Creepy - Dig Site & Under the Influence

Episode Date: February 26, 2026

Dig Site *** Written by: Jen Frankel and Narrated by: Michelle Kane *** Under the Influence *** Written by: Elizabeth Hunter  and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez *** Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod *** Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah *** Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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. I'm going to keep things short because we've been getting all kinds of interference at the radio station lately. It shouldn't have any impact on the episode since we add that to my broadcast and post,

but I'm a little worried that anything I say can get cut off. Plus, because I run our hosting say through the radio station now, I'm worried about the file getting corrupted. So let's get right to the story. Thanks are able to fix things quickly. First up, from writer Jen Frankel and narrated by Michelle Kane. Creepy presents, excite. Dear Doctor, when I came to you the first time, it was because I thought I was in crisis.

When I came to you for the first time, I was under the impression that my life was over. Well, except for that final trumpet, if you know what I mean. In retrospect, I think I was actually just angry. Do you remember? I know you have listened, and I remember the clack-clacking of the keys of your laptop, as you took real-time notes on my condition. Made me want to pull out my own laptop and call up my technical survey of the excavation. I was so proud of the work I was doing. Do you remember that?

Six years to find the site, following clues. in scholarly articles and dusty civic archives, two more to get the permits. And then, barely a day, after uncovering our first artifact, the stop work order from the municipal government. It wasn't enough that I'd found something old, something precious, something historic. After days of conversations with low-level civil servants unable to help or even engage in a year, useful way, the bureaucrat I finally tracked down, told me my discovery was intriguing, but not historically relevant to the current administration's priorities. How's that for a disconnect? An administration bound to last a few years, half a decade at most, willing to entirely deprioritize a dig that would uncover

hundreds of years of history in favor of a new parking structure. I don't think you understood how hard it was for me to make it to your office that first time. When I told you about the panic attack I'd had getting onto a city bus, you told me we would work on my phobia with some exposure therapy, as if I was afraid of transit, not experiencing deep emotional upset. Even though I couldn't really justify the expense, I took an Uber home that day. And back to you the next week for our follow-up appointment, if just to shut you up about my fear of transfers

and how I needed to confront my inability to deal with strangers. You dug deep on that one, didn't you? What, targeting my very obvious, introversion? That was a good insight, that I'm not good with people, that my particular obsessions actually benefit from loving my own company more than seeking companionship, where I'd always counted that as a plus, something that enriched my work and made it possible to spend so much time alone on excavations and explorations, you made me see that trait as a lack in me, something inadequate.

Then, of course, you told me that you could fix me. Not just fix what I was experiencing. Dig me out of the hole I'd fallen down since the excavation was shut down. You could fix me in ways I didn't even know I was broken, you said. Make me a better, healthy everything. I was vulnerable and desperate enough to say, okay, do it. Only I wasn't broken, was I? It was the second of two binary choices you presented to me, Ellen.

Either you can be alone and lonely, as good as buried in your ancient burial sites, or you can foster actual human relationships and be a human yourself. Broken or fixed? No leeway, no in between. just one or the other. You know what the hook was? The hook that set the bait? The bait that pulled me in? You appealed to my practicality. You gave me a way to look forward to the future when it felt like mine was hopeless. You gave me a plan. I'm a concrete thinker, a boots on the ground type, if you will. Someone who knows how to manipulate objects much more easily.

than thoughts. Was it insight into my character, of the sort you seldom showed afterwards, or was it just a lucky guess? The way you spoke to me that day. The way you made getting past my depression into this, then that proposition, a clear A than B. I understand that kind of thinking. It makes sense. You can map it out, float chart it. I put myself. in your hands, because I believed you were just as straightforward as you pretended, as straightforward as I am. Let me tell you what it was like to admit myself to the psychiatric ward of your hospital. Oddly, I felt hopeful, even a little giddy.

It wasn't that I connected so well with you that I trusted that you really could put me back together. Now, I didn't even believe what you told me about being broken. When you work reconstructing shards of pottery as a significant part of your daily life, you know that a little glue and elbow grease can make something beautiful out of a pile of fragments. If you had explained it to me that way, or asked me to clarify what I did, maybe I'd have come to that deduction on my own. Instead, you corrected my correct usage of the word sherd, and I didn't have the strength to define it for you. Yes, I was despondent, but there was a reason for that. I showed you the notice from the city I'd received after my conversation with the man from city planning. The one that seemed to demonstrate that

nothing I said had made any impression on him whatsoever. I had accomplished nothing. No, softening of the city's position or timeline. The dig that had until the end of the month, a bare three weeks before they shut us down and paved over my sight forever. That lackluster civil servant made a good show of listening. I'll give him that. I really thought I was getting through to him. He made the right noises, tilted his head, nodded, to think that I'd wasted so many of my precious hours away from the dig, on someone who wasn't even going to entertain my words. It felt like I hadn't just been let down by the municipality. I'd failed myself. So I allowed you to talk me into a two-day admission, just 48 hours, from 6 a.m. Saturday morning

until 6 a.m. Monday, so I wouldn't miss a moment of my time on the site. You'd come in, even though you usually weren't scheduled on the weekends, and be there for me every moment. You'd make me strong enough to decide what to do next, how to get my sight back. But that wasn't what you really intended, was it? Maybe there was some part of you that believed you were doing it for my benefit, but I know better. I should have known from the neat row of pamphlets by the nurses station in the locked ward. a dozen of them, all authored by you, her pounding your theories and practices. I took one of each back to my room that first night, after receiving some sedative of the

benzodiazepine family from the nurse at the window. I read them thoroughly, and they made sense, these little bite-sized ambassadors of your treatment strategy. I could see the thought that went into them. The appearance of expertise. I know people like you in my field, you know, people who speak with the authority of a thousand ancient mountaintop deities, pulling you down into their bullshit as if their words were quicksand, or a glacial crevasse treacherously camouflaged by snow or a riptide. You glibly ignored my expressions of fear, picked apart my sentences as illogical instead of trying to help me express myself more clearly, then left me to fall into a series of panic attacks while

the weakened skeleton nursing staff either ignored me or drugged me at your direction. Not just with those standard pams, diazepam, fluorazepam, lausapam, other drugs, too, that you knew wouldn't be out of my system when you released me. You were starting me on a get-well regimen, you said. But you wouldn't explain what you were giving me or why. I was in no state to advocate effectively for my own health. On Monday morning at 6 a.m., when the nurse buzzed me out of the locked ward and back into Earth 1, I was groggy, exhausted, and barely able to cogitate.

I took an Uber again, despite the cost, because now you actually had instilled in me a fear of transit, only to find the dig entirely shut down and myself personally barred from access, because you had called the city and my department and my primary financier, to explain my breakdown, to caution them about, my delusions to hint, because apparently you didn't quite cross the line between patient confidentiality and duty to warn that I might be dangerous to others, or at the very least, to myself. I hear you discussed optics. What if she hurts herself on your sight? I'm not saying she will, but I would be remiss if I didn't advise you of the possibility.

Can you blame me for falling apart? It's not enough that you didn't make an effort to listen to me. It's not enough that you behaved in an entirely condescending manner, or that you refused to consider what I wanted for my own treatment. I was not part of the process at all, because I was trusting and open. to the possibility that you would be able to help me. I told you my greatest secrets. I told you that the only thing that kept me going through the long, lean years was that I knew in my heart.

I had something to offer the world, that I was special and worthwhile person with a unique vision and ability to sort through the excavated spoils of centuries, to create an explicable narrative of the past. And you told me that I was not allowed to be proud of myself, that I was banned from feeling any sort of comfort in any personal trait, whether it be looks, intelligent, or a vague feeling of being unique. You mocked my distress, treating me as if my bursting into tears was deliberately manipulative, instead of the sign of the sign of a woman falling to pieces in front of you. You told me I had no right to expect I can make any lasting difference to anyone, not myself, and not even you. Not only did you treat me with disrespect,

minimizing my viewpoint feelings, but you managed to single-handedly destroy the sole touchtone that had allowed me to keep hold of my sanity and my hope since I was a child. The belief that what made me different was valuable and valid. You told me, and these were your exact words, you're not special. You have to fully appreciate and understand that in order to get better. You need to accept your own human ordinariness. Because that's what it's all about, isn't it, doctor?

You have to be superior, even if it requires. beating down every eco that comes into your presence and chip away at every iota of self-worth that dares make itself known to you. At every one of our meetings, you arrived with an agenda and interpreted whatever I said in light of how it aligned with what you wanted to make me do, to make me into. You have one idea of what a health healthy, sane person should look like. One idea of the path to good mental health and all of your patients are forced into it. No matter how inappropriate to their own particular situation or damaging to their personality, you have your path theories and your pamphlets, your steps to wellness,

and your own ego won't permit a deviation from the program. All you want to do is bury all resistance so that your own concept can take seed. You think you're a gardener, doctor, but you're a fucking gravedicker. I read once that the best way to hurt a child who has nothing is to give them something broken. I am so angry as I write this. I don't know where to start. I hate you. I hate your attitude towards me, and I hate that I have come to believe that you will never change, no matter what anyone says or what damage you do. Instead of a compassionate, healing experience, you introduced me to the deepest hell of my life. You stole something for me that I had had since I was a child and gave it back to me, broken. You made any hint of validation

I had received in my life seem like a fluke instead of my due as a hard-working professional. You have no right to do what you did. My anger burns, melts me from the inside, makes me feverish and frantic when I need to be calm. The purest part of me is tainted and broken and you did it. You did what no other person in my life, no matter how abusive or neglectful, was able to do no matter how hard they tried. And to have such damage take place under the auspices of a professional dedicated to improving mental health? I think I understand far too well, the kind of ego and arrogance that makes you capable of committing such an act, as well as the utter ignorance of your own culpability in my pain. But I do not forgive you. And now, if I've estimated correctly,

the light on your little flashlight should be starting to flicker on and off, on and off again. How long before the battery dies completely? Did I calculate right? Because there are so many, variables at play here, not just the series of black and white assumptions I excel at parsing. How long before the drugs were off? Were you lucid quickly? Or did it take longer for you to wake, assess your situation, then find the flashlight and the letter in the dark, then I guessed? Have I timed your reading speed correctly? I had the opportunity so many times to watch you scanning the notes from my file. But then, were you really reading, really digesting what was there? Or were you just giving my life history a cursory glance? More to pinpoint a vulnerability or two

than for the sake of understanding. Words can be arrows, darts, sharp pointed weapons. Tranquilizers can be weapons too, whether delivered by darts or in a little paper, cup and a nurse's cold hand. Have you read this far? Are you paying attention now? Oh, dear doctor, I wish I could say I cared, but I don't need to know that you're listening, that you're hearing me. My actions are speaking to you, whether you understand or not. You can't escape the consequences of my actions, and if you want the absolute truth, you wanted me to dig deep. Isn't that what you said over and over again? Oh, I dug deep into the matrix of unbroken ground, traveling back in time with every shovel

full of dirt, into a place in the set past from which there is no escape. You are benefiting from my efforts, although I doubt you'll feel grateful. I buried you very, very deep. If you're hearing noises now or feeling vibrations, that's the cement mixer coming to bury you, even deeper. The city's new parking garage will be your very own sepulchre, not that anyone but I will know. How did I do, Doc, with excavating my soul for you?

Did you get what you wanted for my pain? From my vulnerability, do you at least appreciate the suitability of the monument that will be erected over your resting place? A parking garage. A fitting analog to the hospital ward where you'd convinced me to warehouse myself, just long enough to ruin my life? I'm sorry, it seems our time is up. From writer Elizabeth Hunter and narrated by Rissa Montanez. Creepy Presents, Under the Influence. Okay, please, everyone, this is important. I mean, so important. I finally, finally, found the Simone Bonquois, obsession, lip stain in September dusk. I'm trying not to freak out, but can you believe it? I never thought it would happen. Literal months of searching for this gorgeous little girl, and here she is, right in my hand. And you'll never believe where I found her.

In the subway, just right there on the ground. Still in her original packaging? I was shook. Oh, I know. I shouldn't go down there. Don't be mad at me. I know it's not safe. And it's definitely disgusting.

Just the smell alone. I mean, the subway never exactly gave healthy. Even before. But now it's way worse. I ran right home and did a clarifying face mask. Anything to try and get that horrible. fung out of my pores. That place needs a total glow up.

Am I right? Anyway, back to the lip stain. Let's talk about something happy, shall we? Now, as many of you know, I have a truly complicated relationship with Blancroix. I mean, it's one of my favorite makeup brands, and I sincerely believe that when they make a good product, it is the absolute best product. No exceptions. But when they swing and miss, it's a next-level miss. Also, who could forget, it was the first major makeup brand I partnered with when I started the channel.

So there is a sentimental connection as well. Gosh, it is so strange to think about that. What is that now? Three years ago? It feels like such a long time since I started doing this. And on that note, thank you all so much. I know some of you have been with me since day one. Or you would have been if you could have been.

I know a lot has happened. I am truly blessed. You know, maybe I'll save the lip stain on boxing for next time. It's been a crazy day and I'm suddenly so tired. You all don't mind. Do you? Stay gorgeous, my friends. Kiss.

Hashtag beauty. Hashtag makeup. Hashtag Greek. Hashtag date and the life. Okay, so this is going to be very controversial, and I guess I just have to be ready for the hate to come. What was that saying from that movie? Let the hate flow, Luke. So I guess I'm Luke, and you just let your hate flow, or whatever.

Here goes. Yes, I am making this at my old plastic surgeon's office, and yes, these are syringes I have sitting on the table next to me. I'll get to that. But first, you all remember Dr. Hill? Oh, my gosh, he was such a doll. I absolutely loved that man. He did my upper lip, which, as you all remember, was a super hard decision for me.

I had to soul search on that one. And I'm so glad I did it. The results were amazing. I looked completely refreshed. And obviously, I had no idea at the time that everything that was going to happen, what happened. So in a weird way, I guess I was being proactive. I mean, it's not like Dr. Hill is going to be performing any more procedures soon, so, which brings me to the syringes.

I have always been open about my injections, my Botox, my fillers. You all have taken this journey with me, and I am so grateful that we've shared every step of it together. And today, we are going to take the journey in a new direction. I know some of you will think I'm just crazy. You'll probably be a little angry, too. But let's be real. This face is starting to go. I mean, look at these elements and these marionette lines.

I looked in the mirror the other day and you know who I saw? My mother, the horror guys, the literal, horror. So I thought about it long and hard, and I decided that I have sat through enough injections that I can probably do them myself. Okay, go ahead. Let me have it. Tell me how dangerous it is. Tell me the risks. I get it, guys. I really do. I've thought all about it. I know. I can seriously fuck up my face, but my plan is to go slow. I'm just going to start with a little bit of the talks right here in my glabeller lines. In a week, we will know if I did it right. If I did, I'll do it a little more. And then, a little more. I promise not to get carried away. Stay gorgeous, my friends. Kiss.

Hashtag injections. Hashtag grateful. This rain, you guys. We had a solid three days of it. I hate it. But I've decided to use the time to do a refresh on my new place. That's right. I moved. It's kind of been a work in progress,

and I'm so excited to finally be able to reveal it to you all. Here we are. My new condo. Check out this view of the city. Amazing, right? And this art? I'm pretty sure the person, people, who lived here before,

must have been some kind of hot-shot art collectors. I think this piece is like a Jeff Coons or something. I'd look it up online, but unfortunately, the internet is a little spotty here. I'll post when I can. But otherwise, yeah, this new place is pretty darn nice. Obviously, it did need a little cleanup up when I got here. I'm sure you know what I mean. It was all kinds of dusty and the fridge

was full of nasty old food. But on the positive, the pantry has lots of very, and I mean very high-end non-perishables. And the building has a generator. So that's a major bonus. Seriously now, let's really get to it. The view, amazing. The art, amazing. But hello. This closet? Am I right? To the woman who lived here before, let me just commend you. You had the most astonishing taste. I have never, ever seen a handbag collection like this. And since it hardly matters anymore,

I might as well admit that I once snuck into Kendall Jenner's closet at a birthday party, and your collection, madam, puts Kendall's to shame. So, I know I've said it a lot lately, but I am so blessed. Guys, I have to be real with you. This closet? This condo? It's exactly what I needed.

I've been feeling so blue. Back in the before days, doing a little refresh on my place, it would have been my least favorite kind of content to make. Beauty and makeup. That's where my true vision lies. But this has been good for my heart, cleaning up this condo. And to be truthful, it's been a little tricky making beauty content lately. I just feel so ugly.

That's so hard to say. I've been thinking about that for weeks, and it hurts. It feels like how a pearl is made. A little bit of sand gets inside an oyster and irritates it, so the oyster coats the sand in protective goo or whatever, and eventually it becomes a pretty little pearl. But this thought is not becoming. A pretty little pearl.

I don't know what it's becoming, but it's not that. And I want it out of my head. Anyway, enough of that. Stay gorgeous, my friends. Kiss. Hashtag grateful. Hashtag home life. Hashtag beauty.

Well, here we are. It's a full week later and the Botox has officially kicked in. And voila! I think I did a great job. This is such a relief, guys. I was really nervous. I tried not to show it, but I wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be doing what I did. I mean, I could have really messed up my face.

But I didn't. My labella lines have relaxed, and I look more youthful and rested. Exactly what I was going for. So, you know what that means. Time to do a little bit more. When I was in Dr. Hill's office, I decided to go ahead and stock up just in case things did go well, which brings me to today and the bathroom of my fabulous new place. Now obviously, I'm not going to do this on camera.

Talk about nervous. But in the spirit of full disclosure, which has always been my motto and my mantra, here is what I plan to do. Some Botox in the rest of my forehead lines and in my crows feet. Hmm. I'll probably hit my platysmus muscle too. Also, yes, I am going to do some fillers. I know. It's a little bit dicey. But things went so well this last time. And I'll go slow to start, just like I did with the Botox. I'll just do a little bit in my cheeks to give them some of the fullness that they've lost in the past few months. I promise I won't do my lips.

I'm not that crazy. Yet. Stay gorgeous, my friends. Kiss. Hashtag beauty. Hashtag injections. Hashtag day in the life. Okay, guys.

Don't panic. I'm saying that as much for myself as I am for you. I know these bruises don't look fabulous. I thought about covering them with makeup, but I've always tried to produce honest content. and bruises are about as honest as you can get. And yes, I know some other parts of my face don't look so hot either. Oh, shit.

I'm not exactly sure what I did wrong. I clearly screwed up where I put the Botox. Maybe if I go back and try putting a little more here above my left eye, it'll create some of the symmetry that is so obviously lacking right now. But then there's my cheeks. I way, way, way overfilled them. I look like a gerbil. I know there's a way I can dissolve the filler,

but I'll have to go back to Dr. Hill's office to get what I need. I really don't want to go anywhere, though. Between my face and what happened the day I went down into the subway, I'm still feeling a little bit delicate. Oh, I never told you all about that day, did I? Well, maybe this is a good time. anything to avoid talking about the current situation, right? I guess it was two weeks ago now.

Time is starting to get a little hard to keep track of, but I'm making content every four days. So that's about two weeks, isn't it? I had been trying to find a new place to live. My old place was really starting to smell. And just so, so many rats. Like, I really don't know where they come from. If I weren't so grossed out, I would be impressed.

I figured that if I could get into a high-rise, maybe there would be fewer rats. So every afternoon, I would venture out and try to investigate a building or two. Finally, I got lucky. I found this place. And just as I was walking back to my old place to get my things, I saw him. He was standing outside a bar that I used to go to, back before. or everything happened. I love that bar.

They used to do this amazing caviar happy hour on Wednesdays. Oh my gosh. I miss caviar. I know it's a ridiculous thing to miss, but it was so good. So salty. I could eat ten whole tins of the stuff right now and not even care how bloaty it made me.

Anyway, he was standing outside the bar. And I think he was human. Not used to be human, but real, actual human. Like me. I know. I know what you're thinking. Is a beauty influencer even human? Sometimes I wonder that too.

Like, I hardly look human. Not today anyway. I look more like one of them, those things. Those monsters. But here's why I think he was human. First of all, he looked human, not all swollen and discolored. But also, he waved at me. I freaked out.

I ran, and I ran right to the first place I found that I could hide in. The subway. Which was a mistake, obviously. I should not have gone down there. even in the daytime, when they're asleep or whatever it is that they do. It's not safe. It was just impulse. I mean, back in the before days, if some random man had waved at me on the street,

I would have given him a bitchy look, not fled in abject terror. But things are different now. Of course, once I was down in the subway, I was truly terrified. The lights still work down there, you know. Just one or two, but it's enough to see what's there. And believe me, it's not good. It's very, very bad. I turned around and started to slowly, quietly, walk back up the stairs.

That's when my footbrushed the shopping back. It was lying on its side, everything's spilling out. And I guess my old materialist's, instincts just took over. I scooped it all up and sprinted out into the daylight, running back to my old place as quickly as I could. When I got home, I tried not to think about what I'd seen in the subway. And I tried not to think about the man and the wave. I haven't seen another real human in how long? Ten months, 11? I tried not to think about what it all meant. Instead, I emptied out the bag and looked at all my new goodies. And there it was. The Blancroix Obsession

Lips stain. Gosh, I was so excited about that, wasn't I? And now, I'm not even quite sure what I did with it. It's been so chaotic, seeing that man, then getting out of my nasty old place and into here. And now, dealing with whatever stupid fucking mess that I've made of my own But it's going to be okay, guys. It is. I promise it is. We're going to get this all sorted out. I'm going to find that lip stain and my next video is going to be super amazing.

I'm so grateful for you all. Stay gorgeous, my friends! Hashtag grateful! Hashtag Day in the Life. Okay, guys. First, the good news. I finally found the lip stain. And now, the bad news.

Even though it was new, the tube wasn't sealed properly for some dumb reason, so it's all dried out. So that sucks. But what else is new, right? However, we are not going to let this get us down. There were lots of other fabulous goodies in that shopping bag, and today, We are going to look at all of them and see which ones are still usable. And although my face is a hot mess express and I really don't feel like putting on makeup, we are going to take these lemons that life has given us and make a big picture of vodka lemonade.

Everyone ready? Good. Great. Let's go. Let's see. Looks like we have some foundation. Oh well, I'm not going to name this brand. They declined to partner with me about two years ago, and even though everyone in their marketing department is almost certainly dead or diseased, I'm feeling petty at the moment. So I won't be giving them any free advertising. Now, as for the foundation, it still looks like it's in good shape. So we'll keep that for now.

Oh, and here's some highlighter and a blush. These are powders, and they're not exactly my shade, but... Beggers and choosers, right? And? Oh, wow. Look at this. I didn't see it until just now. Glitter glue.

I wonder how she was going to use it. The girl who bought this. Maybe she was going to a party in a few days and wanted her eye shadow to be extra glam. It was getting close to the holidays when everything happens, so maybe she didn't even have any specific plans yet. Maybe she just wanted to be extra glam. be ready for when the invite started rolling in. I bet she and I would have been friends. Maybe not besties or anything, but I can definitely relate to any girl who keeps glitter glue on hand, just in case. She'd probably have some ideas about what to do with this face situation, too.

Maybe she'd tell me that, yes, I'm on the right track with my thinking about the Botox. I need to add a little more. Adding a little more, we'll figure. the asymmetry problem. You know what else I think she'd say? She'd say that my cheeks aren't overfilled. It's just that other parts of my face are underfilled, like my lips. If I just do a little to my lips, add a bit of volume there. My cheeks won't look so full in comparison. And maybe if I touch up my jawline too, everything will come back into balance. I'll look youthful. and refreshed, just like before everything happened. Stay gorgeous, my friends. Hashtag day in the life, hashtag grateful, hashtag makeup. Hey guys, sorry about the sunglasses and scarf. Like I mentioned,

my new place has these big, beautiful windows, and the sun is streaming in today. I couldn't resist sitting here and getting a little bit of light, especially after all the rain. But it's so bright, so I decided to throw on a pair of shades. And the scarf, well, that's just for a bit of added drip or whatever. I saw it in the closet and couldn't resist. Thanks again to the woman who lived here before. Your accessory collection is without compare. Anyway, I'm going to keep this brief today. I'm still a little puffy and bruised from the additional injections that I did after my last post, but I'm sure that's perfectly normal. It will probably take another several days for everything to look exactly right.

And in the meantime, you guys, I've decided to do a giveaway. It feels almost unfair to keep all these fabulous handbags to myself. Some of them don't even look like they've ever been used. they're still in shopping bags, in their original boxes. Not to sound critical, but I kind of wonder what this woman did, other than shop all day. I hope she did something slightly important with her life, now that she's gone.

I mean, I understand making beauty content isn't exactly curing cancer, but I've always tried to be inspirational and make my followers feel good about themselves. That said, I really don't know what I did to deserve to still be here. I don't know why I'm still alive, and so many other people are gone. Well, except for the waving man. Oh, I don't want to think about him. What am I supposed to do about that?

Anyway, back to the giveaway. I know I tried this a few times before, without any success, but I'm going to try it again now. If there's anyone still seeing my posts, please comment or send me a DM. I've got all these fabulous handbags and all this gorgeous artwork. If you want any of it, I'm happy to share. I have lots of food. and I forgot to mention the wine. These people were big wine collectors too,

so there's plenty to drink. We could have a party. I could use that glitter glue and create an amazing look for my eyes. I just want to know if there's anyone else out there or if it's just me now. Just me and that man. Are we the only only?

ones left? Should I try to go find him again? What if I was wrong and he wasn't human? I only saw him for a second. But why would he have waved? Anyway, I'm going to do a little more work on my face. I think my lips need a little more filler. Don't you agree? Stay gorgeous, my friends. Hashtag day in the light. Hashtag giveaway. Well, it's been a month and nothing. No DMs, no comments. Kind of depressing, you guys.

I was so optimistic this time. But maybe my video didn't upload properly. Like I said, the signal isn't great here. So maybe that's what happened. Maybe if the video had uploaded properly, I would have been flooded with messages and posts. Like before everything happened. Anyway, I'm not going to be sad.

I can't let myself get sad. Which is why I've decided to throw a party after all. No guests required. It's night now, as you can see, and I've got a full face on, which you can also see. It took me hours. literal hours, you guys. But I wanted to look nice for my party. What do you think?

The injections have finally settled. I know it's not exactly what I said I was going for, but I think I'm finally getting used to it. I always wanted higher cheekbones, and these are definitely high. I like how pronounced my chin is. I think it's very dramatic, and you know me. I live for the drama.

Oh, and my lips, they're so full now. It's such a shame that Blancroix-Lip stain was all dried out. I would have rocked it. Not that I really need a lip stain or anything like that at the moment. For some reason, my lips have stayed quite red post-injection. They're still sore, too. I'm a little worried it's a low-grade infection or something like that. Oh, I was finally able to use that glitter glue too.

I decided to do a smoky eye with a bit of gray and blue glitter, especially since my lips are so red. I thought it would be a nice contrast, sort of a fire and ice thing, but I'm not sure if it's all that flattering. My skin is so pale now. Either it's all the time indoors or maybe this bug I've been fighting off. I think the makeup has made me look more sickly than glamorous. Fortunately, there's plenty of wine.

I just opened a bottle of red. I suppose I should toast to something. The future, maybe. Or perhaps the past. Definitely not the present. The present blows. Oh, all right. So, today, I was going through some things in the apartment.

and I found some shopping bags with receipts from December 14th. But then I realized that's the date everything started. It was a Tuesday, and I was supposed to meet my friend Delilah for martinis. But she didn't show, and when I texted her, she didn't respond. I looked around the restaurant. Usually it was a total scene. Delilah and I only went to the trendiest places. That night, though, it was calm.

I thought it was odd. So close to the holidays, it should have been mobbed. But it made it easy to get a drink. And sitting there all alone, I ended up getting drunk. I staggered home and passed out. When I woke up the next morning, I saw that she still hadn't texted me back. I spent the day on the couch nursing a righteous hangover. I always wondered if that's what spared me, staying inside while the worst of the sickness spread

throughout the city. But I'm no epidemiologist. Really, I don't know what I am anymore. Certainly not a beauty influencer. Not with the way I look right now. My lips are really starting to hurt and talking is getting painful. Hmm. Good night, my friends. Hashtag day in the life. I hope you can understand what I'm saying. I'm trying to speak clearly, although it's difficult.

I definitely have an infection. A bad one. I don't fear very well. I don't feel very well at all. I know I look ten times worse. I'm so puffy and my skin is so hot. The infection started in my lips, but now it has spread to other places. My right eye is almost swollen shut.

I know I need to go back to Dr. Hills to try to get some antibiotics. I've dragged myself down to the lobby of the apartment building, but I'm just so tired. There's a couch here. I'm just going to stop for a little bit. I know it's not a good idea. This whole lobby is windows and I'm very exposed, but it's daylight now and all of those things are sleeping

or whatever it is they do in the daytime. If I just lay here for a minute and rest, I should be fine. It's about a 30 minute. it walked to Dr. Hills, and I can spend the night there if necessary. Gosh, this feels good. Just resting. Just looking out the window. It's such a beautiful day. It was like this for weeks after everything happened. I remember that. We had the most gorgeous winter weather. every afternoon was sunny and the skies are always clear somehow it felt even more cruel that way they were such gorgeous days

the kind where you were meant to go ice skating in the park with your friends and drink hot toddies afterwards They were the kind of days that made you feel alive, but instead everyone was dying. The world was dying. I don't know if I'm going to make it to Dr. Hills. It's not just the infection. I'm so disfigured and alone now. What's the point? Wait.

What is that? There's something outside the window. Some kind of movement, although I can't really tell what it is. Hold on, guys. I think it's him. The man. The man who waved at me. Maybe he saw my giveaway post and knew where to find me. And maybe he can help me. Maybe he can help me get to Dr. Hills and help me find the antibiotics I need. I'm exhausted, but suddenly I feel so hopeful. I'm going to try to walk over to the window and get his attention. There. Now a few bangs on the window with my fist. He heard me.

He's coming over. Oh, this is it. This is it, guys. It's going to be okay. But what's he doing now? Why is he looking at me like that? He looks afraid, disgusted and afraid. And now he's backing away again, one step at a time. Why is he doing that? Can't he see him just like him? I bang on the window again and again and shout. No.

No, don't go. I'm not sure it sounds that way, though. Even to my own ears, my voice sounds distorted, rough, and twisted. I think I know what he sees, and I think I would run too. And now he's gone. That's set.

That's all. It's only us monsters here now. Hashtag, goodbye, friends. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherylite licensing, or with written consent from the authors.

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