girl's parents have made it impossible to use it anyway. I let him weigh in and laughed in self-satisfaction. Then it was bedtime. I read him a chapter from Harry Potter and clicked his bedside table off, planting a firm kiss on his forehead.

He rolled himself into a burrito and I could tell he was tuckered out. I passed captain, snoozing his bedside. on the couch and I moved to the garage, popping the trunk of my vehicle. There it was. I took the rifle I'd specifically purchased for hunting before I could think my way out of it. I marched down the hall, checking the rifle and making sure the safety was off. I pushed in his crack door, keeping the light off. It takes a really long time to get blood up,

especially when you're cleaning it off sheets and bedding. I don't know if I'm an evil man. I hope not. Please, forgive me. 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 Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at creepypod at gmail.com. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com

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