Creepy - Day 5 - I Hired a Hurt Man & A Haunted House Story

Episode Date: October 5, 2023

I Hired a Hurt Man***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Bonus episode: "A Haunted House Story"***Narrated by: Alicia AtkinsLink: A Haunted House Story | Creepypasta Wiki | Fandom***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/***Donate to the show and get rewarded at patreon.com/creepypod***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 5. I hired a hurt man. Somewhere along the way, I lost my path. Probably right from the start, but it's a little late for me, a culpas now. I wanted her to hurt as bad as she hurt me. Three years of my life. For three years of my life, she gaslit me, told me I was worthless. She manipulated me like a fucking puppet on a string.

I don't know if she was genuinely evil and actually enjoyed what she did to me, or if that was just an easy mark. Never in my life have I felt like I did with her. No, except maybe with my father. The near constant beratement about what I was terrible at. Then, just as I was about to break or leave or tell her off, a compliment, a smile, a kiss, just enough to keep me around to make me think it would be okay. She was gorgeous, she was smart, she was charismatic.

I tried not to ask myself why she was with me. Looking back, of course it was the money. I'd seen her at the club, even tried to fly. flirt with her. She looked me up and down and rolled her eyes. Sure later she'd tell me that I made that up and I didn't have enough confidence in myself to even have an accurate memory of how things happened. Of course, I remember her reaction when the valet pulled my car around. Does anyone need a $250,000 car? Of course not, but I had money. It felt easier to fix my flaws with a nice car and nice house than to fix my hairline or complexion or go to the gym.

I didn't realize exactly how much of my money she was siphoning off me. It wasn't until we did an internal audit with a forensic accountant that some irregularities with my business account popped up. Irregularities I took care of out of my own pocket to keep it quiet. Then came to private eye. I had to wonder how long she'd actually been stepping out on me as casually as she'd done it. She even went with the guy to my favorite restaurant. I was drunk when I started to look for an extreme solution, when I started to look for an option that would make her disappear.

I was too deep. She knew too much about me and my business, and she was a sort of person who would drag me through court as she tried to take every penny I had. My very company. She told me those exact words when I'd try to stand up for myself one night in front of her parents, told her she had a pretty good and life would be pretty hard without me. She corrected me quickly, stating that her life would never be hard and not to test her. I hated her as much as I wanted her to love me, as much as I wanted the idea of us to be a reality. I think it just took my admitting that to myself for it to happen. Still, with a bile rising in my throat each day, part of me still loved her. I wanted out, but I couldn't go that far. Besides, the cops would have looked at me immediately,

assuming those ads I found on the dark forums weren't cops playing decoy anyway. Then, I found the hurt man. It was hard to communicate with him, let alone figure out what he actually did. Just like the name implies, he didn't kill people. He just hurt the people you wanted hurt. There was no rhyme or reason I could make out to is when he would respond to my messages. Even then, he spoke in his weird sort of double-speak code that I had to decipher to leave him another message

in another dark corner of the net. Then I'd just sit and wait, and wait, and wait. sometimes days or even a week at a time before you get back to me. It took me a while to realize that he just as easily could have thought I was a cop trying to catch him. He was testing my commitment. Commitment was never an issue. I had a new reason just about every morning. A new comment, a new joke, a new insult.

Yeah. I was all in. I was only asked for her name. a picture, and how hurt I wanted her on a scale of one to ten. He didn't elaborate on what any of that meant, but by that time, I was so broken, I didn't even care. I assumed that ten actually meant dead or comatose or something of that nature. But again, I didn't want anyone pointing their finger of me, so I gave what I thought was a

suitable number. Seven. The next three days felt like the longest in my life, while I didn't want to be able to be able to life while I waited for something to happen. I think I went through all the stages of grief while she flitted around, coming and going as she pleased, living the life she thought she deserved. In my weaker moments, I switched between loathing her and loathing myself. And honestly, by the end of the three days, I had all but kissed my four bitcoins goodbye

to the obvious scam I was too stupid to have seen coming. And then it started. I was in a meeting when my phone started to ring. and ring and ring. I put it on silent, seeing it was her, and having better things to focus on than whatever she wanted to yell at me about. Of course, I'd apologize

and pretend to miss the call later when we finally talked, but there was no later. She kept calling, calling, texting for me to pick up the phone. I started to feel a sort of blind panic rise, my brain not even putting together that this could be it.

I excused myself from the me, meeting and picked up, and asked what was wrong. At first I thought the screaming was pain, but it was anger. She was in her car, screamed crying at me about how much I'd embarrassed her by canceling her credit card. She was at lunch with her giggle of like-minded harpy friends and put her card down to pay with my money when the waiter said the card had been declined. She claimed the embarrassment was more than she could tolerate for me before berating

me with a litany of insults. that were excessive even for her. When I finally got a word in edgewise, I told her I hadn't canceled anything and to call the card company. When she did, and they told her there was nothing wrong with a card and it must have been an issue with a card reader,

do you think I got an apology? Give me a break. It took a while for me to realize that that was how it started. Hurt can mean a lot of things. It all started, it seemed, with hurting people's perception of you. It was bits and pieces of things.

A lost reservation at a highly sought-after restaurant. Her car suddenly breaking down on the side of the road and AAA not being able to get there for hours and her phone suddenly running out of power at the same time. It was her fingernails mysteriously chipping and flaking off. Bits of hair coming out in her hand when she ran her fingers so casually and playfully through her hair. It was birth control that suddenly stopped working.

I had to hear about that one from the private investigator. We hadn't had sex in over six months. There was no way she was going to be able to claim the kid was mine. I don't know if she would have kept mine either. Then the calls from the mystery man's wife to her cell phone, posts on her social media page about her being a homewrecker and horror. When she went to confront her partner in adultery at the park, I saw the video of an errant football throw hit her in the mouth, popping out her two front teeth.

I watched her scream and cry with a hand over her mouth trying to hold back the blood pouring through her fingers. I told her I couldn't tell the difference between the fake teeth and the new teeth. She almost hit me. Her parents' home suddenly had had a gas leak that hospitalized her father, which she didn't seem to care about nearly as much as the heels on her shoes breaking off while she was at a club the cranberry vodka that was spilled on her white dress. I think when some people have bad things happened to them, they get introspective and wonder what they'd done to deserve such things,

maybe even have a moment of clarity to change their ways. Others get martyr syndrome, and get even worse. Guess which one she was? Life actually became harder for me over the coming weeks. She became paranoid about going out with her so-called, friends, claiming they had started to talk about her behind her back, which they probably already did. She'd rant and complain to me any time I was home, and when I wasn't home, it was text messages about how I'd ruined her life. But through it all, she never left. I think she'd

started to realize that she'd built a world with no real friends and had treated everyone so terribly that she had nowhere else to go. Still, the hate and vitriol had to land somewhere. So I paid more. I left a message to up it to nine. There's a big difference between seven and nine. I started to feel my own kind of paranoia when we go out on the weekend, and I always felt like someone was watching us, and maybe they were. Sometimes she'd go off on her own and be gone a day or two or more, sudden spa weekend or girls' trip. I didn't think much of it when I didn't see her for the next few days one week. I stayed busy with work most of the time anyway. Even after everything that happened, I hadn't been contacted by the Hurtman, so I think there

were parts of me still thinking what it all happened was a coincidence. until I got the email. It was to an address that ended in Dot Onion. When I went to the link, there was a video player. I clicked on it and immediately recognized the woman in the video. The woman I hated so much that I'd hired someone to ruin her life was tied to what looked like a giant wooden X. She was naked and crying.

A masked face suddenly filled the video. It felt like he was staring right at me, before slowly backing away as a message appeared on the bottom of the screen. This was your choice. He started out hitting her with a paddle. Then a cattle prod. She screamed and twisted and begged for him to stop. I couldn't stop watching.

Then a glowing number nine lit up the screen. It was a burning hot brand. Her head lulled to the side from the pain, but the moment her eyes saw the brain she stood. started jerking and pulling into restraints. Another message appeared at the bottom of the screen. This costs extra. Don't worry.

I'll take it myself. It took a moment for me to realize what it meant before the panic shot through me. He had access to my accounts. How could he have access to my accounts? Did she know my passwords and tell him? That bitch was all I could think as I logged into my banking statements.

Everything looked normal so I made sure to change all the passwords, all the accounts, business, personal and private, to different combinations. When I tried to go back to the video link to see what had happened, the link had expired. It was one-time use only. A new kind of panic shot through me. It's shameful to admit, but I suddenly was afraid of what would happen if he didn't actually kill her. Would he tell her I'd hired him? Would she just appear at some hospital or on the side of the road? What was that going to do?

I could leave. That was it. I'd just leave the country. I had the means. I could run my company from overseas, somewhere without extradition. My private accounts were offshore anyway. I'd just be another rich white guy moving someplace tropical to enjoy his money. There was no law about that, specifically.

I was still at my office that night trying to make arrangements and book travel when it all started to unravel. My card was declined when I tried to book my flight. All of my cards were declined. I was just about to call my card company to explain that the purchases weren't weird when my text started blowing up. First from my CFO. Then a couple members from the board of directors saying they had gotten calls from the Federal Trade Commission. No one. and I mean no one who owns a company wants to hear from the FTC.

It was time to go. In my car I tried logging into my bank accounts again, only to see my passwords didn't work. I pulled over to the side of the road to make sure I'd remember the right one for the right account, but no luck. When I tried to change him again, it said I had the wrong email address and my accounts would be locked. What the fuck was going on?

I had no time to think. I had to get home. I had to pack and get the fuck out while I still could. My lawyers could talk to the feds. I ran to my room. There was a safe. There was cash. My passport.

I had to go. But when I looked, it was all empty. Gone. I had nothing. And that's when it happened. I turned and she was standing in the doorway, wearing the same red dress she'd been wearing when I first. saw her, looking as stunning as she ever had. No scars, no marks. Just a smile. I couldn't even

manage the words to ask what she was doing there. All the energy drained out of me and I collapsed to the floor. And that's when she laid it all out for me, how she'd baited me, lured me in, and taken me for all I was worth, not because she was the person I thought she was, but because she was a professional because she was hired to do it. The same way I thought I'd hired someone to do those things to her, that all those messages I'd sent had gone to her. Everything I'd seen was what she wanted me to see. Even the video I'd clicked on was a backdoor in for a keystroke logger that gave her access to all my accounts and files. She'd taken enough to make the last three years worth it, sent some files to the FTC. I've only she'd been feeding them tips for over a year,

and uploaded some pictures to my hard drive, just as a cherry on top, to destroy me forever. You see, I'm a very rich man. I was a very rich man. You don't get to be as rich as I was without making enemies. Stocks manipulated, companies bought and gutted. If she told me who'd hired her in the first place, I probably wouldn't have even known who it was. You don't keep track all the people you step on while you're climbing a cash moatin. Well, I was trying to remember how to even stand up again. Panic and confusion squeezing my chest so bad I thought I was having a heart attack. She put a phone to her ear.

I could hear someone say something on the other end, and for a few brief seconds, I saw her calm, beautiful face twists into a look of abject horror. The same face had seen on that video. She screamed, please, God, help me, he's going to kill me. She pleaded with him to hurry to my address, then popped the SIM card out of the phone and snapped it in half. And just like that, her face was as calm as if she just left a massage. In the end, I had nothing.

no money, no escape plan, and looking at spending the rest of my life in prison for any number of crimes. Ones I'd committed and ones I hadn't. I told her she'd ruined my life, and she thanked me for the compliment. I felt desperate. I didn't know what I was trying to hold on to. Maybe I was scared she was going to kill me. I begged and pleaded, told her that I had. I didn't really want to hurt her. I was just frustrated. In a lastage effort, I told her I just

asked for a nine. Can you believe that? Completely unfazed, she nodded and said that the person who hired her also asked for a nine. I had to ask, if this was nine, what was a ten? She just smiled. and cocked her head to the side with all this pity in her eyes as she leaned in and whispered, Baby, I was your ten. She left the room right before I heard the sirens in the distance, and I knew I'd never see her again. I ran too, but I don't know how long I can. I have no money and no options. This is my warning.

Have you been having a rash of bad luck lately? Does it seem like things just aren't working out? Maybe it's by chance, but maybe it's about to get a lot worse. Think real hard about someone you might have hurt or offended in your life, and consider that maybe, just maybe, they hired a hurt man. Or should I say, a hurt woman for your bonus episode. Creepy Presents. A Haunted House Story

Written by Alicia Atkins I do not have a name, but I've been called many things. I've been called a demon, a ghost, a poltergeist, a spirit, and even the boogeyman. However, I have no memory from before this incumporial existence to confirm or deny any such names. I have no eyes, yet. I can see. I have no ears, yet I can hear. I do not have a body. I have no shape. If I strain my will, I can mimic humans. If I will it, I can move objects with my thoughts. However, both take a great toll on me and grow more and more difficult as the number of witnesses increases. I do not know

what I am, but I know I am very old. I cannot escape the property of the house I was born in, an old 1937 American four-square. A very square-looking home, sitting in a rather average American suburb. My cage reaches as far as the sidewalk, where I can watch people pass by, but never follow. I do not believe I was born with the house, as my memories only reach as far back as near the end of World War II. I lived with the Stockley family at the time. William Stockley was the master of the house, and was married to his wife, Anne. They had three children, two boys and a young girl named Ashley. Both boys joined the war and never returned. Like any young thing, I craved attention and tortured the family with mischief. If the Stockleys could not find something, it was because I hid it.

If they heard sounds at night, it was me banging on the walls. My youthful antics never scared the stocklies away. Time, however, made much faster work. Ashley had grown up, married, and moved away. William and Anne stubbornly stayed in the home, till they both grew old. One night, not long after the 70s had started, William sat in his study reading while Anne slept. William suffered a heart attack and died on the floor. He did not join me as a spirit of any kind.

He just simply ceased being alive, and I could do nothing to aid him. It was the first time I truly realized how helpless my existence was. Anne moved in with her daughter, and I never saw any of the Stockleys again. I was left abandoned for a while after that. I felt loneliness for the first time. However, soon a new family moved into the home. I remember it was around the same time a nuclear scare happened not far from the home. Protests were a topic of conversation as the Grams had moved in.

Donald and Maria Graham and their two children, Mark and Robert. I was much more reclusive with the Grams. I was much more brooding and withdrawn. Always watching, but no longer trying to be heard. I had long since stopped trying to test my limits. The Grams lived a rather uneventful life. I watched them for years and go about their dull lives. I kept my distance, stayed unattached.

They grew older and eventually left. They moved out west for a better job. This led to the Youngs moving in, a modern family for a more modern age. Jane and Hank were the parents. Both worked for a living. Elizabeth was their daughter, the kind of girl that would put posters of then popular boy bands on her room walls. James was the youngest and most fascinating in the family. James was broken, and everyone else in the family ignored it. He was 13 when I first met him.

As I observed him, he observed others much the same way. he would spend hours alone and the rest of his family seemed happy to be away from him his room was a sanctuary a place he could be his true self he changed when he left his room he faked normalcy any breach of his sanctuary caused him to turn violent the first time i saw this was when he nearly broke his older sister's arm slamming it in the door So his family avoided trying to break into his world. As he grew older, James grew worse. He had a terrible fascination with death. What started with books and pictures grew into him sneaking corpses of small animals into his room. When he was 14, he started to sneak out of the house at night,

going where I could not follow and coming back hours later. He had a habit of writing when he was upset. Often words or phrases and repeat like a mantra. Most often he would call his family and anyone else around him a liar. He seemed to think that everyone around him lied to him when they spoke of things like love and wanting the best of him. He hated them for it. He then started to collect knives.

It all came to a conclusion when he was fifteen. After one of his night trips out, he came home with a handgun wrapped in a towel. the kind with a clip and sliding barrel. I had never seen one outside of what books and newspapers I could read around the house. He calmly grabbed a nasty looking knife with at least a seven-inch blade, out of a table drawer. He stuck the handgun in the back of his pants and calmly and carefully snuck into his sister's room. He looked at her sleeping in her bed for a moment, before grabbing a pillow and violently holding it over her face with her. one hand. He took his knife with the other hand and started stabbing the knife into the

blankets his sister occupied. She screamed for a moment into the pillow, but repeated stabs to her chest and lungs prevented her from giving much resistance. When Elizabeth stopped moving, James looked down at his work. After he was content, he slowly started walking to his parents' room. No longer comfortable just observing, I tried to warn them. After a bit of effort, I managed to knock a lamp off their bedside table, causing it to smash on the floor. They both awoke, but were completely unaware of the danger heading towards them. James walked into their room and saw that they were no longer sleeping. In a single motion, he dropped his bloody knife and pulled out his gun.

It was still dark, and his parents did not have time to figure out what their son was holding, before he pulled back the slide on the pistol and fired several shots into each of them. James looked at each of what used to be his parents and simply walked away. He went back to his room, pulled out another clip for his gun, collected his knife and started walking towards the front door. I realized he was not going to stop. He was going to keep killing till the police killed him. I was horrified and furious as he walked toward the end of my cage.

I focused all my willpower on him, trying to stop him from moving. In a flash, my point of view had changed. I was now holding a gun and stopped several feet from the door. I had possessed him. I was in control of his body, but I did not know. for how long. I pulled the slide back on the gun like James had done not long before, and put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. With a thud, I was once again watching a boy bleeding on the floor, lifeless. The police arrived not long after. The house was closed off,

the bodies collected. It all seemed to go by in a blur. It was not long till I was alone again. I could hear people talk as they passed the house. Another version of what happened emerged from the murder-suicide the police had reported. They said that this house is haunted, that a spirit had possessed the boy to kill his family and then himself. Perhaps it was because they could not comprehend anyone doing what James had done. However, I never felt more alone. For more information on this podcast,

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