Creepy - Day 30 - Don't Forget to Feed the Fish

Episode Date: October 30, 2020

That damn fish...***Don't Forget written by NewToTownJam***The Raven written by Edgar Allan Poe***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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The 31 Days of Horror. Day 30. Don't forget to feed the fish. Written by New York. to town jam. When I was eight years old, I forgot to feed my pet fish, and it died. I cried. It was the worst thing I'd ever done in my short life.

The guilt was immeasurable. It's a moment I've come back to every time I've got it right or wrong in my life. A defining moment. I can't help but wonder who I might have been if I'd remember to feed that fish. When I was 12 years old, I hit a girl. I liked her and asked her on a date. She was my first crush, and she turned me down. I was humiliated on the playground in front of all my peers,

so I hit her. It was terrible, but it's the truth. Maybe if I'd remembered to feed that fish, I could have shown her my cool pat, and she would have liked me. When I was 16 years old, I cheated on my girlfriend. I think the girl that turned me down had ruined my perspective of women because I didn't treat them well. I wasn't very good with people in general.

I cheated on her, but worst of all, I cheated with her mother. I'd never seen someone quite as broken as she was when she found us. Maybe if I'd remembered to feed that fish, then I would have learned how to take care of other living things better. Maybe I wouldn't have hurt her. When I was 18 years old, I stole from my grandparents. I had developed a nasty drug habit and found money wherever I could. I did arguably worse things to feed the habit. But the theft from them was the most morally bankrupt.

I felt guilty, but in the throes of my addiction, I had no restraint. Maybe if I'd remember to feed that fish, I would have had a different hobby. Maybe I would have occupied my time with home aquariums instead of drugs. When I was 25 years old, I met my wife. wife. Her name was Rosa, and we met recovery. She pulled all the darkness out of my life. Even though we both been in the most hopeless place, finding each other was a beacon of light. She was the first woman that I truly cared for. I had never felt anything like it. Maybe if I'd remember to feed that fish, I wouldn't have ever met Rosa. Maybe keeping it alive

would have been the real tragedy. When I was 27, I got married, and we had our first child, a boy named Freddy. I'd always imagined my life going to shit, but instead I was living a beautifully mundane existence. When we brought Freddy home from the hospital, he cried and cried. He kept it up for days. I fed him, held him, rocked him, and barely let him out of my sight for even a second. My son became my world, and I didn't want him to go without anything he needed.

Maybe if I remember to feed that fish, I would never have learned the consequences of neglect. Maybe I would have been a terrible dad. When I was 28 years old, Rosabor, a second child, a girl we named Amelia. She was beautiful, just like my wife. I felt like Amelia sucked all the life out of her. Rosa, because soon my soulmate was a shell of herself. Wiped out, empty, all the vitality gone. She wasn't a person that I recognized, and my daughter became a source of resentment. I could swear on my whole family that Amelia was amused by her mother's despair.

Even as a newborn, she was only calm when her mother wept. I tried to love Amelia like I did Freddy. It just was impossible. Maybe if I remember to feed the fish, I would have known how to help Rosa. I would have learned how to perk up someone who's struggling. Maybe I wouldn't have learned to just ignore the issue. When I was 30 years old, I became a single father and a widow. Rosa couldn't bear the pain anymore and took her own life.

I hate to admit it, but I found it selfish. She left me alone with my perfect son in the spawn of Satan, knowing that I wasn't emotionally equipped to cope. Amelia terrified me. It sounds ridiculous to say that about a two-year-old, but it's true. There was something sinister about that girl.

She didn't mourn her mother in any capacity. She never asked for her or cried for her. her like her brother did. In fact, she never really cried at all after Rosa's death. I started drinking again. I didn't do drugs, but the drink was a big enough threat to my sobriety. I became a useless father. Maybe if I'd have remembered to feed that fish, I would have learned a lesson about commitment,

about not giving up on those who depend on you. When I was 32 years old, my fourth. year old daughter attacked her brother with a kitchen knife. I was drunk and hadn't been watching them. It was my fault. Or was it hers? She giggled with such glee as the blood poured from his screaming face. Freddy was okay, but he was scarred for life. They were taken off me not long after. When social services got involved, I told them all about Amelia, about how I didn't try to her and how much she frightened me. How I blamed Rose's death on her.

They looked at me as if I was positively insane. Seeing Freddy maimed and taken from me tore my heart to pieces. But I'll be the first to admit that I was relieved not to have that other child in my house. It's an awful thing to say about your own daughter. But I just knew she was pure evil. Maybe if I'd remember to feed that fish, I could have taught my kids about caring for others. Maybe I should have gotten them a fish. When I was 36 years old, I got a call to say that my daughter had been involved in a serious incident in foster care.

I'd cleaned up my act, fought the courts, and won back my son. I kept in touch with the nice lady that ran the home Amelia lived in. But we mutually agreed it was the best for her and Freddie. that she didn't come home. Amelia had drowned the hamster that the kids at the home shared. My eight-year-old daughter had killed an animal. I felt a deep disdain for her, but I couldn't vilify her for the act.

She was just like me. That damn fish? She had told her cares that she was just trying to bathe it. The nice lady was naive, but I could hear in her voice that she wasn't convinced by Amelia's story. She was as scared as I had been, but neither of us wanted to acknowledge it. So we never did. I left that woman to live with my problem without warning.

Maybe if I remember to feed the fish, then the hamster wouldn't have drowned. Maybe my whole family would be stood around a beautiful aquarium, pointing out their favorites. Maybe Rosa would still be alive. When I was 39 years old, I got a call to say that Amelia had run away from the foster home after attacking another child. The attack was serious enough that the police were searching for her. I had been less involved in her life as years went by. To be honest, I'm surprised they even called me at all, but they wanted to know if a message she left had any significance.

It did. But I wasn't sure were it even. and begin, so I kept quiet. Amelia had pinned down a younger child and carved a drawing into their back before jumping from a second floor window to escape. Maybe if I remember to feed that fish, then that poor child wouldn't have to live with a crudely drawn fish on their back. When I was 40 years old, I accepted that my life was over.

Amelia was coming for me, and it was only a matter of time. I sent my previous son to live with his grandmother, Rose's mother. All that time spent fighting for him and I was sending him away. It was for the best. I could see the resentment in his eyes. A paranoid recovering addict dad who couldn't handle his baby sister. A dad who had allowed him to be disfigured. I understood why he was so willing to go.

Waiting for her to show up had been all-consuming. I'd pulled him out of school, installed more deadlocks than I could count, quizzed him every day on strangers he'd seen or noises he'd heard. When he left with his suitcase, I could breathe. He would be safe. Maybe if I'd remembered to feed that fish, then it wouldn't be coming back to haunt me. It wouldn't have ruined my entire life. But it was just a fish.

and I was just a kid. I didn't understand the impact of my actions. It wasn't fucking fair. I'm 42 years old now. The police have stopped looking for my daughter. They say that they haven't, but they have. An 11-year-old girl exposed to the elements wasn't expected to last long. I might have been forgetful.

I might have forgotten about the fish. But I wasn't stupid. She would be fourteen now. They all presumed her dead. Common sense would implore anyone to feel the same. What a tragedy. A young life plagued with mental disturbance and misery, a dead mother, violent outbursts, and a useless dad, ending in a cold death in nature.

Or worse, picked up by someone utterly reprehensible. I know differently. my daughter isn't mentally disturbed at all. She was born evil. I'd often wondered if it was because of that damn fish. Was a higher power punishing me for my cruelty? Was there something bigger than all of us at play? Or was she just the senseless horror that I was unlucky enough to unleash on the world?

Either way, I know that she isn't dead. I can feel her. and she's getting closer. It's been years now and she's bided her time. I can only assume it was to inflict maximum suffering on me. But I think that's finally coming to an end. Yesterday I got a folded up piece of paper through the letterbox. It was a child's drawing.

It wasn't as sophisticated as you'd expect a 14-year-old to produce. But she had been living in the elements for, quite some time without further education. So it was hardly surprising. I wish the subject matter had been surprising. I wish it had shocked to me and been something different. But it wasn't. That damn fish had been haunting me my entire life.

And there it was, in blue crayon, in a bowl just like the one I kept the real one in. It summed up everything that had ever gone wrong. in my life. Every single pain-filled moment came down to that fucking fish. I've tried to come up with other reasons. I tried desperately to make sense of all the fuck-ups, but I can't. Rosa, Freddy, the foster kid. Fuck knows how many more lives destroyed over an eight-year-old's poor attention span. So will I wait for my daughter to come and slaughter me. I spend my turn. I spend my time downing vodka on my kitchen floor, reading her poorly scrawled words over and over to Daddy. Don't forget to feed the fish from Amelia.

From the Patreon Vault. The Raven by Agrile and Poo. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume. of forgotten lore. While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying amber wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow, for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, nameless here, forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating, tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door this it is and nothing more presently my soul grew stronger hesitating then no longer sir said i or madam truly your forgiveness i implore but the fact is i was napping and so gently you came rapping and so faintly you came tapping tapping tapping at my chamber door. That I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door. Darkness there,

and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming, dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word. Lenore. This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore. Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning.

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window, lettis. Let me see then what they're at is and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment And this mystery explore Tis the wind And nothing more Open here I flung the shutter

One with many a flirt and flutter In their stepped a stately raven Of the saintly days of yore Not the least obeisance made he Not a minute stopped or stayed he But with main of Lord or Lady Perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bushelmed ear

Perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door, perched and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my said fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance at war. Though that crest is shorn and shaven thou I said art shernel craven. Gasly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore. Quoth the raven. Nevermore. Much I marveled this ungainly foul to hear discourse so plainly,

though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door. Bird or beast upon the sculpture bust above his chamber door. was such a name as nevermore but the raven sitting lonely on the placid bus spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpore nothing further than he uttered not a feather than he fluttered till I scarcely more than muttered, other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, never more.

Stardled at this stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Doubtless said I what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster, followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore, till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, of never, never more. But the ravens still beguiling my said fancy into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust indoor.

Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking, fancy unto fancy thinking what this ominous bird of yore. what this grim unguenely ghastly gaunt and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking never more this i sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing to the foul whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core this and more i sat divining with my head at ease reclining on the cushions velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated oar but whose velvet violet violet lining with this lamp-light gloated oar she shall press ah never more then methought the air grew denser perfumed from an unseen censer swung by sarah thim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor wretch i cried they God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee. Respite, respite, and append thee from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, O quaff, this kind Nepent thee, and forget this lost Lenore.

Quoth the raven, never more. Prophet, said I, thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil, whether tempter's scent or whether tempest toss thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted on this, this desert land enchanted. On this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore. Is there in their balm and gilly, tell me, tell me, I implore. Quoth the raven, never more.

Prophet, said I, think of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil, by the heaven that bends upon us by that God we both adore. Tell this soul with sorrow laden. if within the distant aiden it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore. Clasp a rare and radiant maiden from the angels name Lenore. Quoth the raven, nevermore, be that word our sign in parting, bird, or fiend I shrieked up starting. Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thou soul hath.

Spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken. Quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quoth the raven, never more. And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, on the pallid bust of palace just above my chamber door. and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming and the lamplight or him streaming throws his shadow on the floor and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted never more

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