Creepy - Day 3 - I Accepted $10,000 to Stay in a Haunted House & A Witch's Revenge

Episode Date: October 3, 2023

I Accepted $10,000 to Stay in a Haunted House***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Bonus episode: "A Witch's Revenge" Written by: Bill Camp 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 creepyposters 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 3 I accepted $10,000 to stay in a haunted house. You know those memes you see sometimes, but mostly around October? The ones with a picture of some decrepit house in the middle of the woods like something out of a slasher movie and it asks you if you'd take some amount of money to stay there a day or week, months, whatever. That was one of those people who'd comment on that stuff saying, I'd live there for five bucks in a pizza.

Something like that. Introverted horror geek's dream gig, right? I thought so. I thought so. This is also the time of year when horror fans started seeing things pop up like, earn a thousand dollars by watching a Stephen King marathon or something like that. All kinds of viral marketing ideas popping up around the spooky season. All the wild stores already have Christmas stuff in them.

But don't get me started on the war on Halloween. So when I saw the ad that said, Earned $10,000 for one weekend in a haunted house, I had to click on it. I mean, I had to, right? Wouldn't you? The things cut off house on haunted hill vibes immediately. that Vincent Price version, I mean.

So that's kind of what I thought it was all about. Get a group of people together in a haunted house. Catch them on camera screaming at some rigged-up scares. Use it to sell ads or whatever. It was a prank show and it was all set up to look like an idiot while some jackass with way too much money jumps out, runs around with a plastered on smile and gets you to act like you aren't really pissed off at them. But you know what?

For $10,000, I'd take that kind of indignity. I've had way more embarrassing stuff than that happened to me for free. I didn't honestly think they'd pick me anyway. And yet, I got the email, followed quickly by a phone call from a mildly energetic woman congratulating me on the opportunity to spend a weekend in a haunted house. I couldn't believe it. I was literally at a loss for words. I'd be lying if I didn't still think it was some kind of skis.

There's so many scammers out there. It's hard not to be a cynic when you're being presented with a chance to get more money than I'd ever seen in my life for one weekend in what I would otherwise consider my dream vacation. Clicked on the document and it was the usual 20-page legal babble you need to approve every time you do anything anymore. Scroll to the bottom and clicked accept. I hit my full name and hit submit. Almost immediately I got another email with an address date, arrival time, and the name of the property manager would meet me there. Even though it was still a week away, I was packed and ready to go within the hour. I'm a horror fan, not an idiot.

I checked out the property listing, the name of the company associated with the contest, everything. If it was a scam, they were going through a hell of a lot of effort to kidnap someone not worth anything to anyone. The house itself looked like an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of butt-fuckie. Egypt. The address itself wasn't officially listed on Google. I had to do a Google Earth view of it and know anything was even there. That was weird too. Usually you're able to see a street view of the house, but I couldn't see any more than the top of the house. I guess those camera cars hadn't made it out there yet. Not a real surprise if there wasn't even an address listed on Google. I drove up 15 minutes early, just before noon to see a pickup truck idling at the top of the gravel

driveway. A man was standing at the back of the truck with his arms folded. He looked at his watch, then back at the house, then back at me. Put my car in park and he walked up to the door, asking for my name and introducing himself as Walt, the same name from the email. I'd even looked him up on LinkedIn to be sure. Walt seemed agitated, shaking my hand, kind of aggressively and ushering me toward the house quickly, claiming that he had a busy day, even though I was there early. He walked me up to the wraparound porch and handed me the keys to the door. I asked he was going to show me around, and he said yes, but I had to open the door.

Probably should have asked why, but who knows what he would have said. I just took the keys and opened the door, waiting for some killer clown or something to jump out. but instead the door just creaked open to a dark and musty-looking farmhouse like I'd seen on who knows how many TV shows and movies over the years. I took a step inside looking around and thought that Walt had followed me, but when I looked back, I saw that he'd stopped right at the doorway. He breezed through the layout saying there were four bedrooms and one bathroom upstairs. The main floor had the kitchen, dining room, and sitting room.

He said there was a door to the cellar in the kitchen, but, not to bother. There wasn't anything worth seeing down there and I'd only scare myself. I took the words as malicious, but his tone sounded sincere, almost like he was talking to himself. When I asked about food, he walked down the stairs into his truck, pulling out a huge box of dry goods and a case of water. He set it all down in front of the door and shoved the supplies in like he was passing a soccer ball, saying that should be plenty, and if I needed anything to call his cell phone, rattling off his number so fast I barely had time to put it into my phone. It looked like he was just about to leave when I stopped him and asked if there wasn't more

explanation for the weekend. They got an annoyed look on his face and said it was all on the disclaimer I signed. They actually expected me to read all that? I started to pull up the confirmation email on my phone when the lights in the room started to dim and realized Walt was closing the door. Before he left, I asked the guy how many people applied. He looked me square in the eyes and, with a tone that I'd almost call regret, said, No one. Just you.

Before closing the door. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed through my bones. Any idea I had about laughing at the comment was gone the moment the lock engaged. I knew he was lying. There's no way I. I was the only horror nerd out there willing to spend the weekend. No fucking way. So I rationalized it was just this way trying to put me more on edge.

Like something was seriously wrong with the house or the offer. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. It was like that extreme haunt place where they could hit you and make you throw up and stuff like that so you wouldn't last long enough to make prize money. He was just trying to scare me away. Make me quit so they wouldn't have to pay. I started to wonder if there might be cameras around the house and quickly convinced myself there'd have to be.

How else would they monitor my being there? I opted to just go with the flow as best I could manage, thinking there'd be some random creaks and groans, maybe a tap on the window somewhere they would expect me to investigate. I grabbed my bag and started up the stairs, scrolling through my email to see if the agreement I signed had any concrete details of what was expected outside of my being there for 48 hours. which was the first line of the agreement, the only line I had read before signing. Admittedly, I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, but after I took about a dozen steps, I looked up to see that I was standing at the bottom of the stairs,

facing the door. I looked behind me wondering how I'd managed to turn around on the narrow stairs with my bag in hand, but brushed it off to the excitement and that nagging feeling of anxiety I'd get walking through haunted house, house attractions. I turned around and went back up the stairs. The first door on the left was an open bedroom and I tossed my bag on the bed. My eyes still on my phone. I hadn't really been able to find anything about the property to suggest it was haunted. No news articles about murders, no obituaries about entire families dying in the night, no missing person's announcements, nothing, just a listing for an estate sale back in 2008.

since then it appears the house had been empty, probably after a foreclosure. Being inside didn't make anything click either. No satanic symbols scratched into the ground, no blood on the walls, no inverted crucifixes. At least that I'd noticed. I looked up from my phone to inspect the room, expecting floral pattern wallpaper and farmhouse chic decor. But my eyes didn't make it past the bed, or laying next to my bag. an old woman lay, arms folded across her chest like she were in a casket.

I yelped and stood up ready to apologize and terrified I'd knocked the old hag out, but as soon as I was on my feet, the bed was empty again. Maybe there are people who can think they saw something and just shake it off, but I am not one of them even under the most ordinary circumstances, let alone standing inside a supposed haunted house. My eyes darted around the room and I even hazarded a look under the bed, but I was alone. It didn't matter that she was gone. She had been there.

I knew she'd been there. How'd they do that? I patted at the mattress, thinking it was some kind of magic trick and she'd slipped into a hidden compartment, some contortionist they hired, dressed like Whistler's mother and slipped into position while I was distracted. When my heart rate returned to normal, I kept scrolling through the contract. No videos were to be taken, no photos, no posting any sort of images or updates during my stay, or I'd forfeit the money. It didn't explicitly say I couldn't text, but I wasn't going to risk lawyers for that one.

Who was I going to text anyway? I decided to go back downstairs, put away the supplies Walt had left me, and explore the house. I knew the sooner I'd seen every room, the better I'd feel. feel, especially if I were able to get a good idea the place while the sun was still out. I was halfway down the stairs when I realized the front door was open. Instinctively, I called out for Walt thinking you'd forgotten something, but as I got to the bottom of the steps, I could see the driveway was empty. A reason in the moment that it must not have been latched and dead bolted before grabbing a

candlestick holder off the table and holding it like a bat just in case. In the crate were a bunch of canned goods, baged potato chips, and a collection of snacks that almost felt tailored to me for the weekend. That was probably the sort of things that any horror nerd would have appreciated, from that popcorn you hold over the stove, like in the first scene of scream, to a jumbo bag of sour worms. There was also a roll of paper towels and a couple rolls of toilet paper, first aid kit, and a flashlight. I opted to skip organizing for the moment and grabbed the flashlight. I wanted to see what sorts of scares were waiting for me in the basement before the sun disappeared.

I did one last internet search for the address, wondering if maybe some entertainment company would pop up so I'd have a better idea what was in store. When I found a link at the bottom of the first page results that read simply, It's not worth the money in all capital letters. Cute. I knew for a fact that I'd search the address a half dozen times already, and that site hadn't been there. I wouldn't have missed the title like that. The brilliance of it all immediately hit me. They knew there was internet access out there, and they were using it to their advantage trying to mess with me.

I fucking loved it. Of course I clicked the link. The site itself was almost completely blank, just a black background with a single sentence of white text. I hate that. The sentence simply said, you don't need the money that badly. Yeah?

Yeah, I did. Not that whoever wrote that would know. I was a little disappointed. I was hoping for something a little more clever and spooky than that. Put my phone in my pocket and went into the kitchen to find the door to the basement. The two places I wanted to go leased were the basement in the attic, and I knew that was exactly where I needed to check if I was going to get any sleep. though if I'm being honest

I really wasn't scared of the basement at the time yeah there was a lady in the bed which by then I was convinced was just a gag standing in front of the closed door I did feel a little nervous but no more than if I'd walked into a basement in any house with my hand on the doorknob I resolved one of two things either the knob turns and I should brace for a scare or it doesn't it's probably where the

the base camp for whatever the weekend would bring was set up. As the brass knob turned in my hand, I knew I was about to face the worst of the weekend would bring, but I'd been preparing my whole life for it. I forgot about the flashlight in my pocket and instinctively took out my phone to use the flashlight app. As I turned down the home screen and took me back to the website I'd just looked at. Only this time, it was different. There was more text.

The message that had been there was gone. and in its place, it looked like the sort of information you'd see on a haunted tour website. It read as follows. First built in 1929, the farmhouse was originally home to the Mulcahy family, Irish immigrants seeking more opportunity in America. Unfortunately, the stock market crash resulted in the foreclosure of the property. With no other options, the patriarch of the family took matters into his own hands. The bodies of the seven family members were found months later, stacked in the basement,

almost casually, in a pile, next to the hanging body of the father. Their cause of death was never reported. But you'll find out what happened in about 60 seconds, you dumb fuck. With that, the handle ripped out of my hand and the door flew closed with a slam that made me jump and scream. Nope, nope, fucking nope. I ran out of the kitchen and was about to run up the stairs when the front door practically exploded open. The door swinging wide, letting in the natural light. The shock of it only propelled me up the stairs even faster.

My body and pure fighter flight had beyond the flight as I tried to get away from anything that could hurt me. I ran into the bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I tried to catch my breath, calm myself. It wasn't real. haunted houses aren't fucking real. It's just bros on ghost hunting shows yelling into the darkness. They couldn't get rid of me that quickly. $10,000.

$10,000. It was the voice behind me, though. The creaky, frail but still sinister voice behind me that said, You really should be leaving. My head jerked around and there she was. The same old lady from before standing no more than a foot in front of me, holding out my bag. I tried to run out of the room again, but the door was locked.

I remember swinging my arm backward, ready to punch an old lady, evidently, but didn't connect with anything. I turned around ready to swing again, but there was no one there, just my bag sitting on the bed. This time I tore the mattress off the bed, expecting to see an actor hiding under there, but no luck. I looked around the room and the only other option was the closet in the corner. I must have dropped a flashlight in the kitchen and I hated not having something I could use as a weapon. I lifted my phone again for the light only to see the website had changed again. If you open that door, your life as you know it will be over.

You'll never sleep again. The sunlight won't protect you from the monsters. This house does not want you. you. The money isn't worth it. Leave and live a blissfully ignorant life. Stay, and you'll never really leave. What would you do? Knowing everything that's happened up to that point, for $10,000, would you open that door? Yes, you absolutely would. I did. Trying to tell you what I saw is like trying to explain a dream a minute after you wake up, bits and pieces, but it doesn't make sense.

It showed me things about myself no one knew. It showed me things that hadn't happened. It showed me the worst day of my mother's life. It showed me who I would fall in love with and what loving me would do to them. I sat alone in the darkness until grandchildren all never meet grew old and died. I stood in a sea of millions of people unseen. I drowned. I burned.

I bled. And I cried. Jesus fucking Christ, I cried until there was nothing left to me. And in the end, I understood one undeniable truth. The house does not want. me. No one does. When I finally ran outside, there was still plenty of sunlight. As I jumped in my car and turned it on, the radio showed the time. Thirty-six minutes. That's how long I lasted. 36 fucking minutes. The next day I received a notification from my bank of a deposit.

When I looked, I saw that $1,000 have been put into my account with a small message attached that said, Thank you for your time. Now we know for sure. I didn't really know what that meant, and I try not to think about it. The $1,000 did a lot of good, but honestly, it wasn't worth it for everything I'm trying to deal with since escaping. If I escaped. I can, in all honesty, reply to the memes when I see someone post them now. Would I stay there?

No fucking way. At the same time, more than anything else, I'm afraid I never left. And that this is just something else that's showing me. Hope only to take it away. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, A Witch's Revenge, written by Bill Camp and narrated by Isa Montanez. I never really thought of myself as a witch, but there I was, adding sage to a boiling saucepan on the gas range in my one-room apartment on a night with a full moon. That's what the directions from the book I borrowed from the library said. The spell had to be cast on a night with a full moon.

I thought it was somewhat cliche, but this was the first time I had ever cast a spell, so who was I to judge? I checked the book again, then picked up the black candle and carved revenge into the wax with a kitchen knife. I slid open the box of kitchen matches and struck the red end on the scratchy surface. The smell of phosphorus filled the air and an orange flickering glow illuminated the area. I lit the candle as the orange flicker continued. I picked up the carrot from the small kitchen counter, and felt its cold, wet edges where I had skinned it. Was I supposed to skin it?

The directions didn't say one way or the other. So I picked up a small carving knife and carved my victim's name, Jerome, and to the side of the carrot. Seeing his name one more time brought back all of that seething anger. He was not a lover. God no. He was a co-worker who used to be. to hang out at my cubicle all the time, annoying me. It was really kind of creepy.

Then he asked me out once, and when I turned him down, he began starting rumors about me around the office. Part of me felt bad for him, but he just wasn't my type. Everything about him seemed fake, like the tone of his voice, for example. He was one of those boisterous outgoing types,

and I've always been an introvert who kept to myself. What made him want to ask me out in the first place is anyone's guess. As an aside, I really can't help it if I develop big boobs as far back as middle school. I hate it when men talk to my chest instead of my face. Anyway, it must have been too much of a blow to his precious ego when I turned him down. Besides, I don't swing that way. I like girls. I've never understood how people didn't see through his lies or what made them change their minds about believing him after a while.

His gossips, all of his stories were so ridiculous. For example, if I said I had a mixed drink once, suddenly people were asking me about my problem with alcoholism. If I said I went on a date, people started talking about how promiscuous I'd become with all my sleeping around. It wasn't any of their business if the date was with a man or a woman. And like it's any of their business anyway? And if I had a small party at my apartment, suddenly there were rumors that it was an orgy. But of course, no one would come right out and accuse me of such things.

It was all done with a snide comment here and a dirty glance there. But I am perfectly capable of reading between the lines. I knew what they meant, and where they got the idea. Just because I look goth doesn't give anyone the right to make up stories about me, or to make false assumptions about me, or to think they know anything about me. I knew all the rumors came from Jerome. When I'd walk into a room, he would suddenly stop talking.

It seemed like that was the only time he'd stopped talking. Whenever I spoke, he would look at a coworker with a smile, a nod, or a giggle. I mean, you can always tell when someone is talking about you behind your back. Eventually, I got up the gumption to go to human resources about it, but I could not prove the rumors came from Jerome. So they said there was nothing they could do. Or so they said. It was all circumstantial evidence. In fact, going to HR,

only made things worse because they told my coworkers they could not talk about me behind my back. This had the usual reaction. It did not stop people from talking behind my back, but instead kept friends and allies from telling me what false rumors were being said for fear of getting involved. This made it impossible to defend myself against the rumors that continued spreading. Eventually, the rumors led me to losing my job. I'm not exactly sure how. I used to get along very well with my supervisor. We had the same interest in cult cinema

and even attended a screening of Buccaroo Bonsai in the eighth dimension together. But after I went to HR, even she climbed up around me. Did she get in trouble because I complained? She wasn't doing anything to stop him. and for some reason, when you're the quiet one, people feel like they can make up whatever they want about you. I grit my teeth in anger as I tossed the carrot into the saucepan. The boiling water slashed and burned my hand.

I screamed in pain and rushed to the sink to run cool water over it. Then I placed my finger on the page with a spell to see what else it had to say, and I felt that burn spot still. throbbing. Do not cast the spell in anger, or it could backfire, or have other serious negative consequences. Oops. Too late now. Hopefully burning my hand was the worst of those negative consequences.

Was my sarcastic sense of humor finally returning after a six-month absence? Am I finally returning to my old self? The one I actually enjoyed? Let the carrot boil for ten minutes, the book read. I could stop this now, and perhaps still prevent those negative consequences. I did not like what I had become since getting stabbed in the back by everyone I worked with, everyone I knew. The whole incident changed my entire personality, changed who I am. With this spell, I was finally beginning to put it all behind me.

beginning to finally move on. Yes, yes. I had to continue casting the spell. It was helping me finally move on. To return to who I was. Or at least, to become someone new I could like just as much. Perhaps someone even better.

Someone stronger. Someone who could fight back. Someone with resolve. someone with the backbone and so I decided to let the carrot keep boiling I had been the victim long enough I was always the quiet shy goth it made me an easy target for harassment

but not anymore this mousy little goth girl was finally fighting back if I had to sacrifice myself to finally take my revenge so be it. Just so long as no one knew I was sacrificing myself. If Jerome does suffer, even die, no one would even know I had anything to do with it.

It was the perfect crime. Before I thought of casting a spell, I thought about all the other ways I could extract revenge. I wrote an email to the equal employment opportunity, Commission, but they didn't do anything. They said my situation did not warrant an investigation. My state has right-to-work laws, which translate into right to get screwed by your employer laws. You read about people shooting up their old workplaces on the news all the time. I briefly considered this option, but these people always get caught and go to jail,

or are shot down by the police, or wind up taking their own lives. And I could not give my former co-workers the satisfaction of knowing they made me snap, even if it meant their own death. This way was much better, much cleaner. Of course, the spell might not even work. If it doesn't work, perhaps it has only allowed me the outlet of boiling, a carrot in anger, a transference, a catharsis, if you will. After all, what have I really lost? One carrot, some sage, and about fifteen minutes of my evening. I spent a few dollars on that black

candle, I suppose, but I'm sure I'll find another use for it. I looked around my apartment to see several other candles scattered about on bookshelves, an end table, and a coffee table. It was still a small price to pay if it worked, or even if it didn't. And then I printed an old photo of Jerome from one of our work-related events that was posted on social media. Per the book's instructions, I held the picture to the candle and lit it on fire. After the ten minutes had passed, I turned off the burner and the pan slowly stopped boiling. I took a fork and stabbed the carrot to pull it out and chomp a bell. big bite off the tip. This wasn't in the directions, but I was hungry. I've been out of work for six

months now, and my unemployment insurance was running out soon. I couldn't afford to let good food go to waste. Thanks to Jerome. The sage really added to the flavor, making it a spicy little carrot. I went to bed on the old mattress in the middle of the room, thinking about how much I miss my old three-room apartment. But I had to give that up when I couldn't make the payments after losing my job. Now I had to exist in this shitty little Section 8. Just the thought brought back more rage. When I awoke again, I looked around the room and slowly made my way to the bathroom to relieve myself. Then I walked to the front door to open it and grab the morning newspaper just before the lawn workers at this cheap apartment complex had the chance to steal it again.

I still miss my old apartment. My old life. My old self. One of the few things I had left from that life was the full year's newspaper subscription I paid for just before being let go. I walked back inside and sat down at the one chair next to a card table in the apartment and flipped through the pages to get to the classified section to live. look for another job.

Flipping through the paper, I had to pass through the obituaries. I wasn't really looking for anything in particular, but instinctively, my gaze scanned it over anyway. Something at the bottom of the page caught my eye. And suddenly, both hands grabbed the paper at one obituary in the center column. There was that stupid cocky grin I hated so much. Jerome, and I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear as I stared at his obituary. He passed away last night of a stroke at exactly midnight, while I was casting the spell.

A stroke! I could hardly believe the curse actually worked. I began laughing out loud, hoping that my neighbors wouldn't hear me through these thin walls. It had to have worked. Who dies of a stroke in their early thirties? How could casting a silly curse from a book kill someone? But there he was, right before my eyes. I had to see his grave with my own eyes. I noted the dates of the showings and the funeral as well as the cemetery where he would be buried.

Several days later, I would show up at the cemetery, find his grave and do a little dance on it. And if no one was looking, I might even pull up my black lace skirt, lower my panties, and piss on his grave. Yes. I am now back to a perfect new version

of the old me. 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. portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.