Creepy - Day 6 - Ashley's Ducts & The Haunting of a Cracked Window

Episode Date: October 6, 2022

Ashley's Ducts***Written by: Paul Caseley***Content warning: Stalking***The Haunting of the Cracked Window***Written by: Lisa H. Owens and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Content Warning: Brief mention of suicide ideation***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Deepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 6. Ashley's Ducks Written by Paul Casley. I, like my ancestors, was born with the gifts of enterology, dislocation, and front bending. In other words,

I'm a contortionist. I know from family lore that we performed for kings and princes in Europe and Asia centuries past. Our abilities were the stuff of legends and dinner shows. Later, when that are ended, my forebears were a huge part of the sideshows of early North America. Now, in a more caring world, that concerns itself with terms like freaks and believes that gawking of people with different abilities is morally wrong,

we have largely found ourselves out of work. I'm not complaining. Well, I guess I am. And I understand that this is a new enlightened era. I just wish people could be enlightened and still pay to see us perform. The enlightenment should come from people not acting like assholes when they see us walking on the streets after a performance, not attacking our livelihood.

That's okay, though. For someone with my skill set, there's always a way to make a living. Very distinctive facial deformities that are a hallmark of my family line made it difficult to get traditional work. But early on I learned I could easily pull myself into the duck work of most stores, fold myself up, and go undetected until closing. I found that I was also able to easily see people enter safe codes. Digital safes made things so much easier. I even found the odd bank manager who recites the codes aloud as they type them in. leaving there alone. As a result, I have a lot of money stuffed away. I could live pretty good,

except it's all pretty traceable if you try to do things like rent apartment or buy a car. Not that I really care. Apartments seem like way too much space for me. What they call it is claustrophilia, an abnormal liking for enclosed spaces. So I spend my time frogging from one person's home to another. I fold myself into their duck work, unfold myself, and quietly help myself to some of their food and amenities when they're out or asleep, then tuck myself back in again. Froggers have pretty strict rules. Don't take enough that'll be noticed. Don't break or mess with anything. Put things back how you found them and only stay a few days at a time.

I followed all those rules until I found my way into Ashley's ducks. Ashley was a beautiful hairstylist. Her hair color and style seemed to change with her mood, meaning it's a good thing she can do it herself. I know this because I have various different colors of her hair. I'd sneak out at night and pluck her beautiful hair from her hairbrush and keep it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I should start back at how I found her in the first place.

I was following my previously established pattern. I'd find a business that seemed to be doing fairly well, fold myself into their ventilation system, watch, and wait. I might stay for a few days, and things would go missing. Money, food, those kinds of things. I noticed early on that businesses, like beauty parlors, often had a fair bit of food lying around. The people working there generally brought food home

that they didn't finish and stuffed in their fridge. They often brought treats in when they were left overnight, that kind of thing. They seemed to make all right money, and skimming a little off the top didn't hurt much. But I could eat well and stay fairly safe while folded into their air exchange system. It was then that I saw her. She was glorious. There was a beauty that I observed, that transcended physical form. She was vibrant, strong, and fierce.

The regular changes to her hair color seemed to match her mood and only work to enhance her image in my mind. She was powerful and had an inner beauty that I found myself instantly drawn to. She spoke with certainty and conviction and almost everything, and that helped draw me. It was easy from there to discover telephone number and address. I had full access to the salon at night. All bosses feel that they do a good job protecting the people who work from them and the personal information, but let's be honest. Once you're in, it's all pretty simple to find.

after night are rifling through poorly stored and sorted paper files as well as easily bypassing the computer system. I mean cuts hair as a password? Night everything I needed to find my angel. Ash. From there I waited until the dead of night. To be fair, Ash probably heard a bang in the duck work in her apartment. But how many sounds do you hear at night and just dismiss as the neighbors clomping around or the wind outside or the remnants of a half-waking dream.

The entrance was very easy, and once I was in, I could spend even more time watching her. I especially enjoyed watching her sleep. I know what you're thinking. I was fixated on sexual desires. And while I would be lying if I said that they didn't exist at all, that wasn't my immediate focus. I loved the peaceful visage on her face. For at least part of the night, there seemed not to be a care in the world for her.

to look a relaxation and the obvious feeling of being safe telegraphed palpably. Did you know human beings constantly exude an odor that's specific to themselves? Did you know that this is strongest when we sleep? By that point we give up on scents and showers and generally just sleep as we are, allowing our glorious sense to become apparent. As Ash slept, I breathed her in, imagining that I was becoming part of her as I breathed in her, a heady odor. It was glorious. From there I would wait until she left for work and then carefully

ranged through her home, exploring her possessions. My most regular trophy were hairs from her hairbrush. I took representatives of every shade, color, and tint she used. It was a testament to the periods of her life and her beauty and I had it all. It also would carry the scent I loved so much. During this time, I would also eat. I never ate much anyways. Then I had to keep myself slim and trim enough to move through vents unnoticed. She never noticed that the odd bit of food here and there went missing. I mean, who catalogs every piece of food in the house. Anyway, I was enjoying our association. The apartment was pretty comfortable. She was good at not setting the temperature too high during the winter, the air conditioner, at sub-zero temperatures during the summer.

These kinds of things are important to you when you live in the duck work. She ate fairly well, but still splurged on the odd dessert or chocolate bar, which meant I could do the same. She did drink, but not so much that I couldn't imbibe every once in a while. Oh, and she slept soundly. It could take her a while to drift off in Dreamland. Once she did, she was dead to the world. You know, I could even run my fingers down her bare back

without her waking up. This meant as time got on, I stared to get more and more comfortable in what was now my home. She never noticed that I was just careful enough. Well, at least I thought I was. That's the reason I never stayed in other places more than a few days at a time. That's why it's a principal rule of frogging, that you leap to a new pad after a few days. The longer you stay, the more comfortable you get, the more comfortable you get, the better chance you get caught.

Everything would have been fine if she hadn't brought home Andrew. To be absolutely honest, I had no idea she was dating. The thought that she was seeing someone else was foreign to me. There he was one night, sitting on our couch, watching movies with ash, eating our popcorn. I won't lie to you. I had to physically hurt myself in order to control the rage I felt immediately upon seeing him kiss her. The physical pain of my slamming my hand against the pipe running through the duckwork served to distract me from the emotional pain of what I was seeing.

She was mine, not his. Just like this apartment and everything in it was mine. The sense of ownership coupled with my comfort in the apartment should have set off alarm bells, but I was still consumed with hatred and rage. The sound caused them to look up to the ceiling. I asked her to look at concern in for a second. a flash of fear. I wasn't sure if they could see me through the air return great,

and I closed my eyes as if willing my own invisibility. A few seconds later I heard Ash remarked that the heating and cooling system was old and made funny noises sometimes. At that, they returned to the program they'd been watching, and I resolved to be more careful. Still, I knew I wouldn't be able to entirely control myself. I should have moved on right there,

but I couldn't leave my ash. As time went on, Andrew only became closer to Ash and was around more. I felt my rage rise in me, and he insinuated himself into her life more and more each day. He was like wretched, like a fungus, growing more and more into her life each day. I didn't know what I could do to stop it. The beautiful scent of ash that I had come to know and love so much was soon superimposed by that of a man in his early 30. I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd spend the night as well. When that happened, I would lose the delicate pheromones that my ash gave off in her deep asleep.

They'd instead become a jangled and jarring collection of his and hers. Her beautiful natural perfume would be subsumed by his strong male musk. I couldn't have that. I couldn't live with that. I took to talking to her while she slept at night, telling her why he was no good for her. telling her why she'd be better off with me. This was incredibly risky, and there were a few close calls. But I don't think she wanted to believe there was a strange man in her room.

As a result, she started talking to Andrew about her strange nightmares and how she believed it was her subconscious being afraid of closeness and commitment. Andrew did his best to comfort her as I cursed myself. All I had done with my complaints and whining had driven them to be closer together, As they cuddled and commiserated, I cursed and planned. I needed to find some way to make sure that Ash was mine and mine alone. This desire was further complicated when, at the end of the evening, Ash asked Andrew to move in with her, and he agreed.

This was the worst than I'd anticipated. I was about to lose her completely to him. I knew that I wouldn't go down without a fight. He could not have her. I would deal with him. It was at that point that I began to devise my plan to ensure Ash remained mine in every way. The best way to describe what Andrew brought to the relationship was junk. He carried in boxes of his junk.

Most of it, Ash had the good sense to tell him not to put up in the apartment. Movie posters, well, a couple, but not all of them. Slasher movie's statuary? No, thank you. He brought garbage when compared to the delicately and classy decor Ash created within the living space. That made sense, though. Junk begets, junk.

I have to be honest. I didn't even make it pass that first night before messing with Andrew's stuff. He woke up to find all of his precious statues smashed. I made sure I was at a good vantage point to watch him in his reaction when he saw the carnage. He immediately went to Ash and asked her if she knew anything about it. How could she, though? She'd been with him all night. He agreed and said he knew that as well,

and they checked the doors and windows of the apartment. Finding everything locked and closed up tightly, they tried to figure out exactly what had happened to Andrew's precious objects dart. It was everything I could do to resist laughing out loud as they fumbled around trying to figure out what had happened. At one point, Andrew tried to blame the cat, but the cat would have had to pick up and drop figures purposefully.

That wasn't really cat-like behavior. It was when suspicion was thrown to the cat, that Ash mentioned that the cat had been staring at the ceiling a lot lately, and it seemed agitated for the last six months or so. What followed from there was a litany of experiences that could best be described as supernatural in nature, at least the couple. I have to admit,

I filled the void I felt in losing my ash with pranks ranging from silly to ridiculous. The pair decided they may be haunted, when I stacked up the furniture one night. The spectral occupation continued when I squeeze the toothpaste tubes into the shampoo tubes. Their own private poltergeys

sabotaged their toilet. The worst of these ghostly attacks always occurred in the nights the couple had sex. At that point, I would feel an unmitigated rage that caused me to do things I never would have considered. Cat litter became a canvas

for which I could paint my displeasure across their living room or into their open food. As time went on, my ventures became more and more in focus and I began to lose sight of the fact that I must not get caught. It was when I poured the contents of the fridge all over the floor that I spelled the beginning of the end of my occupation and began to bring the truth of what was happening to light. Juicees, milks, and other liquids are not a problem. They make a mess, but they don't really leave a sign.

The problem came from the ketchup, the jam, and the syrup. Those viscous fluids that I really needed to make a true mess, they would be horrid and difficult to clean up. For in the morning when Ash got up and saw my handiwork in the kitchen, she screamed and called for Andrew. She immediately believed it was another supernatural assault. And then she saw what I had unknowingly and unwittingly left behind. In a mixture of ketchup and raspberry jam was a perfectly preserved image of my size eight men's foot for all to see. At that point, Ash really screamed and Andrew called the police. I, of course, have been watching the reactions and reveling in them, but now I didn't know what to do. There were limited means of egress at this time of day.

But still, I knew the system for this building better than anyone. I hadn't just mapped it. I'd lived it. Andrew spent a good amount of his time banging on vent covers and screaming at me to come out. I understand he was upset. I would have been, too. I know, Ash, deep in her betrayal to me, was upset too, but running through her mind where all the strange occurrences

over the past many months as she tried to pinpoint when I first might have joined her household. While they lost their shit, I was moving my way through the system and out into the maintenance room. I had long planned emergency plans, and it was easy to slip on coveralls I'd left there, grab a tool chest, and walk out of the building unhindered before the police arrived. I suppose there was still screaming at nothing

for some time after my egress. From there, I checked into a hotel room for a few days using one of my many identities had Telford over the years. I wanted to watch the full show and ensure the couple knew what happened to those who forsook me. According to the television news, the police did arrive and found my nest, as they called it. I'm sure the multicolored hair sent ash and even more hysterics as it would have very neatly chronicled eight months had lived in her ducks. Some of the other objects would have shown my deep abiding love for her.

as well, and I had little doubt this would upset her too. Oh well, soon that wouldn't be an issue. The rest of the news gave advice for homeowners to ensure they weren't the victims of frogging, that sort of thing. This was all pretty typical, although my frogging was not. I knew it would come soon after. One of the few things I didn't pour out on the kitchen floor was a bottle of sparkling wine left over from New Year's.

It was a kind of sparkling wine often drank by those who hated champagne. It was oversweet, and I had no doubt that being one of the few things left, they would toast my exit from the house. One of the things about this kind of sparkling wine was that it was so sweet that no one would have noticed the addition of any freeze in the bottle. I'm sure the toast was wonderful. If I can't have her, no one can. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. The Haunting of a cracked winning. Written by Lisa H. Owens and narrated by Heather Thomas.

Most Tuesdays, presented with a snap of his stubby fingers, as if the idea had just entered his mind. Maya's disgusting boss, Mr. McGillicuddy, asked her to work late. It was code for, time to put out or get out, or what Maya referred to as touchy-feely Tuesday, but only in her head. No one wanted to hear about that Me Too shit anymore. She dealt with it the best she could.

She needed this job for now. Her rent was late again, and an eviction imminent. It was almost midnight when the bus finally dropped her off at her stop, the end of the line, the last in an endless series of stops. She shuffled home with the slumped-shouldered defeat of the deeply weary,

and a hot bath to wash away the essence of Mr. McGillicuddy was the second thing on her mind. Firstly, she wondered if tonight was the night. The night she'd find an eviction notice taped to her front door. Maya looked at the house next door as she walked by. The pale moon face of the old woman in the upper window was there, framed by bedraggled lace curtains, her face distorted by a crack in the glass.

She'd been dead for ages. Yet she was always there, watching, illuminated by a streetlight on the corner of Oceanside and Maine. Maya thought about how great it would be to have nothing to do except stare out a window. It sounded relaxing. If she followed through on taking that bottle of pills, the pair could spend eternity staring at each other across the gravel driveway separating the two houses. She caught a glitch of movement and momentarily locked eyes with the spirit of the old woman. wondering what misdeed had led her to her eternal plight,

trapped behind the cracked window on the upper floor of the abandoned house for eternity. She dragged her eyes away from the deep pull of the old spirit stare as she, the old spirit, pivoted ever so slowly to move away from the window. Her gate seemed oddly stilted, the sideways furtive scudder of the ghost crabs, so prominent on the sand adjacent to her ragged seaside rental. The bitter old spirit looked down at the form of the young woman on the sidewalk.

She'd seen her before, but on this night, the fractured glass combined with the orange light of the harvest moon, cast her in a glow of rainbow prisms. And she was beautiful. The old spirit was filled with jealousy and longing. How must it feel to be this wisp of a girl? young and free, with her entire life ahead of her. The old spirit had certainly wasted her life, hoarding her precious possessions.

Her priceless summer home, once a shrine, now reduced to the squalor of a neglected house in a cheap seasonal beachfront community. One by one, she had permanently cut off the takers, the parasites feasting on her rich blood, until there was no one left. and she died alone, lying paralyzed between soiled silken sheets to die of hunger and thirst, like a common mongrel in the street. If she could start her life anew, she'd be a better person, or maybe not. Her core being associated kindness with weakness.

She sniffed the essence of the young woman through the crack in the window. She reeked of empathy and desperation, an odd combination and easily corrected. Stealing the soul of one in such an early stage of life was forbidden in the spirit world and there would be serious permanent situational repercussions. An old vaudeville performer, who lived in a stolen body of a teenage hipster from Queens,

had been walking a sidewalk for decades, wearing a sandwich board that proclaimed, Eat at Sal's. For a deal you can't refuse, no matter the cost. Nothing could be worse than haunting a dirty, broken window. It was a cruel twist of fate that youth was wasted on the young. The old spirit, selfish hag that she was, stared at the harvest moon, a moon of new beginnings, and made her decision, immediately setting her plan in motion. She did not feel one iota of remorse.

The sound of a high-frequency pitch like fingernails on a chalkboard pierced the silence of the autumn night. It was the endless cry of rusted hinges, so long and drawn out it would have been cliche in a scary movie, but her heart still skipped a beat. Maya whipped around so fast, she nearly fell over her own feet. In a state of disbelief, she watched the front door of the neglected house pulsating and swelling as it strained against the rotted doorframe.

Its rigid hinges screeched before the door finally burst outward, releasing waves of stagnant air and splintered oak shrapnel. As the stagnant wave of air was released from its eternal prison, the tinkle of a thousand wind chimes resonated around the ancient rentals, filling the vacant streets with an eerie, heartbreaking symphony. An orchestra of seashells and sea-glass strung on front porch chimes conducted by the midnight sky. The conductor increased the tempo, whipping the wind into a frantic typhoon.

The air thickened and grew heavy with salt spray in swirling sand. Phantom fingers caressed Maya's cheeks and unseen arms wrapped around her delicate waist as a plume of icy breath ripened with the smell of rot and decay, assaulted her senses. whispering,

It's your turn to be dead, my dear. The ground began to quake, and the sidewalk adjacent to Maya rippled and buckled. The thickened air took on a life of its own as gale-force winds circled around, ripping into the seaside community with a fury. Shake shingles worn thin by decades of salt spray in brutal sun or stripped from roofs,

and weathered clapboard siding sailed by, narrowly missing the spot in which Maya was held steady by an unseen captor. The sidewalk rumbled and peeled back, revealing a wide strip of sand beneath. Beach sand that was bursting with life, its golden grains bubbling up to reveal a writhing ball of crabs. The kind she'd called ballerina crabs when she was a child building castles in the sand. She always laughed at the funny little crabs in their tall eyes, above four pairs of dainty legs, twittering along on point while snapping a menacing set of claws. By the light of the moon, Maya watched the turmoil beneath the sand settle,

and didn't laugh as dozens of periscope eyes popped out for a peak. Then they emerged. Iridescent ghost crabs scrambled up in hordes. She felt their skittery tickle as they scampered up her legs, piling on top of her until she was a living, breathing statue of crabs. Then the pinching began. As if given a signal, a synchronized swarm of claws attacked. They latched onto anything and everything,

fighting each other to rip out chunks of her flesh. She whimpered as they began to drag her down into the sand, but she did not struggle. She was exhausted by life and resigned to her fate. She closed her eyes as her head sank beneath the surface. Maya opened her eyes to frayed lace curtains, framing a fractured window, its visibility skewed by layers of fine dust. The distorted reflection in the pain of broken glass startled her.

She raised her hand, laying it upon her cheek. The reflection raised a hand, spotted and gnarled by age, laying it upon the cheek of an old woman with a withered pale moon face. The old face, now Maya's face, gazed back at her with roomy eyes. Maya looked beyond the glass to feast her eyes on the brilliant glow of a full harvest moon, a moon of new beginnings. Was this her new beginning? Was it her destiny to step into the role of elderly ghost haunting a cracked window,

half-heartedly attempting to instill fear and dread in the neighbors with a single psychotic stare? She'd suffered worse things in life, just last night, in fact. McGillicuddy, with his cheap cigar breath and fingernails chewed down to the nubs, came to mind, and she shuddered. She would rather suffer a thousand deaths by ghost crabs, haunting this wretched window, while forever watching the world pass her by, then suffer his cringy touch even one more time. Haunting a window wasn't anything new.

Norman Bates' mother, or Norman and mother's dress and wig, pulled off the haunting of a window with panache, and she did it while sitting down. In a distant corner she spied a pricey rocking chair with queen Anne legs covered in dust, and crabs. The floor, the walls, and even the ceiling were covered. covered with layer upon layer of iridescent ghost crabs. Maya gasped at the sight of an ornate sleigh bed,

overflowing with the snapping crabs and tattered soil sheets that probably cost more than she earned in a month. She pivoted, ever so slowly, to avoid squishing a half-dozen of the little buggers, as she eased towards the rocking chair. She appeared to have taken on the sideways, furtive mannerisms of the ghost crabs, who had just recently murdered. her, which really sucked. She was hoping she would float like Casper. She pointed and they scattered, so she could slide the chair over to the cracked window. Dominion over crabs. Well, that was

certainly something new. She lowered her twisted body into the chair. It would be in eternity before she would get used to moving around in the body of a decrepit old crabwoman. Movement from below caught her attention, and she looked down to see former old spirit wearing Maya's youthful body. The moon illuminated former old spirit just so. Her face awash in rainbow prisms. Former Maya never realized the depth of her own beauty while occupying her own skin. Should she warn former old spirit about Mr. McGillicuddy and his roaming hands? Nah. Let her find out for herself. That was funny.

Former Maya thought about things while she rocked. New Maya and Mr. McGillicuddy would surely hit it off. Have fun getting dittled, she whispered. Then she smiled her new smile, the garish grimace of a toothless hag. New Maya sniffed her skin, wondering why it smelled like old man, then looked up to her former bedroom window. What is that old crone smiling about? Wait, is she sitting in Mother's rocking chair?

Mother will be furious. Enjoy your cramps, my dear. New Maya muttered under her breath, and she laughed in her new sexy voice before turning to walk to the next door rental house. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration.

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