Creepy - Day 7 - The Little Sheet Ghost

Episode Date: October 7, 2021

So cute... ***Written by NewtotownJam and narrated by Danielle Hewitt***Content warnings: Child Abduction***Bonus: "I'm the Expert" written by Sum Gigh***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.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 creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or not 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 7. The Little Sheek Ghost Written by New to Town Jam and narrated by Danielle Hewitt.

Halloween is the worst time of year for me. I'm not scared of the pagan connotations or the sheer capitalism of the thing. What terrifies me is what lurks beneath the masks and costumes that walk the streets that night. The monsters that hide. Ten years ago, I lost my only son, Finley, on Halloween night. He was six years old, full of life and desperate to dress as a pirate. I stayed up all night on the eve of Halloween,

sewing a toy parrot to the shoulder of his costume and fashioning a hat fit for Jack Sparrow himself. I'd have done anything for my sweet boy. Finley's dad worked himself into a drunken stupor while I pricked holes in every finger for that damn parrot. I'd barely slept the next day, but as my beautiful child lit out an arg, I was so proud.

Polly wants a cracker, he chirped, stroking the stuffed parrot. When my friend Lisa offered to take him trick-or-treating, I was grateful. Our boys were friends. They lived on the same street. Finley would have a great time and I could get some well-needed sleep. She came to collect him. Her son dressed as a mummy, draped in yards of toilet roll. I kissed Finley's forehead, sent my little pirate out the door, and never saw him again. Lisa said the boys were having a blast.

They met three other slightly older kids and joined their. them to knock on the next few houses. They were dressed as a mad scientist, a skeleton, and a little sheet ghost. Lisa stood back in the street to give them some independence. The other kids came running back from one garden, but our boys didn't. Lisa went straight to the house, but the kids weren't by the door. She knocked only to discover it was an elderly lady who had a sign asking for no trick-or-treaters. She claimed she hadn't had any all night.

All three stranger children ran off before Lisa came out of the old woman's home. And beneath the costumes, no one the police spoke to knew who they were. The whole neighborhood searched. Every door was knocked on, every street combed, and every trail ran cold. I'd never felt pain like that. Visceral, throbbing pain with every part of my body. Years passed, the void in me never filled back up. A gaping wound left in my soul.

Finley's dad drank himself to death days after the fourth Halloween without our son. And I was left alone. That pain never got better, that loss. Every year on Halloween, I sat at the door with a bowl of sweets waiting for Finley to knock. Waiting for him to come home. I smiled through the tears as I handed lollipops to tiny monsters. None of them my own. Year in, year out.

Halloween brought nothing but misery, suffering, and growth in that hollow feeling. This year was different. The 10th anniversary. It feels wrong to make something like my son's disappearance. Sound like such a celebratory event, but something about ten years felt poignant. like it was marking the loss of hope and a transition into morning. Finley would be 16, too big to trick-or-treat, too obvious for any costume.

Still, I filled the bowl and I sat at that door, and the little monsters came like every year before it. I found it somewhat therapeutic, watching kids with their parents, fairy princesses, mummies, vampires. and even the occasional little pirate, safe, happy. It sparked a burning jealousy, but also an inexplicable joy. I had always loved kids. A single knock on my door changed everything. I smiled in my chair as I listened to the knock, so low down on the door it could only have come from a child too small to reach the knocker.

I expected a small gaggle or a duo of creative costumes at least. But when I opened up, the child was alone. No friends, no parent standing a few meters back, no trick or treat. In front of me was what appeared to be a small lost child. Covered by a bed sheet, with crude holes cut out for its eyes and mouth, black makeup smeared across the face beneath in a misguided attempt to elevate the costume. I remembered sewing that parrot, staying up all night. This poor kid hadn't had more than five minutes spent on his costume. A little sheet ghost. I thought back to the night that Finley disappeared. The moment that Lisa

told me he was gone and described those other kids. I remembered their costumes. The sheet ghost. It was impossible. Crazy in fact. but it's still hurt to think that someone looking just like this may have been the last thing Finley saw. Hi, would you like some sweets? I asked softly, crouching to get closer to the child's level, heart pounding. Something about the child. It cost you. It made my heart race.

I realized quickly after my question that he wasn't carrying a sweet receptacle of any kind. No tiny pumpkin bucket. nor plastic shopping bag. I couldn't see his hands under the sheet. No provision had been made for armholes. The child didn't say a word. The little ghost just stood stationary in the white sheet, looking back at me,

with dark, almost black eyes to match the bad makeup. I could have sworn they looked tearful. Lost. Are your parents nearby? Boo. That was all the little sheet ghost said. Just boo. Nothing else.

Then he stood there, still. I took a step outside and looked up and down the street, surveying adults, all attached to small children, none looking for a little sheet ghost. The world had learned a lot in ten years. Kids that small don't wander freely anymore. Boo. There was a pain in my stomach. A feeling I couldn't describe. What if this woman?

was what happened to Finley. What if him and his little friend knocked on the wrong door and were invited inside? My sweet boy. I wasn't going to do any harm, but the child should have been more cautious of strangers. What if the next door the little sheet ghost knocked on was the wrong door? Do you want me to help you look for your parents? Boo. I didn't know what to do. My head was all over the place. It was like Finley was stood in front of me, under a tattered sheet just out of reach. But it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. It was someone else's Finley.

I surveyed the road again, but still couldn't see a single person out of place. What's your name? Boo. Every time I felt a train of reasonable thought, it was interrupted by that sound. The boo. The child's voice was dainty and stu. soft and ignited the maternal instinct inside me that had laid dormant for so long. Maybe that's why I did what I did.

Maybe that's why I took the child into my home. Boo! The child responded when I offered to get them a glass of water. That was it. I thought I'd sit them down, call the police, help someone not go through what I did, keep him warm and safe for his mom. As the little sheet ghost crossed the threshold into my house, I realized that the sheet dragged below where his feet would be.

No arms visible, no feet visible either. The child was just an arch, the traditional badly drawn ghost shape, a specter of Halloween itself. Sit down if you'd like. I'm going to make some calls and see if I can locate your parents. The ghost didn't move, it didn't sit down, it just stood there. I tried to usher the child to the sofa,

but at first they wouldn't move. And when they finally did, they overtook me in the hallway before stopping still once more. Boo! The little chic ghost said as it stood stationary in front of me, blocking my path to the phone that I'd left at my kitchen table.

Hey, buddy, please, just go sit down. I want to get you home safely. For a few minutes, the little chic ghost stood and looked at me. Dark eyes welling with what looked like tears before I heard a sound I never expected to hear again. I was so transfixed on the eyes

that it made me jump, more than any, boo could. Polly, want a cracker? My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. The voice didn't sound like the one that said boo. It sounded just like my Finley. What did you say? I asked watching the little ghost

much closer than I had been before. Wondering if my own paranoia was getting to me. Wondering if this lost poor child was triggering my pain. So severely that I could hear my own son. The little sheet ghosted stationary. It didn't repeat what it said, or boo. But it didn't move either. I took a step toward it.

Polly wants a cracker. The words were so loud. They weren't to be brushed off a second time. But the second time they weren't in my son's voice. The words were laden with violence, malice. Involuntarily, I clutched my hand to my ears. The little sheet ghost didn't move. I knew it this time.

The words. That phrase. It was the ghost. The kid. The little monster. Or was it? I didn't notice its mouth moved. at all. I realized I hadn't once seen it open not for a single sound. Polly wants a fucking cracker.

Why are you doing this? I sobbed looking at the unmoving, unconvincing specter in front of me. It just stood. Stupid, ghostly holes cut out of that sheet over its face, pulling outwards toward the bottom of its eye holes. It infuriated me. Finley's story was public. Was this some sort of cruel joke? The voice a recorded device used to trick a grieving mother? I felt the anger build up inside me, and I struggled to push it back down. Instead, I pushed forward. Desperate to get past the little ghost, to get to my phone, call the police, and end this nightmare. This would be the last Halloween I sat by that door.

I wasn't going to be bullied by a child. But that wasn't what happened. The moment I made contact with that sheet, I knew. I knew it wasn't a child at all. The sheet folded inwards, never meeting anything solid. There was nothing beneath the sheet. No hidden feet. No hidden arms. It was the sheet.

I stood back, now stationary myself, shot coursing through my veins. Boom. The monster lurched forward quickly, coming towards me with such velocity I didn't stand a chance. As it knocked me to the ground, I wrestled with handfuls of bedsheet, trying to unearth my tormentor. It was no use. The bedsheet wasn't a bedsheet at all. Just part of the creature that had entered my home.

Pining me to the ground, it came within inches of my face, floating like the specter it was attempting to imitate, forcing me to clutch the floor for some sort of protection. Its size had no bearing on the terror I felt. For the first time, its mouth open. Its grotesque, blackened gums were lined with tiny, pointed teeth, like they'd been filed to be as dangerous as they possibly could be. Polly wants a cracker. It hissed.

Black saliva working its way around those teeth, dripping onto the white fabric-like material and onto my face, leaving a putrid scent in its wake. What did you do to my mouth? My son. I begged, tears streaming down my face as I realized that this was absolutely the last thing my son had seen. That it was never a child in a costume the first time. That the others probably weren't either.

The little sheet ghost laughed. I couldn't bear the cruelty. Why had it come back for me now? What use was I to it? Argue, arg! The ghost started to repeat my son's pirate noise, pitch perfect, like it had become that damn parrot on his shoulder, mocking me, savoring my pain.

I tried to scream, but I couldn't find the air. It went on for minutes, minutes that felt like years. Then it stopped. The little sheet ghost stabilized, returning to its stationary childlike position, staring at me in silence as I blubbered on the floor, a hysterical mess. No. It said, off script for once, in the same soft and gentle voice that each evil boo had come from.

No what? I asked, the hollowness that I'd carried for years plugged with intense fear. Don't want any sweets. Thank you, miss. I was confused. Miss, are you okay? Why are you on the ground? Had I imagined the entire thing?

Was this a real child in front of me? A real child that I'd imagined into a monster? Was I a monster? There was a fucking child in my home. Sitting up, my heart sunk even further than I thought possible as I noticed a pair of small feet and tattered old trainers. A lost kid. A lost kid on Halloween and I'd scared the life out of him

and then collapsed to the ground. I pushed myself back up to my feet and plastered a forced smile on my face. I'm sorry, kid. I'm going to call the police so they can find your parents. I inhaled short, sharp breaths, desperately trying to compose myself, but it never really mattered to begin with. Silently the little chic ghost walked to the front door

and turned to face me one last time. I looked for them, but the trainers were gone. The spectral appearance back to what it was. once was. The ghost opened his mouth, revealing the nightmarish teeth that I'd been unsure were real and simply stated. No need, before starting to make awful retching sounds. Panic washed back over me as a green, fuzzy-looking item, coated in black, made its way out of the shrewdly cut mouth hole, landing on my floor. I stared at it for a moment as the ghost stood in silence. smiling.

There it was. I couldn't ever forget it. The parrot. The same parrot. I spent hours stitching to Finley's costume. The little sheet ghost looked at me and licked its lips, savoring the pain of my face, and spoke through its grotesque teeth once more,

before vanishing into nothingness. I've tried to, to forget it happened, to convince myself that it was all a hallucination, a symptom of my grief. But every time I hold that parrot, I'm reminded that it was real. And worst of all, I'm reminded of the little sheet ghost's last words. I don't want any sweets, miss. I already ate your sweet boy years ago. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents.

I'm the expert. Written by some guy. When you boil it down, my job is to be an expert. My days are mostly filled with research. I do some writing, but it's not easy. I've just spent a lot of time studying languages, especially dead languages. Latin, Sanskrit, Aramaic, Acadian.

Well, not so much Acadian. No one speaks that anymore, so what's a point of wasting a lot of time? I have to travel a lot, too. I'm on my third passport. The internet's done wonders for being able to share information. But there's so much bullshit between blogs and social media that you really can't trust, that I only use it on specific cases. Mostly I travel to Europe, Africa, Asia.

I like bazaars personally. Something always piques interest there. Archaeological dig sites are good too. But always raises questions when you're there to leave stuff instead of find it. I guess the base of all this is you need to like doing research. Taking through the information and misinformation. Getting to know just about anyone who can get you information. Small town cops are good.

Hermits are the best. No one ever listens to them. They always have a story to tell. Medical examiners are gold, especially the ones who perform autopsies. Of course, you need to learn your own fair share of medical jargon and understand any of it in the first place. Frankly, I never thought my degree in English literature would lead me to needing to know so much about cellular decay. I would have been better off sticking with criminology and psychology. Would have saved me a shitload of reading.

But I don't mind. Most of my time is my own. I get to write, which is really all I ever wanted to do in the first place. Though getting residual checks on single prints isn't exactly a huge moneymaker. And I would appreciate just once in a while getting to write my own voice, or something a little lighter. I've got some really good Harry Potter fan fiction that I'd like to get out there. But I have priorities, and I know it.

I'd also like to go to the beach. once in a while. Get a tan. But I tend to work nights. At least, that's usually when people want to talk with me. For some reason, I never get Skype or phone calls during the day. It's always at night. Usually specific times of the month.

Always on full moons. Don't get me wrong. I really do like my job, and I know it's important. Honestly, if I didn't do it, I don't know who else would. But it's exhausting. And I have a lot of out-of-pocket costs. Thank God I have a really good account and was really creative with my expenses. Plain ticket to Istanbul?

Deductible. Buying 10 pounds of leather found in the ruins of an English castle? Deductible. Ink-making classes? Deductible. Never mind if anyone ever did a check on my Google search history. Thank God I have a friend who promised to delete it all if I died during a scuba diving trip in the Bermuda Triangle to drop off a few key and suggestive items

and abandon shipwreckage. I mean, my Tinder profile isn't exactly anything that's going to appeal to anyone but goths and emoes. Don't get me wrong. I dig goth chicks, and they're super understanding of my lack of skin pigment, and the strange company I keep.

But how many people have profiles like, Hi, I'm Larry. I know how to bind my own books to appear as though they were created in the Middle Ages, how to create close to authentic Icelandic ruins, and know the difference between Wiccan and Pagan and Cantation. I'll tell you who. Wiccan chicks.

That's who. And yes, they like the party. Respectfully. So, again, can't complain. I guess the part that gets me more than anything is how disappointing it is to know how little common sense there is out there. And that I'm pretty much the only guy around putting in the hours to try and prevent it. I mean, it's not like I can just teach classes. People think I'm crazy.

For some reason, people only trust stuff they stumble upon in a dusty section of library stacks, in an abandoned town, or, as is my favorite, some Middle Eastern bizarre. I mean, do you think I like hearing that someone's brother die because they refuse to not read a translated ancient Sumerian text out loud and had to be decapitated, dismembered, and buried in each of the four true directions? Of course not. That's sad and really bums me out. There's only so much I can do. I don't know everything, and a lot of stuff that's out there

as a result of me having to do clean up for a mess that someone else started. Do you really think that someone in the 14th century took the time to chisel an Aramaic inscription into a stone tablet that rhymes when it's translated into English? What sense does that even make? I do it because people like rhymes. Do you think I like getting emails from college professors that I met in passing, who called me crazy,

may I add, only to hear that a writer friend of theirs is trying to research something sinister going on in their house and they think is possessing their children. You try doing that with a smile. Shit. Anyone who I meet who actually knows what I do for a living laughs at me until they need me. You know I used to have a business card? But you try coming up with a clear and concise way of telling people that you research the myths and legends of the world in order to document the existence of curses, demonic possessions,

and the inevitability of magically imbued serial killers. It's not like the church is helping me. You know what? I don't even want to get started with all that. Let's just say it's a difference of opinion and leave it at that. Not that I wouldn't love their tax break. Do you know how many times I've cut my hands on barbed wire trying to seal demonic tomes?

It's not like I can just bury them for some dog to dig up. That's just lazy and irresponsible. And I swear, I could write in big block letters, do not read this or you will die. And guess what would happen? I'll tell you what would happen, because it happened like three weeks ago. The punchline is that I know what it looks like for someone's eyes to melt and for that residue to slither across a person's face like a snake and strangle them while I'm trying to get the audio to work on my Zoom meeting. You think technology has made my job easier? God, I miss pay phones.

Do you know how unprofessional I look when I can't figure out how I accidentally turned down the filter that makes me look like a potato? It used to be all correspondence. Oh, God, that was the best. That's when I really got to write. But now I need to be a public speaker. I need to talk all ominous about everything when all I really want to do is pinch the bridge of my nose and tell people to stop being stupid. Oh, there's an immortal serial killer at the lake? Stop going to the fucking lake.

What is this kindergarten? Listen. I know isolation's been a pain in the ass for everyone and all that. But possessions are way down for people wearing masks. Yeah. Could have knocked me over with a feather on that one too. As if I knew it was aerosol. The number of hours I've wasted warning people about their faith or lack of faith

when I could have just told them to cover their damn mouths? Honestly, the last year and a half, I've gotten to take a lot of me time to work on my microfiche production. As much as I'd like to stop using it, people still seem to think it's a good way to find out information on cursed objects and obscure occurrences of mass animal deaths or otherwise unnoteworthy doctors who just so happen to have histories of strange medical practices in connection with the black arts.

No one ever wonders why it's only the psychopathic doctors that have articles written about their passing instead of just a regular obituary. Seriously, have you ever tried to use it? my crefiche. Talk about impractical. I had really hoped for more from Wikipedia, but people keep changing or deleting my citations to something that sounds more grounded in science or the world of physics as we know it. Here's the thing. At the end of the day, I'm not saying that I'm mad at people. I've been doing this job long enough to figure out human nature. People are dumb. I'm just saying, maybe take a second to ask yourself, man, it seems a little

coincidental that I'm able to find the exact information I was looking for at my local used bookstore on this really obscure topic. It's not a coincidence. They know me at the Seattle Marriott. And frankly, if I come across something and don't know where to put the information, Seattle is a pretty safe bet these days. He used to be New York. I tried Florida, but all the weird shit that happens there is something else entirely. Shit, I got to go. I just got a Google alert that someone posted another video link to a cursed video on 4chan, so my night's pretty much booked. I guess I just want to say, please, be thoughtful when your world falls apart and we end up talking.

And please be patient as I try to explain how to fix it. I get super frustrated when you tell me stuff like, that's impossible or I don't believe it. Remember, you called me. And I wasn't the one who opened the psychosexual puzzle. box. Not that I need to. I already told you about Tinder. Take care

of yourselves. Love Larry. For even more from creepy, 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 used under license. and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of the story's author. Please contact us at Creepypod at gmail.com for further information on obtaining the rights necessary to rebroadcast or distribute a particular story.