Creepy - Day 9 - Creepypasta Double Feature

Episode Date: October 9, 2017

"12 Minutes" and "The Long List"***Presented by: Drift & Ramble (https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/drift-ramble-podcast/id1126484216?mt=2)***"12 Minutes" written by RoboKy***"The Long List" written by HumboldtLycanthrope***Sound design by: Steven Blizin***Creative Commons license CC-by-NC  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.

Hopefully you've all been enjoying Creepy's presentation of the 31 days of horror. Please take a moment to rate and review us on iTunes. It's very important to help us ensure that as many people as possible get to enjoy the Halloween season. Please also stop by the Patreon page, patreon.com slash creepypod to help support the podcast. This is Creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened,

or are simply fabrications as for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents 31 Days of Horror. Day 9 As a special treat, we have a dark and very twisted double feature today. Listener discretion, as always, is advised. First up, 12 minutes.

In the fall of 1987, local news channel WSBTV 2 of Atlanta, Georgia, was attempting to fill a scheduling gap in their Sunday morning lineup. After a few solicitations by local business owners, they decided to allow a young Reverend Marley Sachs to take the available hour block to do a religiously themed show. It premiered October 18th with little promotion. The show was standard religious fair and consisted of the reverence sitting in a simple chair reading passages from the Bible to the camera and discussing their interpretation and

significance to our modern day-to-day life. The show received a reasonable number of viewers and continued to be shown into early December. It was then that the studio began to receive extremely strange complaints from viewers of words of light with the Reverend Marley Sacks. The calls were from women, and women only, who vaguely referred to uncomfortable feelings they had at very specific intervals during the program.

They described feelings of nausea, back pain, dizziness, and blurred vision. These callers, for no discernible reason, were convinced that it was the viewing of this program that was causing these symptoms. It was later determined after three weeks of complaints that these feelings were happening at roughly 12-minute intervals during the course of the program. The small studio staff checked all recording equipment, both audio and video, and found nothing faulty. When the Reverend was made aware of these incidents, he merely shrugged and stated

cryptically that some can't handle the voice of God. The head of the studio, had a loss to explain the cause of these complaints, decided to continue running the program. By February, viewership had dropped sharply, and it was decided to pull the plug on the show. The studio had figured it would be more prudent to spend as much time as possible on the news story that had the other two local news networks abuzz, the miscarriage epidemic. Starting sometime in November, the number of healthy pregnant women miscarrying in the Atlanta metropolitan area had reached over 300. The CDC could find no discernible cause for this terrifying occurrence. The Reverend took the show's cancellation with what could only be described as abject indifference. When informed, he made no protest, merely nodded, almost knowingly.

He left the studio after the last episode was filmed without so much as a word, and dropped off the face of the earth. No one ever heard from him again, not his former congregation or any member of the church. The studio moved on, filling the slot with an infomercial and came. continued to concentrate on the miscarriage story. A year and a half later, and in turn at the W.S.B. Studios discovered the tapes of the words of light, and began going through them in an attempt to find stock footage for an upcoming piece the station was doing on the impact religion had on the city. The Atlanta incident, as the miscarriage epidemic became known in medical journals, petered out about three months after the studio canceled Reverend Sachs' show and had already

began to fade from the public consciousness. As the intern went through the tapes, he accidentally made a disturbing discovery about the footage. While attempting to stop one recording at 10 minutes and 45 seconds, he mistakenly jammed the fast-forward button down. While the footage whizzed passed, he attempted to pry up the button with a screwdriver. As he succeeded, the button stopped at 32 minutes in one second.

The intern actually fell out of his chair when he looked up with what was frozen on the screen. The image of a badly decomposed severed head filled the entire frame. After he collected himself, he moved the film back a few frames, then forward and realized that his mind was not playing tricks on him. He began going through the rest of the recording and soon discovered that at exactly 12-minute intervals, the image would appear from one frame. Thinking at some practical joke being played on the new guy,

he presented it to one of the film technicians, ready to be mocked. The technician was just as puzzled as him. No one had touched the footage since the cancellation of the show. After the studio had closed for the night, the intern convinced the tech to help him go through all the tapes of the words of light. They discovered that every single episode had this same horrifying anomaly. They also realized that as the show progressed,

the image had become more disgusting, as maggots began to eat away the loose flesh and pieces of hair and the skin seemed to have fallen off exponentially. The tech made clear to the intern that what they were seeing was technically impossible, since the film itself showed absolutely no signs of splicing, and he himself had been at every filming of the show and knew of no time when this image could have been inserted into the frame. All of this was presented to the studio head,

who, fearing some kind of backlash over allowing this to get on the air, ordered all the tapes destroyed. He told the intern in tech that he had no interest in knowing who did it at this point, only that, quote, covering their collective asses is all that's important now, unquote. He demanded that they mention this to no one. The tech easily moved on, remembering the incident as a darkly funny personal anecdote, but the intern wouldn't let it go. He made copies of as many tapes as he could before they were wiped

and took them to see if you could find anything else in them that might point to, who did this, or why they would. A week later, he attempted to rope the tech into helping him again, saying that he believed he had discovered something even more disturbing that the images themselves. When the single frames were edited together in chronological order, the head's mouth appeared to be moving as if trying to form words. The tech fearing for his job, told him to get rid of the copies

and to not talk about it again. A week later, police responded to a 911, one call made by an elderly woman in one of the Atlanta suburbs at dusk. She had heard terrible noises coming from her next door neighbor's house where a young couple lived. She told the emergency responder that the wife was pregnant and that she was terrified that something had happened. When the officers arrived on the scene 20 minutes later, they found no lights on in the windows, and the front door ajar. They moved in slowly and made their way into the living room. Inside they found a young woman, dead, with her abdomen slashed open. The wound was jagged,

and a trail of blood led from the body to the couch on the far end of the room. There sat her husband, the studio intern, naked, the corpse of his unborn child at his feet, dying, and his handy held a rusty piece of metal siding he used to gut his pregnant wife. The television was on and playing an 18-second loop of silent footage of a decomposing head, mouthing some unintelligible words. The story at the police precinct to this day goes that the intern kept saying under his breath, over and over again as they led him away. The light of God calls them.

The light of God calls them. And for part two of the double feature. The Long List Written by Humboldt lycanthrop This content is available under C.C. by NC. When Melissa was 14 years old, her father sold her to a crank cook named Possum

for two pounds of crystal meth and a broken down transam. Possum kept her chained to a rusty wood stove during the day with a mason jar of water and a box of Cheerios while he worked in the lab back behind the trailer, breaking Sudafed and a fedron tab down into glass-like shards of amphetamine.

In the evening, possum would swing open the door, the cap-piss stench of burning chemicals wafting into the tiny trailer and then chain her so she could make him meals, wash dishes, and mop. At night, as the bullfrogs began to bark and the crickets chirped, she would press her fist into her mouth, trying to stifle her cries of pain as he laid, upon her. His rank smell of sweat and chemicals overwhelming her. Two months later, a couple of

Boy Scouts found her naked corpse in a drainage ditch in a patch of woods outside of Eureka, California, a pale tangle of limbs sticking out of the trash and sewage of the dirty culvert. Though the case officially went to homicide detective McClennie, Detective Standler, had been at the crime scene assisting. Stanler had helped take her by the arms and pull her remains from their ranks through her water and debris. As her body rose up from the muck, their head had lulled to the side, and her wide staring eyes had looked straight at him.

For a moment, Stanley thought he saw a flicker of life register in them. Though her gray bloated face clearly revealed, she was long, long dead. Stanley settled deeper into the seat of his car and flipped open the better copy of Hamlet scrolled down the long list of names he had scrawled on the last page What a fucking week Suspended and out on bail looking at manslaughter charges He's parked in front of the police chief suburban home waiting for the fat fuck to arrive home from work He eyed the long list and sit from a pint of wild turkey

washed it down with a worn Budweiser and thought to himself someone who could do something like that to a 14-year-old girl how can you let someone like that live who would possibly miss them who would possibly care and no one had nobody missed a piece of ship possum

two weeks paid administrative leaves all Stanley had received after he emptied his service revolver into the sick degenerate's face. It had been a big bust. The lab, kilos of meth, and an arsenal of weapons. Everyone in the department was happy, and all he'd gotten was two weeks paid leave and a wild party at the alibi, thrown by the other detectives and a giggle of uniformed officers. When the inquest asked him why he'd gone out there,

outside his jurisdiction, to the backwoods no man's land, he had simply replied he was following up on a lead from an informant. What was he going to say? That a ghost had told him where to look? That the little dead girl had come back from the grave and told him. That in the dark pre-dawn hours that twilight time between sick and drunk and excruciatingly hung over he would wake lacquered and sweat. His wife snoring loudly beside him. The room spinning, his heart threatening to break free from his chest, and there she was

she would be. A frail little girl at the foot of his bed, her stick figure limbs draped in a white nighty, its hemline stained in dark crimson streaks. The first time he'd seen her, he'd screamed, horrified, the raspy noise of his own startled voice burning his dry mouth and throat. His wife awoke and shot straight up in bed. What is it? What is it? Stanley blinked his alcohol-swollen eyes. Only darkness. The girl was gone. There was nothing.

Nothing, honey. It was nothing. Just go back to sleep. I just had a nightmare. Okay, honey. His wife had rolled back over and immediately began snoring again. He lay there till the room grew pale in the morning light. His flesh tingling.

wondering what he had seen if he was going insane. The next time the little girl had appeared, he was calmer. He blinked twice quickly, expecting her ghostly form to disappear like last time. But she didn't disappear. She remained there, looking down at him with her cold eyes, sunken deep in their dark sockets. She stared in disbelief. Was it real? Could this pale figure possibly be real?

Then when she had stepped up to him quickly, and her blue lips parted, and she began to speak to tell him things in a whisper. He thought he could smell the grave on her breath as she murmured into his ear about the night her father had sold her to possum. It had been a dark night deep in the back woods of Southern Humboldt, past the mountains of Alder Point in Blocksburg, in a place that didn't even have a name, near Zinia on the Trinity border,

where it snowed in the winter and the cold mornings fell in the hills hardened in ice. This guy was black and it was pouring rain. Her father had been drunk and handled her roughly, pulling her by the arm through the muddy front yard. She was terrified and devastated that her daddy's big dinner logging boots were splashing mud up all over her dress.

Her mother had been dead less than three weeks. Her father had shoved her back. roughly through the front door Possum's trailer. She's all fucking yours. Her father spat at the old bearded man and greasy overalls. Possum had shuffled forward and took her cheeks into his grizzled, calloused hand, squeezing her face tightly, moving her head back and forth for inspection. She's a pretty one.

If you say so, her father said, She's got that weird eye and those fucked up teeth But she can cook real good and clean She's damn handy with a broom Oh yes The old man chuckled handing over the sealed bundles of methamphetamine She'll do She'll do nicely

And two months later she was dead and abandoned like so much trash The sick fucks How could he have let them live And no one missed possum No one mourned him They'd thrown Stanler a party He had been a hero That time

The second time was different That one had gotten him suspended Most likely fired No pension, no 401K He might even see some time for that one Stanley sipped his whiskey, reached down between his legs and lifted up the Beretta. An old pistol. His father had given it to him long ago.

He cradled the heavy, cold weight of the gun, waiting for his old boss, that fat fuck, to arrive back at his nice suburban home. Maybe his wife would find him dead on their well-manicured front lawn. Maybe one of his teenage kids. Oh well. to have a sick fuck like that for a father? Just desserts. It was a warm night and he had the window down.

The wind of passing trucks on 101 softly humming in his ears. He thought of Hamlet. He'd taken a Shakespeare class back in college when he was studying criminal law, still entertaining the idea of going on to law school and becoming an attorney before Charlotte got pregnant and he quit school and joined the force so he could start making money for his new family. only to have her give birth to a stillborn boy seven months later, never to conceive again.

Hamlet. That tale of the haunted Danish prince had always stuck with him, standing atop to Castle Parapet, the ghost of his father crying out from to avenge his savage murder. Ghost. My hour is almost calm when I to sulfurous and tormented flames must render up myself. Stanley always wondered Was Hamlet insane?

But no, that would mean they were all insane. Horatio, Marcellus, Bernardo, they had all seen it. They couldn't all be insane. It had to be true. The ghost had to be real. The second time the little girl told Stanler to kill, things hadn't worked out like they had with possum.

My father? she had whispered Kill him And how couldn't he Anyone who'd lose something as sick As sell their own daughter surely deserved to die She described his car Where he would be the pound of meth

Stanler would find in the trunk The Glock he always kept under his seat Stanley had waited at the Red Lion Hotel on Broadway Right where the little girl had told him to And just like clockworked the car had rolled right into the parking lot Stanley had been amused at the look of surprise on the man's face when he strolled up with the sturdy-eight leveled right at eye-level, squeezing a round-off before the jerk even had a chance to utter a word. But there was no meth in the trunk, no gun under the seat.

And it ended up it wasn't her father at all. At least that's what the investigator said. They claimed it was just some businessman from Santa Rosa. But when Melissa appeared before him the next night, shimmering and ghastly in the moon, moonlight. She told him, no. It had been her father. They were lying, all of them. Lying liars. The little girl had whispered to him with their pale blue lips and graveyard breath. They had tried to hide it. It was a conspiracy and they'd fired him because the police chief was in on it. That's why the police chief was next. He had to go. That's why Stanley sat in a car

outside his house, a pistol cradled in his hands. He had to kill his old boss. Off that meth-dealing slave-keeping degenerate, son of a bitch. And there were more. There are many of them. The frail ghost had murmured. His wife was one of them. She had made the list.

She was a cheating meth whore fucking the whole department for crank. The little girl had told him all about it, late at night. Moments before the morning when the earth swelled silent, and cold in his heart beat so it threatened to leave his chest. Yes, there were many of them. A whole list. And it was a long list. Welcome to the Drift and Ramble podcast.

Each episode will explore true stories and American legends. From the pages of history, we'll look at the people, places, and events that helped shape a nation. Knock, knock, Miss Pearl. I sure hope you ain't decent. Why, come on in here, Sugar, and feast your eyes on little old Pearl. Here, quick, help me drag him behind the bed. This here's the sheriff. What's all the commotion in there? Sounds like somebody's getting pistol whipped or something. Oh, everything's fine, sheriff. Just fine.

Had me a romping the hay with old Pearl here, and I just dropped my boot whilst I was getting dressed. Hi, Sheriff. You want to get a little bit? before I get myself all dressed again? Pearl, what are you doing? Don't invite that man in here. No, thank you kindly, Miss Pearl. I'm still itching from the last time we had relations. Well, you know where I am if you change your mind, Sheriff. Stories of survival, notable frontier men and women,

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