Creepy - Day 29 - Sunflowers

Episode Date: October 29, 2021

Mommy's flowers...***Written by: Isabel Pereira***Content warning: mental illness, suicide***Bonus Episode: "The Hand Tree" written by Sam Demboski and narrated by Nichole Goodnight***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. 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 not 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 29. Sunflowers. Written by Isabel Pereira. Richard hated sunflowers. He hated their color. Their sickeningly sweet smell and their ugly dark centers.

He hated the way they infested his back. yard in large patches, despite spending hours in the scorching sun digging them out. He hated that Nell always refused to let him continue. Those are mommy's flowers, Nell said one day, catching him knee-deep in dirt. I know, but I think it's time we plant some new flowers. He stopped, leaning on a rusty shovel. I was thinking maybe some wildflowers or lavender. We can plant whatever you like.

I want Mommy's flowers. So he was forced to stare at Mommy's flowers, watching them twist and turn in the breeze, devouring every last bit of yard that was left, saturating his property with their violent color. He scanned the field of vibrant yellow, trying to find the exact spot where Mommy had cradled little knell against her hips and threatened to take away his entire world.

Richard had been planning the day for months. Nell's sixth birthday was looming, and he wanted to ensure his only little girl would have a wonderful day. He put in for the day off six weeks earlier. He called Main Street Bakery at least three times a week for two weeks to verify his cake would be ready on time. And when the day finally arrived, he stood in front of Nell's school an hour before dismissal to make sure he wouldn't miss her. He did all these things because he loved his daughter, and he wasn't sure of his wife, who rarely seemed to know what day it was lately, had planned anything at all. Pulling up to the house, Richard barely put the station wagon in park when Nell forced the door open and ran into the house, dropping her pink book bag in the doorway. Richard shook his head, scooped it up, and tossed it into the corner.

Nell, he said, hanging up his jacket. How many times do I have to tell you to put your things away? Someone could you... Nell's piercing scream from the kitchen made the blood freeze in his veins. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Not today, he thought. Please not today. Taring down the hall, Richard ran into the kitchen, stopping just short of colliding with his daughter.

Daddy, look what Mommy made me. Holding up the dazzling yellow garment in her hands, Nell spun in a circle, the dress wrapping around her waist before falling flat in front of her. It's so pretty. She made it just for me. Richard inhaled through his nose trying to curb his rapid heartbeat. It's beautiful, honey. I'm going to try it on. Nell said as she ran down the hall and up the stairs.

Do you really like it? Jane said. puffing deeply on one of her long cigarettes. Or are you just saying that? Leaning against the doorway, Richard looked up at his wife. Her dark hair piled neatly on top of her head, her lips covered in a bright red tint. She was going out again.

I mean it, he said, crossing the length of the kitchen to the sink. You did a great job. Turning the lever all the way to the right. Richard let the cold water rush over his fingers, watching as the light pink of his nail bed turned a dull purple. You're just saying that, but it's okay. Jane purred into his ear, throwing her arms around his waist and burying her cheek into his back. I love you anyway. Richard closed his eyes at his wife's words.

She did love him. He believed that. But she was sick. and he never knew which woman he and now would come home to, the doting wife and mother, or the depressed sullen woman who hated the life they had built together. Richard lightly places hands on Jane's, squeezing her slender fingers, leaning into her caress.

Stand tonight. No wants you to. I want you to. You're all wet, Jane slid her hands from underneath Richard's grip. Besides, I can't stay in. I already made plans. Plans? What plans? Is her daughter's birthday? Jane walked over to the table,

smashing her cigarette into the already full ashtray. I already gave her a gift. What more is there? Richard pulled Jane against him. There's you, baby. She wants you. He held her tightly as he hooked one arm around her waist and cradled her hand against his chest, holding it there.

Tell you what, I'll put on something nice to match that stunning dress you have on. Once Nell's dressed, we'll all go out to that Spanish restaurant you love so much. It'll be a great time, just the three of us. Jane stared directly into her husband's baby blues and hurt him the way only she knew how. No. Look, mommy, look daddy! Nell's excited calls stretched from the doorway, pushing off her husband, Jane spun around, taking in her fair-haired little girl.

Oh, baby girl, you look gorgeous! Jane didn't go out that night. She stayed in fawning over her little girl. Richard knew it was only temporary, but he let now revel in her mother's praise. They played bonopoly, ate ice cream cake until their stomachs would burst, and fell asleep on the couch watching Toysm. story for the millionth time. He woke to a door slamming in the distance. Jane and Nell no longer flanking his sides. Richard staggered to the hallway, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand,

when a breeze ripe with the scent of sunflowers and gasoline shook him from his haze. Following the noxious stench to the far end of the house, Richard found the back door wide open. The field of sunflowers stretched out before him. Their woody stems, keeping them firm in the ground as their tops shuddered to the left and right bending in the wind. Jane stood in front of them, one hand encircling Nell's frail shoulders. A lighter gripped tightly in the other. Jane? He choked the smell of gasoline strangling him.

Jane, what is that? Jane stepped back, her bare feet sinking in the same. soft earth. I'm stuck here, Rich. What? Who? We're all stuck here. Poor Nell is, too, and I won't let that happen to her.

She'll hate it as much as I do. Nell hugged her mother's waist as tears streamed down her squishy cheeks. Jane flicked the lighter, sparks flying from the spout. At least I can make it pretty for her. Richard squeezed his eyes closed. shoving the palm of his hands into them. Whenever he was alone, his thoughts crept at the moment he was forced to choose

between the two creatures he loved the most. He chose Nell. Richard pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the rest of the nightmare. Shit. Leaning against the sink, he looked around the immaculate kitchen, urging a spot of dirt to form or a spill to clean up.

Tea. I'll make tea. Richard reached under the sink and yanked out the tea kettle, cringing at the chip ceramic sunflower topper. It would have to do. Filling it nearly to the brim, he placed the kettle on the stove top and seated himself at the kitchen table. Richard rested his head against the wood panelling as his eyes lazily found the antique clock hung on the wall.

It was almost six, and he would have to pick up now from her cousin's birthday party. She had sobbed all that morning, attaching herself to his hip, refusing to leave him. This panicked him. He promised her toys, cookies, candy, anything to calm her. Then it came to him. Richard dug through all the moving boxes in her closet until he found it. He inked the dress from underneath the myriad of old toys and books, the rough fabric warm in his hands.

Despite his protest, tests and the splashes of gasoline stains. Nell had refused to get rid of it. He washed it, took it to the dry cleaners, and washed it again. But the garment was forever soiled. The taste of bile filled his mouth as he held the dress up for Nell. Her squeal of approval proof he had made the right decision. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the repetitive click of the burner firing stirred him awake. Richard saw the outline of a woman standing in front of the stove, her back towards him, lighting a long cigarette before bringing it towards her lips.

Richard blinked rapidly, trying to clear his foggy mind, forcing his vision away. But there she stood, and he recognized a dazzling dress she had worn the last time he saw her alive. Are you happy now, Rich? She whispered, taking a long dragg of her cigarette, Richard got to his feet and took a step towards his wife. Jane? Is that you? Jane flung the cigarette into the sink.

It went out with a quiet sizzle as she placed her hands on either side of the stove. I asked you a question, Richard stared at the back of his wife and watched as the hair that was neatly perched on top of her head fell to her shoulders and the hem of her dress began dripping, creating a puddle around her. feet. He reached for her, every ounce of his body aching to hold her. But her hand flew to his face. You've done enough! Stopping in his tracks, he inhaled deeply and began to gag. The smell of burnt flesh and gasoline filling the tiny space. Jane peaked over her shoulder, only her black eyes visible. You did this. Jane, no, I... He couldn't breathe.

His lungs craved clean air. He stumbled against the table and fell to the floor smacking his head hard against the tile. Jane's shoulders shook as a chuckle escaped her petite body. She turned toward her husband. The right side of her body charred in black. Her face melted into a permanent scowl. She stalked closer as he scurried backwards on his elbows. You wanted me to stay.

She gave him a wide grin, her skin cracking, forming deep fissures along her jaw. Now I can never leave. Please. He cried as the stench of burnt flesh smothered him. She stopped just inches from his body as the grin slipped from her face. Now I can never leave. Jane twisted her hands into claws and lunged for Richard. Throwing up his hands he twisted wildly.

causing him to fall out of his chair. Richard scrambled to his feet and inspected the kitchen, searching for any signs of his dead wife. He was alone. Christ, Jesus, Christ! He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, turning in circles, examining every surface. Jesus!

Richard placed his hands against his knees, as fits of laughter rocked him off balance. It was a dream. It was just a dream. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he straightened up, his stomach aching from the seizure of giggles. The kettle bellowed loudly, making his calming pulse race again. The scalding water was boiling over the rim, pouring in cascades down the sides of the metal container. Cursing quietly, he grabbed an oven mitt, shoved it on, and dumped the contents of the tea kettle into the sink.

So much for that, Richard squinted at the small water. white objects circling the drain. Before he could stop himself, he shoved his hand into the scalding water, cupping the item carefully. The searing pain shot up his arms and waves, the air stinging his skin. Richard opened his shaking hands. Inside, a damp, half-smoked cigarette. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents.

The Hand Tree, written by Sam Domboski and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. The hand tree was a white ash tree, about 50 feet tall and nearly as wide, that sat outside the courthouse of the town in which I grew up. Every October and the day or two after the tree shed its leaves, the bare branches were filled with artificial hands, from plastic skeleton, mannequin, and doll limbs to inflated latex gloves, baseball mitts, and foam fingers. This tradition began before the founding of the town, with photographs from as early as the 1850s, showing residents assembled around the decorated tree in the days leading up to Halloween. Although the tree in the photographs is younger and smaller, and the hands are leather, sticks, and burlap, the practice was the same. No one knew where the tradition came from, but that never seemed to matter.

When the tree was sufficiently full of hands, other Halloween-themed items were added. Cards, buckets of candy, and small, decorated. pumpkins were attached to the hanging limbs as if offered by the tree. I remember being little and trying so hard to reach the prizes in the lowest branches and the pride I felt when I was finally big enough to take a pumpkin and hand it to my younger brother. It was painted with a big black jackal lantern smile and dangled from the finger of a glow-in-the-dark skeleton. My brother was delighted and ran to show it to our parents. I felt so tall. In 1955, the mayor had a custom hand-shaped Penaata created to add to the display on Halloween Day to serve as the last stop on the community

decided trick-or-treating route. This became an annual event, and it was the mayor's responsibility each year to provide a similar offering to the town's children. My grandparents told me how exciting it was that first year to see a tradition be born, to watch it grow with the tree. Three years later, the mayor at the time, someone who had not grown up here with the tree, attempted to relocate the final celebratory spot to his home, hanging the required piñata from a large tree in his front yard. The hand tree was, he said, strange and disturbing. He was promptly replaced in November.

This mayoral decision became the last push for support of any candidate seeking re-election. Maintaining tradition is important to the voters. In 1966, the town's elementary school principal had the entire student body create paper-handprint turkeys with written descriptions of what they were thankful for to be included on a Thanksgiving display. Local government, charmed by the idea, suggested these be hung from the hand tree once the Halloween decorations were removed. Gradually, it became customary for every resident of the town

to create one of these turkeys to be hung from the hand tree each November. They were left up until rain and snow drained the ink from them, until they were just blank, white hands. My first turkey said I was thankful for my parents and pizza. In 1976, the school's first grade class created hand-shaped ornaments out of salt dough to be taken home and hung from each family's Christmas tree. After that, every first-grade child made an ornament. My parents were in that first class.

We still have their ornaments as well as mine and my brothers. Everyone keeps and hangs their ornaments. Salt dough is heavy and they weigh down the branches, but a fir tree can't help being weaker than our ash. In 1985, New Year's festivities were moved to the tree. My great-uncle was the one who lost three of his fingers and started a fire when the shell and mortar he was lighting exploded. They might have saved his fingers, but he insisted on making sure the fire was put out and cleaned up before he went to a doctor, and the fingers were swept away. Fireworks were promptly outlawed for fear they might hurt the tree. On Valentine's Day, 1993,

a young couple was married under the hand tree. Soon, everyone was married under the tree. People who were already married renewed their values. under the tree. Then each year, every couple renewed their vows under and to the tree. Officians were no longer needed. On the first day of spring in 2000, all other trees within the town limits were cut down and used to build a fence surrounding the area. That was the last year any other tree lived among us. I was eight at the time. Although I was too small to do much, I helped pick up fallen sticks and leaves and add them to the bonfire. With no more Christmas trees on which to hang our ornaments, we started wearing them like necklaces. We wear our own trees. As Easter of 2006

approached, Palm Sunday was renamed to Ash Sunday, and the usual Easter tales were replaced with the narrative of the hand tree and its annual spring renewal. In the next two years, the town's church was dismantled, and all services were moved to the tree. When I was 16, every resident of the town was re-baptized at the tree. I remember being dipped in the inflatable pool and opening my eyes as I emerged, looking up at the tree and its clusters of white flowers. It looked like the tree was the whole sky, full of small, white clouds. We celebrated Memorial Day in 2011 by exhuming every grave in the town cemetery and removing one hand from each corpse to hang from the tree. It was hard to fit them all. My mother and I dug up her father's grave. We took his right hand so the wedding ring

wouldn't fall off his shriveled left. I placed him as high up in the tree as our ladder could reach. I wanted him to be among those small white clouds. I thought it must have looked like heaven. In 2015, a baby was born on Father's Day. The parents, deciding the child should be named by its father, took the newborn to the hand tree. The tree named him Joseph. The same year, I had a baby,

and her father and I took her to the tree. I asked the tree for a name, but I didn't hear anything. The father heard Hannah. He named her Hannah. The town celebrated independent. day in 2018 by closing the courthouse. Lawyers were no longer needed. Judges became hands of the tree. We didn't need the constraints of a flawed legal system when we had the hand tree. No criminal made it past the building steps anymore. Their hands were added to the tree. When Hannah asked me

why we put all the hands in the tree, I said, people used them to do bad things, so they were taken away. In August of 2020, COVID finally made it to our town. The sick would cut off a hand and hang it from the tree and hopes they would get better quickly. My father was too sick to do it himself, so I helped him with the cutting and stayed with him after while Hannah took the hand to the tree. He died a week later, but I was happy knowing we had gotten his hand to the tree in time. In September of this year, the tree started to die. At first we were sad, but now, We are thankful.

In our hearts and our faith, we have always been parts of the tree. Our trunks will be its trunk. Our limbs will be its limbs. My birthday is here, and I will celebrate by adding myself to the tree. I only hope when spring comes that I will bloom with clouds of white flowers. I hope the children look up at us and see the whole sky. That will be heaven. For even more from Creepy, 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 used under license and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of the story's author. Please contact us at Creepypod at gmail.com for further information on obtaining the rights necessary to rebroadcast or distribute a particular story.