Creepy - Day 8 - Wait, Watch, Worship & My Family is an Urban Legend

Episode Date: October 8, 2023

Wait, Watch, Worship***Written by: Emma E. Murray and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Bonus episode: "My Family is an Urban Legend"***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Donate 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 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. Freepy Presents The 31 Days of Horror

Day 8 Wait, Watch, Worship Written by Emma E. Murray And narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. My fingers have learned how to unscrew the great so as to not make a sound. Slowly. slowly,

because I have time. There's no need to rush. I slink down from my hiding spot, snaking my legs along the wall to the floor, then carefully setting my weight down to my feet. The floor doesn't creak anymore. I've memorized their patterns, the ways to pad like a cat,

or even quieter, like a shadow on the wall. She never notices me anymore. Sometimes I miss the taste of the tense air when the reptilian base of her brain would suspect something ominously amiss. Now, I am part of the house. My movements accepted the same as the settling of the foundation and groans of sighting standing tall against the wind. I moved down the hall to the bedroom.

Her soft snores beckon me inside, telling me, I don't need to be so careful. She wouldn't wake to anything below the threshold of a sound loud enough to necessitate of sharp, startle, cold sweat, and wide eye. I've done that to her before, just to see. She looks beautiful when she's afraid. Not tonight, though. No, not tonight. I want something else. Easing up to the bed, I peek over and revel in the rise and fall of her chest under crisp sheets.

I've learned much about her over my three years as part of the house. She changes her sheets every other day. Obsessed with cleanliness, she loathes the bits of dust and dirt. I can't help but leave in my wake, no matter how I try to wipe away every trace of my visits. I hear her mumble about it. Maybe time to clean the vents. It never fails to bloom a blushing smile across my lips

to have her notice my presence, even if only in annoyance. She has no idea. Closer, closer yet, until I can hold my hand over her face and feel the warmth of her breath against my palm. My heart flutters painfully. I didn't know I could love someone so long. intensely every inch of me flushes with want. I want her to be with her. I always want the impossible. Inching across the sheet to her arm, my tongue stretches out until I make contact. Salty sweet,

I shudder with pleasure as I run the tip along her forearm savoring the taste of her. But when the air hits the strip of wet, she grunts and moves her arm away, surfacing out of the depths of slumber into lighter, cautious, dreamless waters. I retreat as a shadow. and crawl along the ground, the lowly worm that I am in comparison to my queen. In the vent, I lay back, touching my fingers to my tongue, and then myself, bringing our cells together, mingling fluids, gasping in silence as I imagine her skin against mine. Her morning routine is art in motion.

lathered soap across smooth skin water trickling down her neck the sharp smell of toner followed by languid liquid oils dripping down a perfect complexion before being rubbed into a glistening layer of protection nothing can touch my beloved when she's primed and perfect perfect hair tied up a hair tied up to her up in an impeccable bun, slender fingers running down her skirt to smooth it, carefully pulling up her hose, never snagging on her French-tipped manicured nails. Sprits of perfume across her body in an axe, the floral notes waft to my perch. the slats, I watch the sway of her hips, the grace of her arms as they fetch the white designer purse from its shelf amongst the others. Everything coordinated and in place, the antithesis of my smudged and cursed form. A goddess to behold, I crawl on hands and knees as fast as I can without

but alerting her to watch as she locks the front door behind her. There is no relief when she leaves. Even knowing my human needs can now be met. Eating, urinating, sometimes showering, indulging in the creature comforts of a soft couch or curling up in a blanket are not worth the hours of her absence. the sloughing of red and brown down my thighs soaked through the wad of paper and earthen smell of the vents mixing with the pungency of sweat and blood necessitates a shower nearly every day this week i usually don't allow myself that luxury but i can't risk discovery i pleasure myself with the nozzle as i feel the tiles against my back, knowing she occupied this same space. The same humid air I breathe in.

A swirl of her brown hair spirals at the drain, and I pluck it up, kiss the lost strands with tenderness. I make sure to clean up well after myself, erasing any trace I was there, and always using only a small dollop of her process, not taking enough to be noticed. As I step out from the plume of steam, I see myself in the mirror and recoil, forcing my eyes away and attempting to wash the image from my mind.

But it floats there, mocking me. I am nothing like my beloved. I am hideous beyond description. Every human flaw compiled in one person. The sores and boils down my back, trailing in red lines across my torso, sagging skin revealing the ridges of ribs and spine, sandbag bosom, stringy hair, they all scream at me from my ignored reflection.

ugly unlovable monster there there a gentle voice inside strokes me back to calm this is fine i don't matter all that matters is her and she is mine unobtainable is perfectly acceptable if i can bask in the warmth of her beauty and the melody of her laughter i take three grapes and the heel of the bread smeared with mustard she hates that slice and always leaves it never seeming to wonder what happens to it when it disappears from each loaf after my stomach is full and gurgling I spend the rest of my day in her closet, burying my face in the dresses and blouses, silk and satin against my skin, then work my way to the hamper where I revel in the smell of her in the discarded clothing. I love her with all my heart. Every beat is for her. the time the key jangles in the lock, I'm tucked away again, waiting with bated breath for her to walk through and blind me with her glamour. I am yours, my dear. I stifle a moan as my eyes caress her form,

her hands busy sorting the mail. I'd do that for you. I'd do anything. I'd do anything. thing. The first bad omen of Veronica is the way my nose picks up her stench before she even walks through the threshold. Stinking of watermelon body spray, coconut lotion, and green apple hairspray. She smells like a middle school nightmare, and my jaw drops when she tumbles in with my beloved, her stubby fingers pawing all over her, and drunken giggles smelling like licorice bubbling from both their throats between sloppy kisses. Not my goddess. Why?

Rage climbs my throat alongside acid, and it takes all my willpower to keep from spewing down the grate onto them. but I have to stop myself for my love. This drunk imbecile is taking advantage of my darling, and I can't bear to watch as they couple loudly on the bed, their animal sounds burrowing into my eardrums and pulverizing my brain, no matter how hard I clamp my hands on my head. Thankfully, the cacophony soon ends, but my lovely one lets this tramp stay over, both snoring in each other's faces, their limbs tangled together, and bound with sheets, tossed and turned into a dual chrysalis.

How I hate them. Hate them! No, not them. Her, Veronica. The nasal mockery of her name floats under my breath, one I only know from my loved one's sweet moaning. I take my nightly journey down from the ventilation and creep lizard-like across the carpet quieter than usual. I don't know this Veronica's sleeping habits or depth of a vandalization. consciousness. Peering over, I swallow down another gag.

Not only does she stink, but her whole aesthetic clashes with my beloved. Home-dyed devil-red hair, with long, greasy roots, piercings in every lobe of flesh that could be pinched to house a needle. Stick and poke caricatures speckled across her limbs And clownish, garish colors smeared across her lids and lips In a farce of makeup This is the woman my beloved chose to take home and bed To let her sleep alongside her?

No How could this be the woman? woman she'd mentioned on the phone so many times. The same Veronica that she had spent the last few nights chatting away with on her computer, and then saying long goodbyes sprawled across her bed, smiling like a moron. It can't be. And yet, there was the truth, snoring with a wide mouthful of golden crowns right in front of me. I can't help myself.

A dribble of vomit escapes between my fingers, clenched tight to my mouth, and drips to the carpet in a brown puddle. Frantically, I searched the room for something to wipe it up with, to make my visit invisible again. But that fetid bitch begins to stir. There is no choice. I scurry away, running on all fours, tiptoes and fingertips, like some ghoul, until I'm scrambling back into the safety of the vents. I wait there all night, listening, not daring to sleep.

Veronica had heard me, and in the morning she cleans up the vomit without alerting my beloved. I giggle silently to myself as I watch the shame wash across her face. She surely thinks it her own from their overindulgence and doesn't want it noticed either. Good girl, Veronica. You're useful for that at least. The vapid waste of oxygen stays over more frequently, until she's practically moved in. Worse yet, she doesn't work the same schedule as my queen.

So there were now two days a week I'm forced to starve and trickle my urine into a pickle jar I'd stowed away for emergencies. Being as quiet as I can, while that damned Veronica sleeps in and plays video games and chain smokes on the patio with the door wide open so the stink permeates every part of the house.

My hatred grows and grows. But I love my beauty too much to act on any selfish loathing that burns within, turning my insides to hot coals only contained by

the furnace of my ribcage. I am changing against my will Turning from something lowly but benevolent To bitter and sharp Even my body feels more angular My bones Cutting through my skin With sharp snippets of pain when I curl into myself and try to sleep

No sleep for the wicked I hear the inside voice growl. The tone changed to match my internal fury. I even pleasure myself to my own crescendo of rage instead of proximity to my loved one and hate myself for each shuddering breath that bitch Veronica has forced from my lungs. Something must be done.

When the fridge hums to life and the dishwasher slashes in rhythmic cycles, I slip down from the kitchen vent. It's a higher drop than usual, but I've always prided myself on my cat-like landings. And I pull it off without raising alarm. Veronica sits in her usual stupor, glazed eyes staring at the television as her thumbs hammer on the controller. moving her avatar around some virtual world of death and gore. You are there to bring her fantasy to life, my inner voice tells me, and a chuckle rumbles deep but silent in my lungs.

She doesn't suspect a thing. Doesn't hear the metal slipping from out of the wooden block, doesn't hear the foot falls from the kitchen, to the living room, doesn't see my shadow small and wiry, wielding the knife above her head. She only notices me when I grab her head, bending it back toward me so her wild eyes meet my steel ones, locked together in the most intimate moment. I can't help myself. My neck cranes over, and my neck cranes over, and And our lips meet, upside down, and pulsing hot.

Her letting me suck her upper lip between my own. My tongue then pressing in with a heady groan as I bring my arm over the couch back and slide the knife across her neck. She screams, bites my tongue, and my mouth fills with copper-bright blood. It's too much. I reach down with my left hand. Never my best, but this need was desperate. And bring myself to climax as I bring the knife back across her neck again and again in blind swipes. The gush of blood over my hand, the knife slipping in my palm, we are.

Together, Veronica and I, two imperfect worshippers of a goddess. Maybe, I realized too late, we were the ones meant to be. No, banish the thought. I collapse, breathless against the blood-soaked furniture as Veronica gurgles and thrashes. It takes longer than I have to be. imagined, and a twinge of regret lumps in the back of my throat. But when she quiets, I'm able to swallow it down. I don't bother cleaning up. There's no record to be matched. No worry about the blood or skin cells or fingerprints. I disappeared long ago. I'll stay here in my hiding spot,

happily forgotten by the world. It's hard to hear the whales screaming declarations of love and nights upon nights of curdled tears baked into my beloved's lungs, each breath rattling her from the depths of dreams and keeping the horror alive. But I know it'll pass. It only takes time. First come the investigators, taking pictures from every angle amusing over any possible clue. As I watch them, I smirk to myself hiding deeper than usual in my maze of ventilation, being sure to stay so silent they'd never think to look in the walls, the ceilings.

Once they've finished, the cleanup craters. crew arrives. I watch them toil scrubbing at the dried blood and wondering if they smell the stink of crusted iron through their masks. My love returns when the cleanup is complete, but avoids the living room. Stay patient, I reassure myself. Time heals all wounds. And for a while, she says, seems to move on, returns to her usual rituals, throws out the couch, redos the living room in cool blues and purples, anything to forget the startling red. I'm proud of her and prefer the new decor. It's much prettier, just like my queen. However, despite her efforts, I sense something has changed in her that she can't move on from.

Her obsession with order and cleanliness drops off, the house slowly deteriorating into a mess. Pizza boxes stack up on the counters. The vacuuming and mopping and scrubbing stops completely. The grime collects in the crevices. Spills and stains are ignored as they set into ferns. furniture. Sheets unchanged for weeks, then months, and my love showers less and less, only maintaining her appearance enough to be acceptable for work. None of this bothers me, but what strikes me is how she doesn't seem to care. I watch the gradual decline, anxiously fascinated, wondering,

what it means. Then it clicks. Finally, I understand. She's calling to me. Whether she knows I exist or not, does not matter. This change is dedicated to me. A thank you. My heart swells with love more profound than anything I'd felt before. She loves me. My beloved knows there is only one lover for her, and that she is made of filth and refuse, leaves dirt and dust in her wake, nests in detritus, and cobwebs. I am the lover she seeks. I make myself known to her in small ways. I make myself known to her in small way, answer her call with small visits each night, crawling down to watch over her, taking a taste or a sniff of her hair when I can,

sometimes biting off a fingernail with gentle nips when her arm hangs limply off the bed. I devote myself to her with my entire being. Then one night I take a deep, breath, slide beneath the sheets, and press my body against hers. Inveloping her in my arms, she murmurs, but doesn't wake. I hold my beloved in the faint blue light of the earliest morning when the whole world slumbers. Just us too. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. My family is an urban legend.

Even though you've never met my family, you know my family, or at least the things we've done. I have a big family, Irish Catholic. Great Grandpa came to this country and carried with him a devout faith, particularly Genesis 1.28. Be fruitful and multiply, if you know what I mean. In total, my great-grandparents had 14 children. Each of those children, my grandpa and his siblings, had, and I, shit you not, no less than seven children each. And that was my great-aunt May. They used to make fun of her for not having more kids.

Great Uncle Liam had the most with 12 of his own. Not sure if anyone was trying to out do Great Grandpa, but no one did. Don't hold me to this, but if you looked at the family tree, including Great Grandma and Grandpa, I have 504 blood relatives. No, I can't name them all. Several grandpa's siblings were dead before I was born, so I haven't even met them all. But yes, our family reunions are a bit of a mess to plan. None of that really matters, though.

What's important is the actual impact in my family has unintentionally had on, well, everyone. You see, my family is responsible for urban legends. I don't mean one of my relatives coined the term. I looked it up. His name was Richard Dorson. What I mean is that we're responsible for urban legends, most if not all of them. Someone in my immediate bloodline either served as inspiration or was directly responsible for most if not all of them.

I can prove it. Let's start with Classic, courtesy of my great Uncle Cormick back in the 1950s. He was working in what we would now call a health. health care facility or something, but back then it was a mental asylum. Bad conditions, poor training of an overworked staff, etc. After World War II, he wasn't able to go back to his old job at the foundry because of his injury and got a new job in orderly. Well, one day he was helping one of the nurses through her car.

She wasn't paying attention and slammed the door shut before he was ready. When she stopped for gas down the road, everyone freaked out at the fact that the hook he had to replace the handy lost in the war, was hanging from her door handle. Or my great-aunt Fiona, the first person in our family'd own a microwave back in 75, I think. You know where this one's going. Sadly, her Shih Tzu didn't. Family never let her live that one down. Ever hear the one about the babysitter who keeps getting a call to have her check on the children?

Sadly, that one was my Uncle Mike and a huge misunderstanding. He was working for a phone bank at the time. He had a contract with his company who sold mattresses, one of those late-night commercial-type places with a guy named Crazy Larry or something who claims his prices are so low, he must be crazy. Well, he certainly had some questionable judgment when he started the check-on-the-children campaign

to see how much better children were sleeping on his new line of ultra-soft mattresses. Mike was also far-sighted, and didn't have his readers on the night he accidentally called the same house three times, saying they should check on the children. The babysitter at the time just kept hanging up. Great Grandpa himself was even the source of one of the oldest and most famous urban legends. Being fresh off the boat from Ireland, there weren't a ton of options for him as far as employment

went outside of loading trucks. Or, being a cop. Thing is, as much as the older generations like to act like we're all so lazy, great-grandpa, by all accounts, was an especially lazy police officer. He hated paperwork and running after people. Unfortunately, he was also horrible at lying. All that came together one day when a woman had her purse stolen right in front of him. While the truth is, he didn't even move to chase the guy down. When pressed by his superiors, he claimed that the thief dove into the sewers.

And when he was just about to go after him, an alligator popped out and almost ate him. None of the other cops believed him, but word got around. Supposedly the other cops started calling him Allie, or just plain Al. More recently, the whole Mo Moe thing was going around. Remember the picture of that weird sculpture that looked like a cross between a chicken and Shelley Duval from The Shining? Supposedly children and adolescents were being harassed by a username Momo to perform a series of dangerous tasks, including violent acts, self-arm, harming others, and suicide. Yeah. My Aunt Jenny was the first person to actually tweet it out. Where she got the idea was harmful to kids, I have no idea.

But she does think that rock and roll is the devil's music. So, next thing you know, influencers shared the pick and news outlets went insane for it. You know, I actually saw a Momo mask in the Halloween store the other day. Of course, I didn't say Momo, since it's an actual work of art, and Halloween is notorious for stealing IP to make a profit. I think it was just labeled as mask. Of course, the urban legends, the matter most, during the Halloween season involved taking candy from strangers.

In 1970, the New York Times ran an article that said, quote, That plump red apple the junior gets from a kindly old woman down the block may have a razor blade hidden inside. Or in an article from Newsweek in 1975, quote, If this year's Halloween follows form, a few children will return home with something more than an upset tummy. In recent years, several children have died, and hundreds have narrowly escaped injury from razor blades, sewing needles,

and shards of glass purposely put into their goodies by adults. In 1984, Oregon third graders even wrote letters to a newspaper saying they wished people wouldn't put poison in their candy. Of course, more recently, it's all evolved to people handing out their edibles to children, but I'm still waiting to hear which neighborhoods are doing that. And, you guessed it. All started with my great-uncle's oldest son. He didn't have the best upbringing. And serving during wartime didn't help his mental state.

He became increasingly paranoid to the people who lived around him, and evidently, one Halloween pushed him too far, thinking that the little people coming to his front door dressed up like Adam West Batman or with clown masks, were there to hurt him as they demanded food. I don't think he even knew what day it was. The next year he came prepared to defend himself from what he believed to be an attack with a few dozen apples. All with surprises in the middle.

Fortunately, even back then, a lot of kids just chucked the apples when they got them, but not everyone. Then there's me. You don't know anything about me. You will. But just like the rest of my family, you won't realize it. Good luck.

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