Creepy - Day 30 - A True Case of Possession

Episode Date: October 30, 2018

You think you know fear...***Written by jpmarley***Check out more from the "Pulp-pourri Theater" podcast at: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/pulp-pourri-theatre-audio-drama/id1122370231 ***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Pete Lutz***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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The newest creation from our friends at the Pulpary Theater Company. Subscribe, review, support indie podcasting. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling, and disturbing creepy pastas 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 30. A true case of possession. Credited to J.P. Marley and narrated. by Molly Langford. My son Robbie. My son Robbie,

not his real name, asked me the other day why my hair is snow white. He asked me because my hair has been this way since I was 27. I'm 45 now. He's 24 and he's a perfectly happy, fully functioning adult.

He doesn't remember that it used to be black, nor that it went from black to white in a day. He also doesn't remember why. And I think that's for the best. So I'm writing out the story. Not for any psychological reasons. A counselor didn't ask me to do this.

This is in no way therapeutic for me. Instead, I'm writing this much like someone writes down a dream as soon as they wake up, so that the details aren't forgotten. I want to remember this, and I want you all to know. because I think there is a lesson somewhere. Kids make stuff up, and they have overactive imaginations. But it's rare that their imaginations actually scare them.

Like physically, emotionally, mentally frightened them. If you thought it up, it doesn't scare you. Because you thought it up. So if your kid comes to you and tells you that something is in their room and it's scaring them, or that they have an imaginary friend that makes them feel uncomfortable, or anything of that matter, please. Believe them. Believe them enough to check it out.

And if it turns out to be nothing, then you have nothing to fear. But don't brush it off immediately. My son was the happiest little boy from day one. He cried about as much as any other newborn child would, but as he grew older and older, his personality came out more and more. He was very resistant.

Nothing ever got him down. He made friends easily, and until this particular stage of his life, he had never been bullied. When I got pregnant with his sister, when he was just two, there wasn't one day that went by where he had all felt nervous or uncomfortable with the idea of not being an only child. Even when she was born, he was so excited that he came into the hospital room squealing with joy. My son somehow was the happiest boy in the world. One day, when he was six, I came into his bedroom to ask him a question, though I don't remember what it was. He was sitting on the floor cross-legged. His back was rigid, but his head was hanging back as if he were staring at a dot on the ceiling.

His eyes were closed as tight as they could be. I smiled because to me it seemed like one of those random things children do that make sense to them, but not to you. I asked him what he was doing. but he didn't respond. I asked again, and no reply. I spoke his name loudly, and he jumped. His body became softer. I remember he ran his hands up and down his ears.

I asked him if he was okay, and what was he doing? He said that the voices were really loud, and he was trying to drown them out. Naturally, this spooked me, so I told my husband later that night. We agreed to keep an eye on him. At the same time, we didn't suspect anything more than just heat exhaustion, as it was the middle of the day in August,

and his room had no air conditioner. We thought maybe he had a hallucination. A couple of weeks went by, and we noticed subtle changes in him. For instance, he started sleeping less. At first it was just a half hour here and there. We would put him to bed, and when we crawled into our bed, which was the room underneath, his, we could hear him talking to himself through the floor.

This wasn't alarming to us, because sometimes he would sing to himself to help himself go to sleep. But as the nights went by, the sound of him talking would go longer and longer to the point where he would do it for three hours before falling asleep. Just... ...talking. One night his sister came into our room and complained that Robbie's constant mumbling was keeping her up. We even asked her what she thought he was saying, and she only ever...

heard one phrase clearly. Please. I want to go to sleep. Want to go to sleep. The lack of sleep made him sluggish during the day. He still tried to be his normal, happy, joyful self for the first couple days. But as the days went on, he just became more zombie-like. Almost literally, his skin became pale.

The dark bags under his eyes almost became pure black. And I would find him in his own. room more often sitting cross-legged, back rigid, eyes shut as tight as they could be. He kept telling us about the voices he was hearing. He wouldn't go into specifics, just that the voices were loud and came to him sporadically. We weren't sure what to believe, because his sister never mentioned hearing anything when she was in the room with him. We had him checked by doctors, and even a psychologist. They gave him some prescriptions, which we filled and to him to help him sleep.

But no one could tell us what was happening to him. The best guess we heard came from a doctor who suggested that he was possibly having hallucinations due to assist on the brain or something, and that he would order for Robbie to have tests done in a few weeks to see what was going on. This made the most sense, because it seemed like Robbie was getting sicker by the day. He didn't complain of any pains or anything, just that he was exhausted and that the voices were happening more often. We agreed to the tests.

Days went by, and his condition got worse. Slowly, it seemed like his mental state was wearing thin. He stopped talking as much during the day, and chose to seclude himself in quiet places and sit, staring at the wall. Sometimes when he did this, he would cry. We would always console him when we could, and when we touched him or talked to him, it would seem to snap him out of it.

We seriously tried everything, we could think of to help our boy. Then one night my husband and I crawled into bed, and we did something we hadn't done in a while. We prayed for him. It was hard to focus because we could hear him talking to himself. But we prayed that whatever cyst or tumor would be causing Robbie to have such vivid hallucinations would be taken from him. Even though the tests hadn't been done, or at the very least the hallucinations would stop, As we finished the prayer, we heard his talking speed up, but in a monotone kind of way. Not like he was panicked.

Almost like he was put on fast forward. His voice became almost one long, low moan. I expressed my concern to my husband. When suddenly Robbie stopped, we sat in our room, waiting to see what would happen next. What happened next broke my heart. We heard him start to cry, not wailing or moaning, but just the soft sniffles and muffled sobs of a six-year-old boy. We listened for five minutes, waiting to see if he would stop, but we couldn't handle it anymore, and we ran upstairs to his room. We opened the door and the light of the hallway filled to illuminate him in his bed.

He looked worse because of the tears that stained his little cheeks. The bags under his eyes were large and black. His skin was almost white as snow, and it seemed to hang off of him like sheets on a clothesline. He looked at us, sniffling and whimpering. We stood in the doorway with feeling of unease in our stomachs. He was gripping his blankets tightly under his chin to the point where his knuckles were white.

The light of the hallway came through the open door and lit up his face, but it wasn't the death-like appearance. that kept us from immediately walking in. It was his expression. His eyes were locked onto us intensely. But he wasn't looking at us. Almost like he was staring off into space. And when we had opened the door,

his eyes were already locked onto us, like he had been staring at something in this spot even before we came up. It was the weirdest thing, being looked at without actually being seen. We stood in the doorway for the better part of two minutes, unsure of what to do, and the whole time he looked at us and cried.

I walked up to him slowly, his gaze never leaving that glazed over look, and I placed my hand on his shoulder. He jolted and shook his head, snapping out of his stupor. He looked up at me and said nothing. But he didn't have to say anything. Even if he did, I know what he would say. It was the voices.

My husband scooped him up in his arms, and we took him downstairs to our room. Secretly, I thought it was odd for someone to have the same hallucination over and over again. But I didn't know anything about the brain or tumors or anything of the sort. If Robbie really was dealing with a brain tumor, there was nothing we could do. If you are a parent, you know that feeling. The feeling of not being able to solve your brain. kids' problems, so you just have to be there for them until they come out on the other end. Better, or worse.

We laid down in our bed and snuggled him between us. We each laid an arm across him, and I think that was the best sleep he'd had in four weeks. Now, my husband works for the town borough, which means he usually has to be up and out the door very early, typically around 5 a.m. So waking up and not seeing him was common in our house. But that morning it wasn't his absence that startled me. No. It wasn't his absence.

It was my son. His eyes were stretched as wide open as they possibly could be, and his mouth hung open till his chin touched his chest. His entire body was rigid, stiff as a plank of wood, like he was frozen halfway through a seizure. He didn't blink, he didn't flinch, he didn't even breathe. His eyes would move and follow me when I moved, but his head wouldn't move with them. And what was worse was that I couldn't see anything in his mouth.

Like, nothing. I couldn't see his tongue. I couldn't see his teeth or gums or palate. Nothing. All I saw was black. He stared at me with that slack-jawed, wild-eyed expression for another 30-second. I simultaneously wanted to give him a reassuring touch on the shoulder, as well as sprint out the door and run to the neighbors. I was so scared, but I mustered up as much courage as I could, and said his name softly.

Robbie? What erupted from his throat were screams, screams that came flooding out of that dark hole of his mouth. Not his scream. Literally, screams. Hundreds, thousands, maybe even, millions of screams came from his quivering mouth. Screens of men, screams of women, screams of children. Screams of things that weren't people. I cupped my hand so hard over my ears that they started ringing.

I fell off the side of my bed and crawled till my back was against the wall. There I cowered. weeping covering my ears and trembling. I watched as my son gently sat up, crawled to the side of the bed, hung his legs over the edge, and sat there screaming. I shut my eyes and curled up into a ball, and I lay there in the fetal position for God knows how long, weeping. He screamed for over an hour, continuously, not even taking a breath.

He didn't even blink. the whole time. When it finally ended, I spent another couple of minutes in that position. Eyes closed, and ears cupped. I didn't want to open my eyes.

I was so worried that he would be right in front of me if I did. When I finally did, I saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, where I'd last seen him.

He was perfectly still, but color had come back to his face. The bags under his eyes were a royal purple rather than completely black. Something in his eyes told me that my son was back. There were a few moments of silence where we just stared at each other. And then, quietly, and as calm as if nothing had ever happened, He whispered. You heard them too. My hair went completely white that day.

Robbie didn't have a tumor. This is cadavera. Cedavra Quivory. I'm the host of an all-new horror series named after the place where I live. The Cellar. In each episode, I open my great big book and select a story that's certain to chill you.

So watch for the seller, coming soon from the creator of Pulpourri Theater, Pete Lutz. In the meantime, don't take candy from stranglers.