Creepy - Day 5 - The Quintet & Wearing Masks

Episode Date: October 5, 2024

The Quintet***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Wearing Masks***Written by: Brian Maycock and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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.

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. It's midnight, it's October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magical time of year.

It's day five of the 31 days of horror. A time of cool winds, falling leaves, costumes, and pumpkins, when the veil between what we know and what we will never understand is the thinnest and the darkness that creeps around in the shadows is free to play. You're listening to KREP and I'm your host, the creaking in the floorboards above you, the cool breath on the back of your neck, the creep himself.

As always, our time is limited, so let's get right into things. First up from our shy listeners, or the ones without phones, or the ones who don't know how to use phones, or the ones who, well, they know what they did. Now, I love listening to Vinyl about as much as I like listening to your stories. But I'll tell you this much.

The last thing I want to hear is the new song from what this email calls, the quintet. Social media is much more dangerous than you think. I don't have any kids myself, but even I can see how detrimental it could be. What it does to adults? Imagine being a kid and having that in your face all the time and not getting addicted. Obsessed. Changed. I heard somewhere that the number one job the kids want to be now is an influencer.

Seriously. It's not even a job. But that's what people want to be. Personally, I have no idea how these people make money. or if they do it all outside the people at the very top. I know it's because kids don't realize, well, anything. They don't see the pressure these so-called content creators put on themselves to constantly be putting out pictures and videos to stay relevant and in the public eye.

The avalanche's shit out there has to make it almost impossible to keep your chin above it all. Probably why so many of them resort to those god-awful prank videos. or feud with other video makers. It's all gross and sad. I'm sorry. It's just me. Call me old fashion, but I'd rather have a job

that doesn't involve me having to look like I'd give a shit. Probably why I became a private investigator. The reason I just rambled about social media is because of my most recent case. Technically, information told the private investigators is privileged, but, well, you'll see. I got a call from a concerned couple whose daughter gone missing. And as usual, I recommended they talk to the cops, file a report, the usual thing. I don't like stepping on the cop toes. They can either make my job a lot easier

or a shit ton harder. So I don't push it when I don't have to. They assured me that they already called the cops and filed the reports, but the cops come up with exactly nothing in the last three days, and their daughter was still gone. Oh, before I forget, I have no idea where this first came from, but I see it all the time in TV and movies. Do not wait 24 hours to file a missing persons.

Seriously, I can't believe this is a thing with all the true crime. I'm shit out there. But people honestly think you have to wait when the reality is the first day is the most important. I swear I saw this shit on a TV show just last week. Anyway, I took the job and started digging. I'm not knocking the cops. Sometimes they're overworked.

Sometimes they don't care. Sometimes they just don't understand where to start. I think that social media would be the number one place people would start. But what do I know? Turns out their 20-year-old daughter was all over the socials. It counts on everything out there. Even a couple that looked like they were still in beta testing. She had some followers, nothing crazy, but clearly she spent a lot of time online.

I saw a few hundred videos posted to her singing. Some of her playing a ukulele. Found out that she got to college for a year, then dropped out, saying she was taking, what's it called, a rest year or something like that, because it's so hard to go to a couple classes a day than drinking the dorms, I guess. Nears I could tell her goal was to be a singer and was using the platforms to try and get noticed. Yeah? She got noticed.

I won't go into the details of the investigation for a lot of reasons. Not the least to which is that the reality of investigations is, really boring, and you wouldn't care even if I told you. Short version is that I work with the network of other investigators that I've put together over the years. We don't take each other's work and help each other out when we can. You wouldn't believe how hard this job is when you try that lone wolf movie version of being a PI.

Just pick up a damn phone and ask for help for shit's sake. We were able to figure out something. see some patterns, and eventually, let us do an abandoned theater. Like for plays, not movies. I checked out the area, but wasn't able to do much more than call the information into the cops. Again, sorry if movies make it seem like we're all some kind of

outside the law of rebels. I'm not going to jail for a client. Another reason to have a good relationship with the cops is finding out information I wouldn't otherwise. which in this case, it's just about everything. They don't let us come with when they break down doors or inside crime scenes, and what they found wasn't out in public, so I had to wait for a friendly in the department to fill me in.

The scene was the worst any of them had ever seen, the kind that Delray Research Papers about for future cops and federal agents to study. And all five missing persons were found. Three women, two men, ranging from 16 to 24 years old. No one was really thinking about how they were related. They were more concerned with how they were connected. I'm sorry, that's a bad joke. I'm trying to cope too.

Each of the five were bound or restrained in some way, shape, or form. They all had their hands and legs tied or strapped down to keep them from escaping. but also to keep them from removing the hooks as near as we can tell. The hooks. I saw some pictures. The sizes range from the kind you'd find on a fishing pole to the kind you'd carry bales a hay with. Some were strung through hands, ears, noses, cheeks, feet. But every one of the victims had some sort of hook attached to their lips or mouth.

The girl I was hired to find at a large hook jammed up through her upper palate in her mouth. Not deep enough to kill her, sadly. All the hooks were interconnected in a sort of web via a series of wires that all met in the center area of the theater. They all died and had been dead for a couple of days by the time the cops found him. Like some sort of macabre art piece or something. It was art in its own way, I guess. It told me about the recording. Turns out that a few days before finding the room,

a cassette tape was sent to the police. My friend played me a couple seconds. But that was more than I needed in my life. Screams. Horrible screams. But there was something about the screams that sounded off. or at least different from what it should have sounded like, almost melodic.

The victim's families couldn't be 100% certain, but they were pretty sure the voices on the cassette were those of their missing loved ones. It wasn't until later, looking back across their accounts that we put two and two together and got a whole lot of shit for an answer. Of those five, there were two sopranos in Alto, a tenor. and a bass. The psycho had put together his twisted version of a quintet. He or she or it or whatever had used the hooks to torture them in a way that would make

him produce a sound that must have been like singing. He used their pain to make music. And according to the medical examiner, based on the wounds, it looked like it had happened over the course of several days. Whoever did this must have set up a recording station at the nexus of all the wires. They'd pull them

to get the right pitch and tone. Like some kind of fucked-up marionettes. I mean, how can this be a thing? How can we have gotten here? When I said social media was dangerous earlier, I meant to

Those five victims were all, from what we could tell, wannabe music influencers. All of them had small to modest followings. All of them regularly posted videos of themselves singing. Whoever did this, found them all on social media and must have, I guess, liked what he heard. And wanted to make him sing like he wanted them to sing. So yeah, social media is a bad place.

Delete it. Make it private. Whatever. Because you never know who's watching and who might just have become a fan. Because this guy is still out there. If you know anything, anything, please help. A word from our sponsors are sticking with us.

through the money business, your patience will be rewarded. Not to put any pressure on our next caller. Caller, you're on the air with KREP and the Creep himself. Hey, Creep, a long-time listener, first-time caller. I just wanted to say, I think you're awesome. Oh, I think you're awesome. No, no, I mean, I think you're awesome, But I'm not sure.

Have we done this before? I'm having trouble with my memory lately. That makes this the perfect time to make some new memories. Tell me, what's the last thing you can remember? I mean, I guess it made sense for the time of year, but the last thing I remember, I... Had something to do with wearing masks? On Halloween, she would walk with me down our street and the neighboring streets,

staying a few steps back when I reached up to knock on doors because she was wearing regular clothes that were not scary and would have spoiled the effect when I raised my arms and moaned from behind my mask. I lived in a small town, but on Halloween, its streets felt like they stretched out forever, and the treasures waiting for me were ends up. Back home, I'd empty my hall of candy over the carpet in the front room and divided up by the colors of the wrappers, peaking gold, silver, green, and blue on the faded brown. Then I'd unwrap them one by one and start to chew.

I think my mom really liked Halloween as well. Her smile sparkled. The rest of the time, I saw she was tired and sad. weren't two jobs to support us, as a cleaner and in the local store. My dad did nothing to help. He walked out on us when we were six. Before then, I was sometimes called Anthony Jr., because he was called Anthony as well. Afterward, I was just plain Tony. He still visited occasionally, though never when we were expecting him, He'd ruffle my hair and tell me how he had got a new job, and the next time he visited,

he'd take me to the cinema, and I could have popcorn and a hot dog. Then, Mum would ask him for a word in the other room, and I knew that pretty soon they'd be arguing, so I left the house and walked around until I thought he'd gone. One time, he was waiting to pick me up from school in a car that had a scrape all down one side. another time he was waiting on foot. I was old enough to understand that he was drunk. Both times he asked me not to tell my mom that he'd seen me home, and I kept the secret even though I felt bad about it.

Thankfully, he never turned up at Halloween, never spoiled it. Halloween was a special night. It always had been, and always would be. Or, so I thought. As I got older, trick-and-treating, lost its sheen. It started with me not wanting to be seen with my mom at the mall and out on the street. I didn't have any friends at school and was already an easy target for bullies. I didn't want to give them another reason to pick on me.

By the time I was a teenager, I had stopped going trick-or-treating altogether. I spent Halloween doing different things. It was still a good time. It was when I could let a little of the darkness out. A little of the anger that built up each time the bullies struck, or my dad turned up out of the blue with another promise I knew he would not keep. I would throw eggs against the front doors, let down car tires. One Halloween, I threw stones at a window.

A lame one, I thought, at first. Only one of the stones was larger and sharper than the rest, and the glass cracked. A light went on inside. Someone started to yell. I ran like hell. When I staggered to a stop, I threw up. Throwing up while wearing a mask is gross. There were eye holes, but nothing else in the monster mask I'd bought for myself in the mall the weekend before, and the vomits splattered back against my face.

I tore the mask off, getting the cord that held it around my neck caught on my ears partway through, tugging at it through more rebounded pute onto my sweatshirt. I spat and stowled for all I was worth, then set off for home to get changed. I was almost there when Jessica and James saw me. They were in my class at school, and were even more grossly than spewing in a mask, dating each other. They were also wearing masks, and I might not have realized it was them at first. They were holding hands like they always did, and then Jessica pointed at me, and James laughed. He already had his phone in his hand and was filming me. I summoned up as much dignity as someone splattered in their own sick can,

gave them both the finger, and kept walking. The next day was a school day, and I dreaded the reception I would get. The film would have been shared with everyone, and I knew the bullying would be worse than ever. I had tried getting out of going to school that morning by telling my mom I had a bad stomach ache, but she wasn't buying it. She told me how I needed to go to school every day so I could get good grades and then find a job with prospects when I was older.

As I walked along the corridor to my locker, I didn't care what had happened when I was older. I was already being stared at and could see whispers being shared. No one was laughing, though. which I didn't understand. Until I reached my locker. Someone had stuck a printed-out page from a local news site onto it. The story on it began,

Suspect in sickening murder case charged. Anthony Walsh, 45, of no fixed abode, has been charged with the murder of a high school student, A source requesting not to be named because they were not authorized to comment said Walsh will also be questioned over another half-dozen cases stretching out over several years. In all the killings, razor blades were used to inflict injuries, which left seasoned detectives shocked. Elaborate patterns were carved into the victim's skin while they were still alive. These were sadistic acts of torture, another source who requested.

not to be named, commented. That was as far as I got. I began to feel hot and nauseous. My vision blurred. I was aware that a crowd had formed behind me. There to wallow in my reaction to finding out my dad had been named as a suspected serial killer. They must have gotten bored waiting for me to do more than rock on my heels because something was. thrown against my head. I glanced around. A roll of toilet paper was on the floor. It was soaked, wet through, and must have been dunt in the bowl.

I looked up at the faces that were looking at me. There were flushed cheeks, making spots look angrier, and braces showing as mouths hung open. I could feel my own face growing redder and tears running down my face. That's when the laughing started, and the name calling, the jeers, and more missiles were thrown. The teachers intervened eventually, and I was taken to an empty classroom where I was left alone until my mom came to collect me. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her hand was shaking when she rested on my shoulder and tried to comfort me. I shrugged her hand off instinctively.

She flinched as if I'd struck her, and I hated myself for what I had just done. What did it matter now if anyone at school saw me with my mom? She hugged herself in silence as we walked to the car. I apologized as we got in, but I don't think she was listening. I had so many questions racing around inside me as we drove home. I didn't know how my mom had heard about my dad being around. or how much she knew at that stage. I was desperate to ask her.

She'd explain everything then and tell me it was nothing to worry about. After all, my dad was not part of our lives, not really, and hadn't been for years. She would put her hands on my cheek like she used to when I was a little kid, and tell me in a gentle voice that people would understand that we were victims too, me and her. When we pulled up in the front of the house, I was still struggling to find the words to ask my first question. Evil was spray-painted red on the front door.

We had nowhere else to go, so Mom climbed out of the car and ushered me inside. As she locked the door, she finally told me it would be okay. And I wanted to believe her so, Badly, but I couldn't. I knew in my guts that it would never be okay again. It didn't matter that my dad had not lived at the house for years.

Everyone in town knew that, but it didn't stop people coming in the following nights. Dog feces were smeared across our windows and graffiti spread across the walls. the petrol in my mom's car was spiked. My mischief was nothing compared to this. I asked my mom one morning if we could move away. She shook her head and told me we couldn't afford to do that, now more than ever. She explained that she had lost her job at the store

because the manager was worried the customers would stay away because of her. He was probably right, but I hated him anyway. I hated the customers. I hated the whole damn town by now. The hatred continued to grow inside me as the months passed. The house was no longer being targeted, but I still got dirty looks everywhere I went. Eventually, I stopped going to school altogether.

My mom said nothing about this. With no school, I had little reason to leave the house. My mom and I drifted past each other in that small space like silent ghosts. The first Halloween of this strange half-life arrived soon after. I stayed at home and watched the old classic horror movies. I spent a few precious hours in the company of Boris Karloff, Bella LaGrocy, and Lon Cheney Jr. My dad's trial was due to start in January, and with Halloween out of the way, I spent more and more time dreading the fresh attention this would bring. As it turned out, I didn't need to worry.

In a way, a truly messed up way. The night before his trial, my dad was stabbed to death in his cell by another prince, The morning after, a reporter knocked on our front door and asked my mom how she felt. A photographer's flash glowed in the New Year's gloom, capturing her confused expression. She did not know my dad was dead. A crowd gathered in the street later that day, gaping and laughing and filming on their phones. At about six, it started raining, so they crawled back under the, their rocks. I hoped that it would be enough, that the nightmare would fizzle out. By Halloween,

I was starting to really believe it had. I was still an outcast, but that was fine by me. The people in my hometown were all slime, and I would be 18 in a year so I could leave them all behind. I'd walk to the nearest city if I couldn't hitch a ride. I would find work, make up a new name for myself, and forget them all. It was daydreaming about this future as the first junior trick-or-treaters of the evening walked past the window. My mom was out. She had a boyfriend now. A man I'd met once and didn't like, but that didn't matter either, not in the long term. I opened my laptop. I would spend the night watching classic movies again,

losing myself in the company of old monsters. News alerts popped up on my screen now and then. I hadn't turned them on and didn't know how to turn them off, so I clicked them close, unread. I was going to do that with the alert that had just appeared. Only then did I see the words, body found in search for missing a 19-year-old girl. A link below, saying,

Copycat Razor Blade Killer suspected. I clicked on it, and the next link. The next. I couldn't stop myself. I was falling and there was no end to the pages of speculation and chat. I reached a news site that populated its pages with social media posts. I recognized James's profile. His picture was of him and Jessica at the prom.

I clicked on the link to his account, and that's when I saw my name for the first time. In the replies, people asked if I was the copycat. A question that was infecting all the accounts I rushed through and mutating as it went. A few minutes in, I read the first cold comment that it was definitely me. I had carved the missing girl's face into patterns because I was sick like my dad.

I sat back trying to breathe. This was insane. I had never even met the girl, had never even been to the place where her body had been found. I started typing a reply. to a reply on a message board to explain this when I heard something outside. A car door being closed, maybe. I looked around. A truck was parked in the street outside the house.

It didn't belong to any of the neighbors. A couple of strangers were leaning against the truck. Both of them were looking at mobiles. One of them turned, held up a hand in reading, and a couple of young men who used to be in my class at school walked into view. They were taller than the last time I'd seen them. The beginnings of guts bulged out over their jeans. They were not wearing masks for Halloween.

No one was. A tide of people followed. Most were townsfolk I recognized, and some I could put a name to. There were others I did not know. It soon became horribly clear. Everyone knew who I was. Or who they thought I was. One man bad-mouthed my dad.

A woman shouted I was the same as him. Her face was twisted with rage as she yelled. The man standing next to her told me there would be a reckoning. He spat the words out. Another man told me to come out and get what was coming to me. A chant began amongst their ranks. Killer. Killer.

Killer. Hands were raised. Some of them held baseball bats. There was a bottle of bourbon being passed around. I could make out the label. A big man, he must have been six seven, took a rag out of his pocket and pushed one end into the net. of a bottle. A cigarette lighter glinted, and the rag flared. The flare flickered as the bottle flew through the air towards me. The window shattered easily. Shards of glass sparkled on my hand,

and fire from the rag began to spread across the carpet where the bourbon was spilling out. Another bottle followed. Flames leapt around me, the acrid smoke made me gag. Outside, the chant held steady. Killer, killer, killer. I staggered backward blindly, trying to escape, but the rising flames blocked the door into the hallway. I had no choice. I had to run towards the broken window to try and escape.

I stumbled forward, holding my hands up in a pathetic attempt to plead with them not to hurt me. I reached the window and started to climb out, but I snagged my shirt on a jagged edge and fell. A bottle struck my face. I felt the glass break, felt the liquid running down my skin. The first unbearable pain as the fire began to eat through my skin. Mercifully, it was a small mercy, but it was all I was granted that night. Mercifully passed out then.

I learned afterward what followed. The police arrived and threw a fire blanket over me. The mob was backing away by now, realizing what they had done. An ambulance came next. On the outstarts of town around the same time, another patrol car pulled over a car for driving with a broken taillight. Nothing stopped until they saw the driver left a bloody footprint when they asked him to step out of the car. He was charged with killing the teenage girl the next day.

Word of this spread, and everyone knew I was innocent. But it was far too late. I came round in the hospital with a scream buried in my throat and 100% burned. on my face. Since that time, no one has ever been charged in relation to the attack on me that night. I doubt they ever will.

As for me, I'm 22 now, and Halloween is the highlight of my year. It's the one night I can leave the house and fit in. I can hide the scars that will never heal behind the mast that my mom buys for me from the mall. On Halloween, I am not the thing people turn away from in pity, disgust, and guilt. I am not the monster they made.

I am me. Thank you, caller, and that's all we have time for today. But don't you go worrying, dear listener. We'll be back before you can say Clatu Verata Nicto. or is it nickel? Regardless, this is the creep and you're listening to KREP. Today, tomorrow. 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. 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.