Creepy - Day 31 - The Witch's Cat & Father/Son Bonding

Episode Date: October 31, 2023

The Witch's Cat***Written by: Opalescent Custard and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Bonus Episode: Father/Son Bonding***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***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.

We did it! We did it! We did it! We did it. Another 31 days of horror. We almost did it. Last day, don't get too ahead of yourselves.

You might want to tell Owen that. I'm not drunk. You're drunk. He's right, Nate. How many of you had? A couple. Okay, well, let's keep things short and sweet so you can all get home,

and I can get things locked up for Frederick. Rissa, you're up, right? All right, on my way. Will we wait for her to get set? Anyone have their favorite moments from the month? I like that time when John was running down the hall screaming about koalas in the shower. Oh, or that time when Heather said that she did hear the screams of all the people who ever lived without love in their lives. Yeah, well, what about that week when my ancestors would surround my bed,

pointing at me and telling me that they pity the disappointing family lineage that would result in me. It was awesome. Or how Danielle was crying about how bad the Patriots have gotten since Tom Brady left? I swear, if you bring up the Chiefs one more time. Okay, just about set. What's been your favorite part of the month, John? Honestly? 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 violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents The 31

One Days of Horror. Day 31. The Witch's Cat. Written by opalescent custard, and narrated by Rissomontanaz. Fading plum and marmalade ribbons were strewn across the dimming horizon and were coaxing the timid starlights to come out and play. With nightfall steadily swallowing the sunlight,

the autumnnal neighborhood fell silent as family, retreated indoors, enticed by home-cooked stews or hardy casseroles. My eyes narrowed at the boy who lived next door, who was still rooted outside like a defiant dandelion. His toys carelessly scattered atop the brittle dry lawn. His mother stuck her head out the front door, allowing artificial light to illuminate a sliver of the darkness as she begged him to come inside for supper. The boy was about nine or ten. I always struggled to guess the age of those around me, but ultimately, I was unbothered to ask my neighbors directly. Did I care?

Not at all. The child was young. That alone was enough to render me indifferent to his existence. His mother was waving her arms about, her whining failing to reach my years. Much to my relief. The brown-haired boy with mossy eyes retaliated to his mother's command by throwing his robotic action figure into the side of the house, sending shards of debris into the air.

Plastic shrapnel splattered along the grass as the woman's scowl deepened. Already having unwillingly witnessed their petulant antics hundreds of times, I shifted my attention to Emma, who was sleeping soundly. Like myself. She was disinterested in the neighbors. The circular window I stood in front of offered me a lightly apologetic view of the neighborhood. It had a four-foot-11-inch diameter, and Emma was comfortably cradled in the low-sweeping curve of the circle, her black tail dangling off the nine-inch-wide ledge which surrounded the glass.

As soon as I had purchased the property, roughly, five years ago, the round window was custom-built, facing northwest, offering us spiritual comfort. It was our favorite spot in the house to recharge after tiring days. But it was unfortunate, it faced the neighborhood. I reached out and stroked Emma's head, my knuckles massaging gently between her ears. I best get dinner started. I acknowledged aloud. Leaving Emma, I walked through the foyer and the dining room before settling my steps in the kitchen.

Although I used a wood-burning stove, I did allow myself to splurge on a modernized, upgraded fridge for safe food storage. Beyond the refrigeration unit, I felt cooking was done best utilizing an open flame. As I began preparations for my fire, I thought of my own mother and wondered if our fates would realign in the impending new year. Everyone in our family was independent, capable of surviving on their own, but my heart still longed for an overdue reunion, our respective spirits finally coming together as one. An opportunity to renew our bond would do the soul wonders. Perhaps I would summon everyone after Hollows Eve, but, of course, before the winter's

solstice. A needy meow propelled me back to the present. Emma slipped between my legs, grazing her forehead against my calf as she reminded me it had been too long since her last meal. All right, Em. I placated her with a tired smile as I quickly finished situating the hay, birch bark and chopped logs into a tidy pile. My mother had taught me how to start fires from a young age, and now it was something I could easily do under any circumstance. Moving to the refrigerator, I pulled out a blue tin can, and Emma meowed in approval,

so I emptied its gooey contents into a ceramic floral-painted bowl, before settling it onto the slate floor in the middle of the kitchen. With Emma feeding, I turned back to ignite the fire with a snap of my fingers. Heat began to gradually circulate within the small space as I grabbed my reliable cast iron pan. One I had been using for countless meals throughout my life. Its weight was a durable reassurance. While it rested atop the metal stove to heat, I began chopping carrots, potatoes, onions, and chunks of chicken. Cooking was a spiritual practice.

It calmed my nerves and granted my mind permission to travel across vast spaces, seeking tranquility. By cooking with open flame and honoring the plants and animals granting me nourishment, gratification filled my soul and was replenished with every meal. On the occasion that I would dine out, there would linger a sense that, something was missing. So I seldom patronized local eateries unless prompted by a friend. A series of cackling sizzles erupted as soon as I added food to the heated pan. Such noises never startled Emma, who continued to chomp and lick at her dinner. Looking down at her, I decided, come Hollow's Eve, she would have a special day of spoils.

Fresh seafood and fish all coated in rich butter and herbs. Her favorite indulgence. The two-week wait would be worth it. Hallow's Eve was a difficult day to appreciate, however, given its transformation into a commercialized mockery of tradition. As well, trick-or-treating was an absurd practice, and one I refuse to take part in. Last year, despite turning off my porch light,

Neighborhood children rang the doorbell numerous times while emboldened parents had pounded on my door and pressed their hands upon my beloved round window, leaving behind sweaty smudges and greasy streaks from their foreheads. For whatever reason, my unlit house, lack of decorations, and porch absent of a bowl, had failed to communicate my distinct desire, to be left alone.

Logic and respect were not common traits among my neighbors. Even after spending four years here without participating in Halloween, my neighbors were as astute as a sack of rancid bird seed in the pit of my stomach. I knew this year would be just as stressful as the previous years. Part of me wondered if I should simply travel during Halloween and avoid the harassment. But I was just as stubborn as my pestering neighbors, unwilling to flee my own home to avoid their silly demands of sweets. I added a dram of whiskey to the pan and began to saute my meal, adding a wedge of butter near the end. I picked up Emma's

empty bowl and set it in the sink, running the tap briefly to kickstart the soaking process. courteous as usual, Emma stayed out of my way when I carried my hot pan of food into the dining room. Normally, others would proudly display a large table for gatherings, but, as Emma and I were on our own, our dining table was modestly sized, almost sheepishly so. It was carved from a dark ancient wood and was the exact same dimension as the circular window in the front of our home. Returning to the kitchen, I grabbed cutlery,

a mug of lukewarm water and a slice of bread from the loaf I had baked yesterday. Once I had settled in my seat, Emma leapt up to sit across from my plate, offering genuine company rather than a hungry set of eyes. dinner was quiet occasionally disturbed by a scraping of my knife against the bottom of the pan which i was eating out of seldom did i fuss with bowls or plates as it was another thing to fuss with and given my lack of human companionship i had no social expectations to meet regarding food presentation or serving sizes the last person who i had invited over as a guest was eric

he lived across the street down on the corner by the bus stop he was about forty i believe when i had him over for tea i did my best to make him feel welcome for eric i was fine with making an effort to adhere to society's expectations of individual cups and plates for serving when i lived in texas many many moons ago i made the mistake stake of offering a single but large cup of tea for my guests to share. Their confusion and disgust had been an abrupt reminder of societal expectations that I had failed to meet. People were concerned about germs, I suppose, but sharing a drink with Emma or another family member didn't bother me in the slightest. But that singular lapse in judgment. had ensured my time in Texas would be short-lived. The judgmental stares and whispers were like a plague that I could not combat.

While I don't socialize very often, my spirit had been shamed and I was no longer comfortable even hidden within my own home. The sneers almost seeping through my walls. So I moved from Texas after only a month. and settled in Minnesota for a few years. The snow and isolation suiting me far better, and the people far more pleasant. I thought of Eric and how much the neighborhood loved

attending his monthly barbecue gatherings, despite being a friendly man, beloved by all. I found him to be an ideal conversation list when it was just the two of us sharing a quick chat by my mailbox. Intimate one-on-one, were the best way to connect with someone's spirit. Perhaps I should invite him over for soup, given how the nights were growing colder

the sooner we neared winter. With my meal finished, I nudged the pan in Emma's direction, signaling that she was welcome to lick the remaining bits of butter and chicken fat. Once she was done, I took everything back to the kitchen, taking a good 30 minutes to thoroughly clean.

Meanwhile, Emma returned to the rife, window to resume her meditation, soaking in the darkness muddled with the hazy glow of the streetlights. I spent the remainder of my evening in bed, reading by candlelight, the exploits of Emily Dickinson sereninating me into a tranquil, tippet pool of relaxation. And just as I blew out the final candle, Emma joined me, settling at the foot of my bed into a furry ball. of obsidian. Giving my toes a wiggle underneath the layers of bedsheets, I affectionately nuzzled her form before I rolled over and cradled my favorite pillow to my chest, falling into a deep dream of childhood. Dawn arrived, delivering another collection of gray clouds,

heavy and sedated. The somber weather suited me nicely, with the added benefit of dissuading children from outside activities. My morning routine consisted of a hot shower, a deep hour-long meditation with Emma, getting dressed, preparing a light breakfast, and going for a walk. Emma trotted by my side as we crossed the street, her glowing golden orbs tracking the flight patterns of our local pigeons. Just as we approached the bus stop and stood at the corner, Eric called, out and hustled down his driveway to intercept us. Eric greeted us, and we talked briefly. And I did extend the invitation for him to join us for tea and cookies come this evening,

which he graciously accepted. Both Eric and myself, feeling pleased. We parted as I continued to walk with Emma, my dark cloak snapping at my heels as my boots clicked against pavement, while Emma's paused remained stealthy and silent. As soon as we returned home, having traversed the gloomy area without further disruption, Emma bolted for the kitchen.

Emma's howl of hunger prompted me to eye the tall grandfather clock in the foyer and realized lunchtime had arrived. Another pained cry from the kitchen came from Emma, who was never shy about tugging at my heartstrings. Her plight was my plight. Her hunger was my hunger. And my guilt was her guilt. Our thoughts and feelings were a shared experience.

Our bond, a singular existence. There was a special bond between a witch and her cat. I knew Emma was being overly dramatic to tease me, and although I knew her tricks very well, they still worked their magic. I hurried back to the kitchen and gave Emma a look of heartbreak. Oh, my dear, you are practically wasting away,

mere skin and bones. I put a hand to my chest to match her dramatics. You must be starving, love. I bent down to play with her tail as eyes locked with mine. we shared a similar smile and Emma's lunch was quickly prepared and her despair was cured but before I could mull over what I wished to eat

three aggressive knocks sent spikes of dread down my spine Emma's eyes narrowed as I glided to the front door through the round window I saw my neighbor and her brady child knowing full well I'd regret my following action. I unlocked the door and opened it. Yes? I looked to the brunette who shoved her child forward.

The woman explained she had an emergency and needed to leave her son, who she introduced as Marcus, with me for a short while. The woman explained her husband would be home soon, but that I needed to look after her son for the time being. My lips pried open as I prepared to refuse. but she had already spun on her heel and marched back to her house. She got in her red convertible and spared a wave in our general direction before speeding down the street. With my afternoon now utterly ruined, my jaw tight, Marcus pushed past me and fixated his greedy green gaze upon Emma, who was lingering several feet away, tail-swishing. with grubby hands outstretched.

Marcus ran toward my cat. Emma's back arched, and she let out a high-pitched hiss of displeasure. She's not one of your toys, child. I barked, recalling his destructive history. Leave her bee. But the boy ignored my warning and chased after Emma as she sprinted deeper into the house. seeking a place to hide. My stomach groaned as I shut the front door,

deciding to grab a piece of bread before tracking down my unwanted houseguest. In the kitchen, I grabbed bread and a serrated knife and began to saw through the loaf. Bread-based confetti littered the wooden cutting board as I finally reached the bottom, applying more pressure to slice

through the thicker crust that surrounded the oval, offering. I began to sweep the dry crumbs into my palm before discarding them into a small bowl where other crumbs were collected. The bits of bread would be used in other dishes. Food waste was a sin I actively sought to avoid. Taking the meager bit of lunch with me, I walked from the dining room towards my bedroom. I called out for Emma and Marcus. A whirlwind of annoyance and fierce world within me. I felt Emma's emotion searching.

Where are you? I demanded. Do you want some bread, child? I called out, walking down the hallway, unsure of how to best lure a sticky, selfish parasite into the open. In my global exploits, I had engaged with creatures that would make mortals tremble and their vulnerable internal organs erupt out of sheer terror.

Monsters had weaknesses to exploit, and some could even be bargained with, but children were a species that were entirely foreign to me. Their goals were unhinged and selfish. Their value to society was null, and their self-awareness was sorely lacking. Children were creatures I avoided, and now one was wandering my home.

I felt powerless. I felt violated. Marcus? Do not test my patience, child. Leave Emma B. My anger now mixed with Emma's anxiety. I could feel her nerves rolling like stormy waves inside my stomach. After inspecting my bedroom and attached bathroom,

I went back down the hall to check my study before stepping back into the foyer feeling a breeze greeting my return. The front door was open. My throat tightened. I breathed. My feet carried me down the steps where Marcus was standing. His focus was cast down as a blue truck was parked partly on the sidewalk,

cutting off the route to his house. A man dashed from the driver's side around and pulled Marcus into a hug. The two began speaking over one another, but my concern was at the mound at Marcus' feet. With a streak of bright red tire marks trailing from the creature to the back wheel of the vehicle, my heart froze, and I toppled forward. Knees cracking against the concrete.

One arm supported my weight, as the other reached out to touch the black, motionless cat. An invisible string was cut. And my connection with Emma severed. Oh, Emma! I whispered, fingertips trailing down her broken spine. Beside me, Marcus began to babble about wanting to play with the cat outside.

Marcus explained he was chasing her, and she darted into the street, just as his dad drove by. He said it was an accident. He never said. He was sorry. He said the cat was tear fast. His father then stood up

and demanded to know who I was and why Marcus was unsupervised in my care. Marcus then said, said it was the cat's fault for running away from him. His father said, I was careless for leaving Marcus alone. His father said, I was lucky. Marcus wasn't hurt. Marcus pointed to a skin knee he had gotten while chasing Emma on my lawn. His father grabbed Marcus and threatened me with legal action before heading home, leaving his car behind. Their words held no weight, no meaning.

Their words fluttered up into the mournful sky as I gathered M into my arms and hurried back inside. Fury fought against sorrow. Her thick blood soaked through my cloak. It was still worn against my trembling flesh. Emma was not the first companion I had lost. But she was the first to be slain with dozens of years, still ahead of her, to be enjoyed. Cats were meant to live by a witch's side for at least a century. Her life had been abruptly cut short, and the senseless cruelty was turning my blood into pure venom.

What a waste of a good soul! Cradling M. I carefully laid her down on the dining room table. Leaving for a minute to retrieve a leather satchel from my study, I knew I had to work fast to harvest viable ingredients. Opening the weathered bag, I pulled out several silver surgical instruments that mother had once wielded, but were now my own tools to utilize. Blood was extracted into glass vials.

Emma's heart and eyes were then removed. Finally, I skinned her and clipped her nails and teeth, setting aside these treasures in an orderly fashion. Dusk was beginning to creep across the muted sky, but the diminishing daylight didn't deter my efforts. I carried the rest of Emma to the backyard and began to carve her grave into the earth. Once buried, I took a step back and gazed down. at my bloody and muddy palms. My heart flinched as I felt Emma brush against my legs, but when I looked down, I was met with emptiness.

She was gone. Only a ghost of her remained at my side. Back in the dining room, I cleaned up and stored my ingredients properly. Thankful that Hollow's Eve was near, And Emma's soul could find retribution then. The weight would be torture. A polite knock stole me from the thoughts of revenge. I suddenly remembered inviting Eric over but had lost the strength to cross the foyer.

So my legs simply carried me to my bedroom where I crawled under the covers and cried. For the next nine days, I did not leave. my house. Eric had attempted to return twice, but I was still too fragile to welcome company. The only company my soul ached for was Emma's. I hadn't heard from Marcus or his parents, but if I had. I was certain my wrath would have been uncontrolled. In a way, it was fortunate they had stayed away. The solitude was both delightful, but also miserable. The foot of my bed was vacant. Life without Emma was colorless and joyless. The sun rose and fell. The moon appeared and disappeared. Life went on without Emma. The only

goal keeping my head above water was revenge. In the mail, I received a few parcels and letters from friends and family who had felt the loss of Emma, even though they were separated by time and space, my mother sent a lengthy letter about love and loss being intertwined, and that my next cat would offer me comfort. My friend, who had a knack for crafting potions, sent me a concoction for pleasant dreams, which would be useful,

and my fun. My father sent me a letter with a single message. Make them suffer. Now with Halloween in full swing, the suffering would be swift. Standing in front of the round window, I watched as large groups of children flocked from house to house, their parents trailing behind with much less enthusiasm. Children were dressed in costumes and reciting a chant of trick-or-treat. to further fill their bags with more sugar.

Shaking my head, I went back into the kitchen and resumed stirring the pot, which had caramel simmering, pulling a vial out of the fridge. I removed the cork and poured the blood before mixing it together. Before the caramel thickened, I sprinkled a handful of dice snails and teeth I had harvested from Emma. Next, I poured the mixture into a shallow glass pan and waited for it to cool before I cut it into bite-sized pieces. Buried in the back of one of my old tomes was a recipe for revenge, one that required the assistance of Hollow's Eve to be most effective. I had only used it once, until now.

A scent of iron and sugar mingled in the warm air. And in the back of my mind, I thought I heard a meow of approval. With a sweet smile, I made my way next door and knocked. Marcus's mother answered, a bright green cocktail in her hands. She eyed my black robe and the broom I held on to. She rolled her eyes at my garb, but said nothing. Good evening. I held out the tray of caramel with my other hand.

hand, my smile widening. I do hope we can put what happened behind us. My bright teeth flexed into pointed bangs, but they retracted before the tipsy woman could notice. She scoffed and took the pan, muttering under her breath about how hard it was to find good neighbors these days. With the door slammed shut in my face, I glided back home. Once inside, I stood in front of the window and watched Emma's revenge.

I knew the family would devour the caramels. Their fates belong to us now. A few minutes elapsed and I watched their front door open to reveal the woman handing Marcus a caramel. He gobbled it down and licked his pudgy lips. She watched him hobble down the side. sidewalk, wearing a superhero costume a size too small for him. The child didn't get past the next house before he collapsed, and blood began to leak from his eyes and nose. His limbs twitched. His mother staggered over, her cocktail spilling as she called out to her boy.

A crowd began to circle around him, but his mother never managed to push through, as she also fell and began coughing up blood. Her throat had to be burning. Her vision, gone. Their lungs were swimming in bile and blood. Both began to gurgle as someone used their cellular phone to contact the authorities. Within 15 minutes, an ambulance had arrived, along with Marcus's father. While I was disappointed that he hadn't gotten a taste of revenge, I knew there was a high chance he'd want to indulge in some

something sweet as he planned his wife and son's funeral. And I'd be a terrible neighbor if I didn't bring him something tasty. It's what Emma would have wanted, after all. Hey, John, I think we're all packed up and ready to go. What time does our ride get here? Um, looks like about 20 minutes or so. Excited to get home. Very.

Was this month worth it? I'll lay you know after I talk with my therapist. Fair. You ready for this all to be over, John? I don't know. It's a lot of work and all. And the trauma will most likely haunt me for years to come. But when November hits, I always feel a little empty.

I guess I usually miss it. What about this year? I don't think it's going to be as tough letting go this year. Well, you've done. Run seven of these now. You were bound to get used to it eventually. Yeah. Why don't you all head out? I'm just going to run and do the last story. I'll meet you outside. For your bonus episode. Creepy Presents. Father's son bonding. The articles started to appear on the usual social media spaces.

Programmatic ads, sponsored ads. Something about your search history made the algorithm light up. just a simple picture of an idyllic lake in the middle of rolling mountains. Lush green trees. Picture perfect. Not that anyone would look at that picture in wax poetic. It's probably just something they found on some stock image site. Even if it was real, at this point, would anyone care? The world's clickbait, just waiting for you to be intrigued enough to start to sink the hooks, so to speak.

As near as anyone can tell, the ads are popping up on social media and during YouTube ad breaks in late May, around the time when people were most active, trying to figure out summer trips, activities for the kids, soon to be running around the house instead of busy in school. I'd seen them. The internet knew enough about me that I had kids, and that was enough. But my wife already had a summer full of activities planned, so it didn't much matter and had otherwise forgotten. about it if it weren't from my neighbor Greg. Maybe you know someone like Greg.

The sort of person you talk to where they did it better or had it worse. If you had a bad night's sleep, they hadn't slept at all. If you had a good day, he had the best day. I did my best to avoid conversations. But God forbid I'd be out mowing my lawn. Somehow he'd always time it to be edging his landscape right when I'd turn off the mower. His version of starting conversation was usually to insult me or my lawn or my car. He was a grown-up version of every 1980s high school movie bully.

The weird part was that his life wasn't even that great. And he went up and he said, I always landed weird. Oh, you got a new car? That's nothing. Just got my truck detailed. Like, what? How was that the same thing? It was sad and weird and uncomfortable, but I'd still take talking with him over having to deal with his sociopath son, Greg Jr.

Of course he was Greg Jr. See, Greg was one of those guys like you see in the memes. I was talking about how when he was a kid, he went out in the morning and didn't come home until the streetlights came on. That's a weird thing about people our age. Everyone seems to remember being a kid like that. Wasn't how I grew up, that's for sure. I was a Nintendo kid. Greg complained about how kids were too lazy spending all their time on screens.

It said to be damned if his kid grew up like that as if he was preparing him for life. And it followed that come summer, Greg Jr. was always out on his bike, cruising around the neighborhood, stopping at any house where kids were outside and he'd invite himself to play. No one ever invited him. Even the other boys in the neighborhood who probably wanted to stand his good side. Like my own son, who was way more into drama camps than someone like Greg would ever abide. A couple of times my son let slip about Greg Jr. catching frogs at the pond just to spike him into the bike path to see him splatter. Or the words my son heard from him, but asked me about.

I wouldn't say they were the worst neighbors, but they were definitely shit people. No wonder Greg Jr.'s mom wasn't in the picture anymore. At a block party a couple years back, a very drunk Greg said he'd fought toothed nail in court to get custody of his son. He wasn't going to let him grow up like a sissy. Only he didn't say sissy. By that point, I was so numb to the Greg and Jr. show that any conversations I had were as brief as I could make him. I'd just agree or scoff along with him at whatever outrage he felt at the moment. I'm to think of it.

He probably thought we were a lot alike. Weird. I hadn't thought about that until just now. Anyway, I was trying to speed my way through fertilizing my lawn, all the while Greg's walking next to me, keeping pace on his property line, and it took me a minute to figure out that he wasn't complaining. He was bragging about something,

but also complaining at the same time. It's a very strange superpower for a person to have. He's going on and on about getting into the father-son camping trip or something. It tells me about seeing the ads and how it was a welcome site over the sorts of, and I'll use his words here, queer shit, that the media usually fills his social media with. I'm not one to regret a lot of things in life, but I will always regret not telling him that those ads are based off his own search history. Anyway, he said he clicked on the ad for this getaway as a chance to take his son to the wilderness.

and show him what it's like to be a man. Then he said he had to threaten to sue him because when he finally got around to signing up, they said registration was full. But he goes apeshit, talking about false advertising and the friends of his on the police, etc. And if they don't let him in the camp,

they'll live to regret it. And he starts laughing, bragging about how they did a full 180, and not only let him in the camp, but also offered to do it for free if they were okay being the first ones at the experience. Of course, and his messed up head, he thinks it's all an even bigger win,

and he's going to be treated like some honored guest. Didn't shut up about it for a full month leading up to the trip. God, I would have given anything for him to just stop talking. I was counting down the days myself to know that I'd have a full week where I didn't have to dread a conversation with Greg. For all Greg's bravado and bullshit and rhetoric, he wasn't lying about knowing cops. Turns out a cop had been his best man.

That summer I talked to so many cops that felt like I was in a Law & Order marathon. When did I last see Greg? Did I get any phone calls or emails? When did I last see Greg Jr.? Was there any reason I could think of for someone to have reason to harm Greg? There wasn't enough time in the day for that one. You know when someone dies and the news talks about how they were always the most loving parent or best friend or lit up a room when they entered, Greg wasn't any of that.

and if anyone said he was, I were a damn liar. Funny thing is, if Greg wasn't friends with cops, I'd never have known what actually happened to him. It wasn't in the news. The feds got involved, state lines and all that.

I can't speak to who all was involved, what actually happened in the finer details, because I didn't get any. In fact, the only reason I know what I know is because of that cop friend. I think he didn't like me. Or maybe Greg used to badmouth me to him because he seemed to know an awful lot about my family

that wasn't public knowledge. It was August when they asked me to come down to the police station. At this point, it had all been dragging on for months. Their house remained empty. The lawn was overgrown with weeds. I had an airtight alibi for where I had been, accounted for every single day in May and June. And still, he brought me into a row.

room, asked me if I wanted anything to drink, and when I said no, told me flat out that he thought I was involved. Involved in his disappearance? How could they still think that? Because at one point, I might have accidentally let it slip that I didn't really like Craig, and that he was always bragging about things and talking down to me. Yeah, my bad for telling the cops the truth, I guess. The cop friend asked me why I would try to cover for someone who would do something so terrible.

That part really confused me. When I asked what Greg did, I thought he was going to throw a chair at me. I started screaming at me. No, not Greg. The monster that did this as he tosses a file fold around to the table. I just stared at it like it was a bomb that might go off before you opened it and shoved the pictures at me. The pictures of Greg and Greg Jr. But not all of them.

They were in what looked like a large dog cage. And my mind flashed back to the advertisement. I could never have been more grateful that my son and I spent time bonding over Hamilton and six and ain't too proud. Greg and Greg Jr. had bonded at the waist from what I could tell. There were no legs in the picture. Just the two of them, naked from the waist up. But that's all there was anyway. They'd been sewn together at the waist.

Their bodies were beaten and bruised, and I realized that they must have somehow survived for at least a little while when I noticed Greg's fingernails had all been torn out, and there were streaks of blood on the bottom of the cage from where whatever part of his brain was still alive had desperately tried to crawl away, dragging the bisected half of Greg Jr. behind him. That's all I know. I don't know what happened next. If anyone was caught, how many people died?

All I have is that image of Greg and Jr. in my head. Sown into my memory as much as they were sewn to each other. One thing's for goddamn, sure. Never fucking clicking on one of those pop-up ads again. Shoot, I forgot my backpack in the dining room. I'll grab it. Thanks, John. John, hurry off. I hear the bus coming.

What bus? Finally. I can't wait to get home. I'm just glad that crap about one of us having to die was more of John's weirdness. Wait, is that... Natalie? Surprise! John, you didn't tell us Natalie was going to pick us up? Natalie, who?

Natalie, our story coordinator. Everyone down! John! What are you doing? It's me! John, you son of a bitch, what did you do? Everyone! Get back! What are you doing with that gas can? Oh my God! That wasn't Natalie.

There was a monster that had taken her form. How did you know? Know what? That Natalie was some kind of shape-shifting alien? A what, no? Oh, I mean, obviously she was. Obviously. Oh, look.

Here come your ride chairs. Owen, can you fly? flagged them away from the bus fire? Again? Fine. You coming, John? We've got room for one more in here. No, I need to do another walk-through to make sure we didn't forget anything.

You all go on. And thanks for all your work this month. I won't forget it. That's a little dramatic, but you're welcome, John. Safe travels. Hey, John, did I hear a bus outside? No, Nate. Just the wind. Okay, so tell me again how this all works?

Pretty simple. Each room in this house is a story to tell and we're here to tell it. So we're going to be here all month to record stories. We'll be here as long as it takes. Some of us longer than others. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story of all 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. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast.

production team and the story's author.