Creepy - Day 29 - You Have No Idea What It's Like & Dear Theodore

Episode Date: October 29, 2022

You Have No Idea What It's Like***Written by: Jordan Marie McCaw and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Content Warning: Suicide***Dear Theodore***Written by: SpiritVoices***Tickets for the "Creepy" live show can be purchased at: https://bit.ly/BloodyFM***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.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 are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of biocations of bioccurts. Silence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 29. You have no idea what it's like. Written by Jordan Marie McCaw. And narrated by Heather Thomas. Dear Mom, you have no idea what it's like to go to my job every day. You have no idea what it's like to scrape crusty brains out of a microwave,

or bleach a half bath covered in blood. I'm going through five mops a week because they start pushing the blood around on the floors instead of soaking anything up after their third use. My hands have completely lost any remnant of sweat or feeling, other than the smooth yet sticky feel of latex gloves. My work shoes smell faintly of burnt flesh. Because how else are you supposed to get the smell of charred human remains out of the furniture, the floors, and the walls? You have no idea what it's like to know the answer to that question.

Boil lemons. If that doesn't do the trick, boil cloves or onions or vinegar for about 15 minutes. You have no idea what it's like to own two police scanners, one for your home and one for your car. You have no idea what it's like to have them on all day, every day. waiting for someone to die gruesomely enough so someone can clean it up. You have no idea what it's like to hope. There's a serial killer in the area, because serial killers are what keep my business alive. You also have no idea?

How guilty that hope makes me feel. But I have to make a living. My living consists of sticking out the poorer areas of the city, patiently roaming around the streets in my van, to the police reports or any gunfire. My living consists of being the first responder to a suicide or a crime scene so I can hand out my business card to whoever is involved. Someone has to clean up the mess that person made

when he decided sucking down on the barrel of a shotgun is easier than being honest with his girlfriend about the way she talks to him. You have no idea what it's like to be asked to leave the scene by police. But I tell them the same thing. I have to make a living somehow, I say. What am I supposed to do? Wait for someone to call me? I'm a private business, not some federal worker counting down the days to my retirement.

You have no idea what it feels like to be insulted by the grieving families who can't bear the thought of someone else collecting their murdered sons' remains in a plastic bag. You have no idea what it's like. to collect the remains of a murdered boy in a plastic bag. You have no idea what it's like to meet a man at one of these crime scenes, whose wife just slit her wrists in their claw-footed bathtub. She's still bleeding out in the upstairs bathroom when he asks you if you want to go out for a drink.

You really have no idea what it's like to be a never-married, middle-aged woman in a city like this, with a job like this, with the old factory smells of rotting meat and coppery blood falling you around wherever you go. You go on the date with this man, whose wife just committed suicide. But he tells you up front that this is purely carnal. My wife just died, so don't expect anything serious, he says. But it turns serious because he and his wife never loved each other,

and now he says he's finally found love. and it's with me. A woman who owns a crime scene cleanup crew company and smells more dead than alive. You have no idea what it was like pulling his wife out of that half-filled bathtub that had become ice-cold in less than 30 minutes after she died.

You have no idea what it was like wrapping her up like sushi in plastic wrap. Her body washing the plastic like red paint. You can't imagine the look on her face, like she was sleeping, but with her eyes half open, the memories of a smile on her lips. You have no idea what it's like to feel like somehow her husband turned the corner of her lips up that way to make her look like she died peacefully. Like she wanted this.

You feel this way because he doesn't seem as unhappy as you thought he might have been? He seems carefree, actually. content with whatever situation he finds himself in. He plans his wife's funeral service out of respect, because he still wears his wedding ring, until she's laid to rest. Almost immediately after, he rips the ring off his finger

and sells it to the nearest pawn shop. Did she abuse you? I ask him on our fifth date, the night he tells me he loves me. The first time in my life, I tell someone I love him. He sips his wine by dipping his upper lip into the red, staining it. No, he says.

She was so boring. Never wanted to try anything new, not even try a new meal. She didn't have a shred of personality or character in one strand of hair. I think I understand now. I think I see what kind of marriage he had. She was safe, providing stability. to a man who never had any. Yet she never truly fought for him.

I could have walked out at any point in our marriage, and she wouldn't have asked me to come back. He shrugs and shakes his head. No. She'd just ask me to close the door gently behind me. You have no idea what it's like to promise someone you'll never be like that. That you'll always fight for him until the very end. He sips his red wine.

and stains his teeth with it, as if he's swishing it in his mouth like Listerine. You might know what it feels like to know that someone doesn't truly love you, even if he says he does. But you don't know what it feels like to believe that someone loves you, even though you know he's probably lying.

He lied to his wife every time he told her, he loved her, which wasn't often. So, why couldn't he be lying to me? but you have no idea what it's like to have someone so interested in your career. You don't know how good it feels when he asks a question and genuinely wants to know the answer. What was the worst crime scene you had to clean up? He asks me, leaning almost halfway over the table, his hand caressing yours. You don't know what it feels like to not feel like a freak when you answer his question honestly.

I tell him the worst crime scene was a murder scene. A father shot his wife and two children in the stomach with a handgun, sliced their appendages from their torsos with a power saw, and threw them in the pool in their backyard. After that, he stuck the handgun against his temple and shot himself while standing on the diving board. The pool was a red swamp when I got there, and it had to be drained before collecting the body parts.

I didn't want to fish for them. I tell him. His eyes are wide, huge in his skull. A sly smile on his stained lips. Wow, he says. You have no idea what it's like when the next thing he says is more of a suggestion than a question. Have you ever thought about killing someone? I answer, of course not.

That's against the law, and besides, I don't hate anybody that much. You've never considered it in your line of work. I'm sure it's not easy, and I bet it's pretty competitive. My job is competitive, incredibly competitive, though you have no idea just how much. It'd be like ensuring you have a job, he says, leaning back in his chair, taking his hand away from mine. I've been a suspect of a few murders, I tell him. because I respond so quickly because of my police scanner. But nothing serious has ever happened.

His eyes grow wide again, grow huge. Wow. He's leaning forward again. It might be easier for you than anyone else to get away with it. Is it hard to find work? It is hard, actually. Very hard because of the competition. But you have no idea what it's like.

to seriously consider murdering someone for a job. On our sixth date, he tells me his plan. I think he's joking, but he's not laughing, not even smiling. He reaches his hand across the table and overlaps mine. I want you to be successful, he tells me, and I believe him. Sort of.

I want to help you. You have no idea what it is. feels like to have someone believe in you. This was the first time I had ever felt this. He tells me his plan again. This time I'm leaning forward, more than one of the buttons on my shirt threatening to pop loose because of all the beer I've drank in the last 30 years. He squeezes my hand and says, Let me help you. You have no idea what it's like to have someone help you, let alone believe in you. You have no idea. what it's like to stake out a mansion on the rich side of town.

The police scanner turned off for the first time in years in my car. You have no idea what it's like to wait three hours without being able to go to the bathroom because you're waiting for the husband to leave on a business trip. He quietly opens his door and gets out. He puts a balaclava over his face, his blonde hair curling out the back. He tells me to get out too.

But I'm afraid to. Taking off his balaclava, he leans into my car and says, Get out of the car, or I'll go do it myself, and call the police and tell them about a suspicious van sitting outside of the house where a woman was murdered. You have no idea what it's like to look into the face of someone you love and suddenly be afraid of him. He pulls the balaclava back over his head. Come on. You have no idea. what it's like to almost collapse as you get out of your car because you're so nervous.

You can't feel your legs. You have no idea what it's like to have your boyfriend hiss at you to get up off your ass and follow him. You have no idea what it's like to watch him pick a lock, like he's done it a thousand times before. You ask where he learned how to do that. But his reply is an index finger brought up to where his mouth is, under the balaclava. My balaclava is too small for my head.

The itchy fibers scratch my ears and nose, making my eczema break out and my eyes water. I follow him upstairs. Down the long hallway, a blue flickering light comes out of the last room on the right. Canned laughter echoes down the hall, and for some reason makes my fingers shoulders and face numb. It's probably because I, now,

really know that there's someone in this house, and we're going to kill that someone. You have no idea what it's like to have your boyfriend poke you in the stomach and hold out his hand for the gun you have in the back of your pants. You have no idea what it's like to drop that gun as you go to hand it to him, and what it's like to nearly go into cardiac arrest, because you can't remember if the safety is on. Thankfully it is, and the only noise that's really heard as his swearing and cursing at you. I pick it up with a gloved hand and give it to him. I can only see the black shadows over his eyes, but I know he's scowling at me. The TV is muted in the bedroom.

Paul? I whisper under my balaclava. You have no idea what it's like to watch your boyfriend move down the hall like a ghost. You have no idea what it's like to watch him enter the bedroom without so much as peeking his head inside first before entering. I don't follow him. I can't follow him. But you can't know what it's like to hear that gun go off not once, not twice, but three times. Each pop is louder than the last. I'm convinced I'm deaf.

I'm convinced I'm dreaming. Then he races out of the bedroom, his balaclava not on his head anymore, but in the same hand that's holding the gun. I back away from him and the gun, but not fast enough to avoid him pushing me down the hall, down the stairs, and back to the van. You have no idea what it feels like to be so out of breath you see black spots as you finally sit behind the wheel.

You have no idea what it's like to drive after murdering someone. You have no idea what it's like to know that you're in love with a murderer. You have no idea what it's like to hear him talk about who we're going to kill next. We go back to my place for only an hour until it's safe enough to go back to the mansion, hand my business cards out to those who will need my services,

and wait for the job. You have no idea what it's like to go back to the mansion with two police officers and an ambulance outside. One police officer comes up to my van and tells me to roll down the window. What are you doing here? He asks. I tell him I heard there was a murder and were here to offer my cleaning services. There hasn't been a murder.

He says, studying me. You have no idea how five seconds can feel like five years. Can you two step out of the vehicle? You have no idea what it's like for a police officer to ask you to get. get out of your car because he suspects you're the attempted murderers returning to the scene. You have no idea how heavy handcuffs are and how much they dig into your skin. You have no idea what it's like to have your Miranda rights recited to you and to hear your boyfriend talking anyway about how we didn't do anything.

We don't even know who lives in that mansion, he says. I tell him to stop talking, but he just tells me to show him to show. shut up and let him handle it. You have no idea what it's like to still love someone after he tells you to shut up, after he shot someone three times in the head but didn't kill that someone. Somehow the woman is still alive, and after months in the hospital, she survives with only minimal brain damage. A true miracle, the local paper calls the woman. A true disgrace. Another local paper calls us, you have no idea what it's like to be sentenced to a life in prison, with the possibility of parole 30 years down the line. You have no idea what it's like to still love the person

who convinced you to kill someone with him, because he said it'll be good for business. You have no idea what it's like to not get any calls or letters back from the man you love. The last thing he said to me was, see you later. In the first letter, I sent him. I sent him. him, I asked him to marry me. In the second letter, I sent him. I asked him to marry me again. You have no idea what it feels like to wonder if you're engaged or not. You have no idea what it feels like to fall out of love. I'm doing okay in prison. I promise. I'm doing okay. But I could be doing better. I meet with a counselor twice a week and I've learned I learned a lot about myself.

I learned that I'm afraid of being alone. I'm codependent. My counselor says this might be because I had an overbearing mother. I admit to him that I did, but it was because she loved me. At least I had a mother who loved me. I just hope that you still love me

because I don't think I've ever really known what it's like to be loved. Love, Your daughter. Claire. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. Dear Theodore. Written by spirit voices.

Dear Theodore, I am the monster hiding under your bed. Personally, I think monster is a bit of a harsh word. But that's what you call me. So that's what I chose to go by. To make it clear, though, I go by many names beyond you. Nightstocker is one, the shadow man is another. I think I also may have accidentally started a few legends without meaning to. Would you believe that Bigfoot may have just been me taking a stroll through the woods?

Truly, depending on who sees me, any human can imagine seeing something different. So far, I like your imagination the best. As I'm writing this, you're six years old. For all six, I've been under your bed. I followed you from the NICU and listened to your crying all the way home from the hospital. I admit that the crib was harder to squeeze myself under, but I managed. I'm grateful you've since upgraded to a big boy bed.

It's a lot easier on my back. As you've grown, you'll leave the house. more and more. I'd forgotten the children go to school so young until I heard you return, excitedly rambling to your ignorant parents about the things you'd learned. Mrs. Thomas sounds nice from what you say. I approve of her. For now, anyone can sound nice coming from you, though, because you tend to see the best in people. It's a quality that gives me hope. This world needs more people with infinite optimism like yours, and you can quote the big scary night monster on that.

In fact, you even try to find good things in me. When the moon casts a hideous mix of shadows and light into your room and the fear of my very presence makes you tremble, I hear you whisper to me. I'm scared. Are you scared too? It's clear that you don't know who you're talking to. To you, I'm nothing but a nameless creature, with no aim or purpose, just an undetermined maliciousness.

You don't even seem to know what I would hypothetically do to you, should you fall asleep while I'm around. In the daytime, you think you're safe from me. Do you think shadows simply disappear, little one? If I wanted to hurt you, I would. You drew me once when you were four. The crumpled paper ended up under the bed with me. You've never truly seen me, and your art skills were underdeveloped to say the least. So, of course, there were a few inconsistencies.

Your illustration depicted a haphazard gray scribble with pointed teeth and horns and too many claws to count. almost like a sickly demonic porcupine. I couldn't help but be amused when I saw it. I won't say you are completely wrong. I suppose I mention all this because I know that you know nothing about me, but I know so, so much about you. In fact, I'd like to think that I know you better than you know yourself. I know that you don't like vegetables,

but we'll eat any fruit placed in front of you. I know that your favorite cereal is recently, puffs, even though you rarely get to eat them. I know that you only know one curse word, why you're afraid to say it out loud. I know that you want to be a firefighter, but two months ago you wanted to be a construction worker, and you'll end up being neither. I know the names of all your friends, and which ones will turn out to betray you in the future. I know the names of your first and second girlfriends, and your first and only boyfriend. I know you love your parents, even though they hurt you.

I know the age at which you'll die. I also know how to stop it. Though I do know a lot of things, I'm not sure when this letter will reach you. In fact, I'm not sure you'll ever read it. I wish I could say I was positive you'd understand why I'm about to do what I plan to do, and that you'd support my decision when you grow older. But the truth is, I don't. don't know if you ever will.

The only thing I'm 100% clear on is that I won't regret doing what I'll do to them. They deserve the punishment they'll receive. Because at night, when the tree branches look like giant claws at your window, and the darkness seems to be moving closer, I know it's not me you're truly afraid of. Deep inside, in a place your mind cannot yet access, You're afraid of your parents. I'm scared.

Are you scared too? You ask the question not over the sounds of me, but over them. They fight and spat like wild animals, a never-ending cyclone of neglect and anger. You have no idea how they act when they're gone, flourishing in the temporary safety that a classroom brings you. You cannot yet fathom the amount of pain they're, they will bring you when they realize you've become too old to coddle and just old enough to treat you like they treat each other.

You'd be so good without them. Much better off, I assure you. It'll hurt for a while. But you're still so young. The pain will fade. And then you'll be free. Free from their chaos and self-destruction and abuse, you'll be able to live the life you want with no one to hold you back one day if you read this

you'll understand why i took them away from you and i hope then that you'll thank me i hope the nightmares of your parents blood will slowly fade into a background hum replaced by that endless optimism i know you hold so close and when that day comes, I hope you realize that I care for you more than they ever did. Eternally yours, the monster is still under your bed. 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 common share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors.

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