Creepy - Dress Up With Marcy  & The Shadows of the Stage

Episode Date: June 6, 2024

Dress Up With Marcy ***Written by: Joshua Bryant and Narrated by" JV Hampton-VanSant***The Shadows of the Stage***Written by: Melissa Thomas and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Content Warning: Sexual Assault***Support the show 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. which listener discretion is advised. He presents,

dress up with Marcy, written by Joshua Bryant, and narrated by J.V. Hemp and Van Sant. Marcy referred to it as doll shopping. But she was just as scared as I was. I kept glancing over at her as we drove down that bumpy dirt road. She was mindlessly twisting the three strands of hair I had collected for her, her eyes staring out at the dense forest beyond the window.

In the summer sunlight, her wrinkles look deep as scars. Her glasses are thick as bricks. The strands of hair she held were really the most important details of this entire excursion, and I wish she had just kept them in the plastic bag. Her nervous hands twisting them over and over again, threatening to break or drop them, had my nerves worn raw. But I didn't say anything. Marcy had to express her anxiety in some way.

After crossing a creek and mounting a muddy hill, The trailer finally came into view. It was in the middle of a stand of willow trees. It looked like a soup can with tires and a trailer hitch. There weren't any windows. Vines and weeds grew thick and clouds of gnats hung like smoke. My mouth went dry and I felt sweat itching in my armpits. The strands of hair squeaked between Marcy's fingers.

I didn't see any vehicles, not even a wagon, which, given what I had heard about the old woman, wouldn't have surprised me if there had been one. But the place looked abandoned, as if the only things that lived there were bugs and rats. I pulled up as close to the trailer as I could and parked. Marcy began opening the door before I even shut off the engine. I leaned over quickly and caught her by the upper arm. Marcy, I said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. Are you sure about this?

She looked at me, and I saw anger flash briefly through her unlawful, through her eyes. Then it turned to sadness. I felt my own heart sink a little. I let her go. We walked through the knee-high grass, swatting at huge mosquitoes and spitting out the gnats that were pestering our lips. Marcy knocked on the trailer door, and we waited in the stifling heat. I looked around, and it felt like the willows were looking back. back. The trailer door slowly creaked open. A scent, dry and dusty, spilled out and chased the humidity away. The bothersome mosquitoes and gnats vanished. The old woman appeared in the doorway. I cleared my voice and extended my hand. She shook it, and I noticed that her hand. She shook it, and I noticed that her

was bigger than mine. Marcy was already chattering. She chattered when she was nervous. The old woman smiled at her, and Marcy fell silent. With a sweep of her long arm, she invited us in. The trailer was deathly cold. There was no air conditioning, not even a fan. And it was dark. The only source of light was an oil lamp that pulsed atop the bookshelf lined with bottles and clustered with cobwebs. The old woman shut the door behind us. We were smothered in quiet. The old woman told us to take a seat on a pair of wicker chairs placed in the center of the trailer floor.

We did. and I was scared the chair would disintegrate under me. It held, but it was a rather tight fit. Not for the first time. I wondered how in the hell Marcy had heard about the old woman. I'd lived in these parts for 30 years, and I never knew the old woman existed. I wished it had stayed that way.

The old woman drew. close to Marcy and opened her hand. Marcy looked at the rough palm in confusion for a moment. Then she remembered the hair. She untwisted the strands from around her finger, which were quite blue at this point, and placed them in the old woman's hand. I hope that's enough, I said with a chuckle. I had to work my ass off just to get those. nearly got the cops called on me. Marcy tittered.

The old woman ignored me and walked ghostly silent to a long cedar chest press against the wall. There were strange designs carved into the chest surface, but I couldn't make out what they exactly were.

I wiped beads of sweat from my scalp. The old woman opened the chest and sighed. Marcy took my hands in hers. She was trembling. The old woman dropped the hair into the chest and began humming. Her voice was very beautiful, but the tune felt somehow grotesque to my ears. Something began stirring within the chest,

like many naked bodies were folding into one another. There was a wet sound, like drooling mouths opening and closing. The old woman made erratic gestures with her hands. Her humming intensified. The light of the oil lamp began flickering. There seemed to be a breeze in the air, but I couldn't feel it. The shadows were deep as lakes. The chest squirmed.

The wood was still wood, but it heaved like a breathing thing. The noises from within became even more uncomfortable to my ears. There was a gasping and sputtering. Then there came the scream. It was long and high and made the entire trailer shake. It was followed by the whole trailer shake. hot stink of blood. Marcy's fingers had gouged furrows into my hand. I felt sick. The old woman stopped humming and rolled up her sleeves. She looked over her shoulder at me and in a

melodious voice, asked for my shirt. I quickly obeyed, unbuttoning my flannel. Luckily I'd worn an undershirt. I wadded it up and threw it at her, not wanting to get too close to the cedar chest. She caught it out of the air and smiled. Then the old woman reached into the chest. She moved her arms about in there, wrapping something in my shirt. Beside me, Marcy was half standing. Her eyes blazed behind her glasses like a pair of searchlights. My own stomach felt like water. When the old woman stood upright, she was cradling something in her arms.

She turned around, and Marcy leaped over to her with an excited gasp. I watched my wife take the unmoving bundle from the old woman's arms. tears of joy were twinkling on her cheeks. I stood slowly and walked over. Marcy finally had what she wanted. A perfect little girl. Big, bright green eyes, long brown hair. I touched the head, and it was warm.

But there was no breath, no heart. heartbeat. Gosh, Marcy said. She is such a doll. And that's exactly what she was. A doll, with human skin and human eyes and human hair. Warm to the touch, giving all the impressions of life, but lacking movement.

I never knew something could be so horrible and wonderful at the same time. I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and paid the old woman. She took the money without counting it. Her eyes had taken on a saturnine quality, and her mouth hung in a frown. She was watching Marcy intently. Well! I said, clapping my hands. We'd best be on our way.

Thank you so much for your, uh, service. I opened the trailer door, and the humid air fell upon us like a sheet. Marcy stepped outside and walked quickly over to the car. She only had eyes for the doll she held. I was about to follow her when a heavy hand, on my shoulder stopped me. I looked back. The old woman was staring hard at me,

and her eyes seemed to be burning. A doll is not born, she said. I smiled awkwardly. I had no idea what she could be getting at, and I didn't want to waste time trying to puzzle it out. I pushed her hand off of my shoulder and trotted to the car. The last I saw of the old woman was a flash of her hand as she shut the trailer door, returning to her place of mystical darkness.

By the time we got home, the sun had already set. Marcy had spent the entire drive-back braiding the doll's hair and chattering to her. it. She decided that we would call it Dolly. I thought we could have come up with something better, but it was Marcy's doll, not mine. Inside our house, Marcy took Dolly to the spare bedroom straight away. She had made that whole room up to be exactly like a little girl's, with pink and flowery wallpaper, a little bed with white sheets and teddy bears, rows of crayons, sorted by color, arrayed on a diminutive desk just beneath the window. The closet was full of dresses that Marcy had sewn by hand. I sat down in my chair and turned the TV on.

I felt a little curious about the doll and had a small desire to go with Marcy. But I knew my wife. She'd want this experience all to herself. I turned the volume down and mindlessly flipped through the channels. Marcy shut the door behind her. I could hear her voice as she talked to Dolly.

She was very excited, and for a while, while everything seemed perfect. Finally, I relaxed and went to the kitchen for a soda pop. When I came back, I couldn't hear Mercy anymore. This didn't really bother me at first. I figured she was just consumed in dressing Dolly up or brushing its hair or painting its nails. But as an hour crawled by, and I still hadn't heard so much as a peep, concern started bubbling up. I walked quietly down the hallway. I got to the door of the spare room and pressed my ear against it.

Nothing. I scratched my jaw, then knocked. Marcy? I called. You okay in there? Abruptly, the door was flung open. I stepped back quickly in surprise. It was Marcy, but she seemed flustered, even a little afraid.

Behind her, I could see Dolly perched on the edge of the bed, wearing a pretty little lilac dress with frilly sleeves. There were bows in her pigtails. Well, you got her dressed up quick. I laughed, ignoring the unease I felt at my wife's troubled expression. Marcy nodded in response and forced a smile. Then she told me she was tired and that she was going to bed. I watched her walk away.

I leaned into the spare room to turn off the light, and notice my flannel lay. laying there on the floor. I stepped in to pick it up. As I knelt, I glanced up at Dolly and noticed something strange. The doll's face seemed to have changed very slightly. The lips were curved down, and the eyebrows were a little narrowed. The doll looked somewhat angry. I picked my shirt up and hurried to the door. I turned the light off without a second glance and went to be with my wife. Over the next couple of days, Marcy spent a lot of time with Dolly.

She treated it almost like a living girl. But beneath the smiles and fake tea parties and bubble baths, I could tell something wasn't, Quite right. Marcy was growing more and more irritable. When I asked her about this, she became evasive and blamed the summer heat. I didn't press the subject. Twenty-five years with Marcy had taught me to never press any subject. As for Dolly, I mostly ignored it. Marcy didn't really bring it out of the spare room, so it was relatively easy to pretend it didn't exist. But when I would catch glimpses of it as I passed by, its face seemed darker, angrier, the bright green eyes flashing with something like hostility.

It was almost enough to make my skin crawl. After a few weeks like this, there came a night when I couldn't sleep. I had bad heartburn and was tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. Marcy, as always, was snoring loud enough to wake stone. But I still heard something. It was the sound of little feet pattering down the hall. I sat up and tried to concentrate. My skin had gone cold, and I was scared to blink.

Marcy was too loud for me to hear more, though. So I got up and tiptoed to the door. The moon was full that night, so I didn't need a light to see. But it made the shadows look crisp and the house feel haunted. I put on my bathrobe and cracked the door,

peeking out into the hallway. I didn't see anything, but I heard the fridge open and close in the kitchen. I rushed to the nightstand and opened the drawer. I kept a little pistol, in there in case of emergencies. I got it out and made sure it was loaded. Then I crept out of my bedroom and down the hall. When I made it to the kitchen, my breath was heavy and sweat was dripping off my nose. I could hear someone eating at the table. It was a violent sort of eating, like an animal. I

turned the light on and stepped into the kitchen, leveling my pistol at where the noise was coming from. I froze. My heart plummeted. It was Dolly, and it had a raw steak in its bloody hands. Its cheeks were full of half-chewed meat. I stumbled and had to lean on the counter to step. steady myself. I was trembling so bad and I couldn't feel my feet.

Dolly was as motionless as ever. I kept glancing at it, afraid that at any moment it would start moving. But as seconds pass and I calm down, I noticed that Dolly looked very frightened. The eyes were wide, the lips were clenched in guilt. I even thought that there could have been tears about to fall. I put my pistol in my robe pocket. The more I studied Dolly's stricken expression, the more ashamed I felt. I felt less comfortable thinking of Dolly as an it.

No it. could ever be that scared. I coughed into my hand and found myself talking. Hey, it's okay, I said as I slowly approached her. I won't hurt you. Of course, she didn't reply. When I got to her, I gently took the raw stake from her hands. I laughed a little.

Here, let me cook it, I said and carried it to the stove. As I heated the pan up, I wet a dishrag and cleaned the blood from Dolly's face and hands. She looked less fearful now, perhaps even showing the beginning of a shy smile. It was very strange, and I knew that, but I felt happy to be taken. care of her. When the steak was done, I put it on a plate and cut it up into bite-sized cubes. I didn't want her to choke. Then I placed it before her and said, When you're done, just put the plate in the sink. I'll wash it in the morning. I left the kitchen light on as I left. As I walked down the hall, I could hear her chewing. I'd

chuckled and entered my bedroom. Marcy was still snoring away. After that, I started noticing more and more how Dolly would move when we weren't looking. Her expressions would change, though subtly, and more often than not, she seemed frustrated. I didn't bring any of this up with Marcy. My wife's irritability had spiked into near constant anger, so I stayed out of her way as much as possible. After about two months, Marcy decided she needed to get out of the house for what she described as me time. I was thankful. I think we both needed a small break from one another at that point. Of course, this would leave me alone with Dolly. It was mid-morning. The clouds were fat and the air was cool. Marcy put on her pink cardigan and got her purse. I walked her to the car,

and gave her a peck on the cheek. She waved me off with an impatient hand. Then she backed out of the driveway and disappeared around the street corner. I went into the garage to work on my old project truck. It had been a while, and I figured it was a perfect opportunity for my own me time. As I opened the hood, I realized I was thirsty. I went inside for a beer. It was very quiet in the house. There was only the tick-tick-tok of the cuckoo clock on the wall.

I looked down the empty hallway. The door to the spare room was closed. I thought about Dolly in there. All alone. I sighed and scratched my head. I knew Marcy wouldn't want me messing with the doll. She had never told me. that, but I knew my wife very well. Yet, I couldn't ignore the sadness I felt, imagining the

little thing in there without a friend or anything to do. I rubbed my hands and then said, aloud. Well, Marcy doesn't need to know. I walked quickly down the hall and opened the door to Dolly's room. I was surprised to see her standing right inside. Her hands clasped behind her back, her face upturned and smiling. She was still as a photograph, but her motionless eyes seemed so alive. Do you want to help me work on my truck? I asked as I must her hair. She didn't move, but I felt her eagerness. I put my hands under her armpits and lifted her up. She felt warm.

I carried her outside, and we went into the garage together. I seated her on the tool cabinet next to the truck and moved her head so she could look down at what I was doing. Her smile seemed to have brought in. I began pointing at the parts, explaining what each one was and what it did. I pointed at the engine, the battery, the alternator, and it felt good to be sharing this knowledge that I had for years kept only to myself. Every time I would look back up from the truck, Dolly's face was more

and more interested. Eventually, I started showing her the tools I was using, too. I would put them in her hands and curl her fingers around them. I placed others onto her lap. I taught her what they were all for, and when I would look away from her, I could hear her moving them around, clinking them together,

tapping them with her tiny, fingernails. It was great, just like having a real child. In fact, I think it was that point that I stopped thinking of her as a doll entirely. So what if she couldn't move when I looked at her? So what if she didn't have a pulse, so what if she didn't draw breath? Those twinkling eyes and big smiles couldn't be anything but a child's. Hours passed without me noticing. I was having too much fun. I lost track of time, so when I heard Marcy pulling into the driveway, my heart stopped. I stood up straight and looked at Dolly. Her eyes were staring out at Marcy, her face in a deep frown.

Then I looked at Dolly's green dress and white stockings. They were covered in grease and dirt and oil. I couldn't stifle the groan that passed my lips. Marcy slammed the car door shut, and I could feel her anger as she stomped into the garage. I turned to greet her with a smile. Her face was red as a beat, and veins were throbbing at her temples and along the lines of her throat. The excuse I'd thought up died in my mouth. Marcy was too furious to speak. She snatched Dolly off of the tool cabinet with bloodless hands, shot one last glare at me, then moved like a storm cloud

out of the garage. I waited for a few moments before cleaning up. When I got inside, Marcy was waiting for me. She stood in the living room, hands on her hips, sweat gleaming beneath her thin gray hair. I cleared my throat and began apologizing. She interrupted, shouting at me louder than she ever had before. I walked quietly to the couch and sat. Her voice was shrill, the words spilling out of her lips like venom. She was so furious in her gestures and so explosive in her language, I was worried she was going to have a heart attack.

Every time she stopped to take a breath, I would whisper, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped. Her eyes wide, like pools of milk, her mouth partly opened. She turned around and stared down the hallway. What is it? I asked, looking around her and seeing nothing. She raised a hand, and I didn't say anything else. Marcy was listening.

Abruptly, she was trotting down the hall. I watched her open the door to Dolly's room. Her mouth fell open at what she saw. She screamed, but it was not a scream of fear. It was a scream of bitterness and hate. She flew into the bedroom. Fright gripped my heart, and I lurched from the couch and stumbled down the hall, calling out to my wife, asking her,

what was wrong. When I got to the door and saw for myself, my blood ran cold. The room was in utter disarray. Dresses and hats and blouses were strewn across the floor, all cut and ripped to pieces. Marcy was rigid, her back slouched, her head thwarted, her head thwarted. thrust forward, a trembling finger pointed at the little figure standing on the bed. Dolly was there, a look of defiance on her face. Her green eyes communicated what her mouth could not. She had cut her hair, and it lay in choppy strands all over the sheets.

She held a pair of little red scissors in her hands. Marcy pounced. She yanked the scissors from Dolly's grasp and took the little girl beneath her arm. She whipped about and charged for the door. I tried to bar her way, extending my hands and saying, Now Marcy, let's just calm down.

She stabbed me through the palm of my right hand with the scissors. I shrieked. I'd never felt pain like that. Never saw my own blood spilling out so quickly. She shoved me out of the way and ran out to the living room. I clutched at my hand and puked. I felt faint and reeled as I watched the red streaming out of my flesh to fall onto the white carpet.

I heard the metal rattle of the fireplace screen, and something heavy being thrown inside of it. On my weak legs, I stumbled to the living room. Marcy was squirting lighter fluid into the fireplace. Her face was furnace bright, her glasses askew, her hair, her hair, flying all over. I reached for her shoulder and she punched me in the mouth. I fell down and then saw what she had thrown into the fireplace. Dolly, her expression of defiance was gone.

She looked terribly afraid. She was staring at me, as quiet and motionless as a doll. Marcy lit a match and tossed it in. Dolly went up in flames, bright orange and scarlet. She did not melt like wax. She did not turn to ash like paper. No, she burned the way a person would burn. Dolly, engulfed in fire, did not scream, but I did.

Creepy presents The Shadows of the Stage, written by Melissa Thomas, and narrated by Megan Macduffey. The smell of cheap bath and bodywork spray overwhelmed Mia as she walked through the door for the very first time. As a 25-year-old, she assumed her time to be popular in a barely legal-dominated world had passed. She carefully sat on a bar stool, teetering on the uneven floor tiles. To her surprise, the group of dancers, clad in lace and sequins, came to befriend the newest addition to their lineup. They seemed nice, caring even. Mia instantly clicked with Jasmine, a tall, confident dancer with a not-so-shocking backstory. Jasmine took Mia under her wing, showing her the ways of the trade. She was the expert. After all,

she had been in the same club for 15 years. Most dancers had a sad story, usually domestic violence or substance abuse. Mia was no different than these strong women. A dire home life with no way out drove Mia straight to this gentleman's club. By the end of her first week, Mia made enough for the deposit on her first apartment, every sweat-soaked, dirty dollar bill spelled freedom. Despite what she'd been told, Mia tried to get to know every dancer in the club. Working every shift possible sped this process along. She quickly learned who to trust and who not to. Some girls just wanted to help others make their money, while some held a strong desire to tear everyone else down, because they assumed it would make them more. There were a lot of other employees at the club,

as one would expect. It wasn't all dancers running the show. Bartenders, bouncers, and even random regulars who'd been given jobs. Of course, all these jobs were held by men. Most were there to ensure the dancer's safety, and they did a great job of it. However, there was one bartender that all dancers were warned of in their first five minutes in the building. Mia was always one to give the benefit of the doubt. That six foot seven and three hundred and ten, 75 pounds, Eddie was not someone anyone wanted to upset. A multi-purpose employee, Eddie handled bartending most nights and security. He never hesitated to body slam a customer for putting their hands on a dancer. Aside from serving perfectly made drinks, he made sure the customers knew

not to behave inappropriately with his girls. I'm sure Eddie saw himself as the savior to these deeply troubled women, which in turn led to his obsession with them. The dancers were aware of Eddie's odd view of them, and most avoided him entirely. Mia was naive. She could not believe someone so creepy would be allowed to stay in his position of power. Eddie and Mia became best friends, despite all the warnings she'd been given. She went from a new girl to a bartender's pet in mere weeks. Understandably, her fellow dancers were confused. How could they all see the red flags from this man, but not her? Through their bonding, Mia began seeing Eddie's threads unravel. Eddie was essentially the manager all the time. He carefully

crafted the schedules and watched the security cameras to ensure everyone's safety, all while tending the bar. Through his many years of experience, Eddie found a corner of the dressing room that was unable to be seen by the cameras. He kept this fact to himself, of course. He watched what could be seen on the camera as if his life depended on it. He'd usually find a girl to fixate on and watch for the entirety of her shift. When Mia entered the club, he knew he had found his new girl. Eddie carefully managed his behavior around Mia, enticing her to become his friend. After experiencing so many dancers, he could usually pinpoint their personalities within the first few minutes. He knew she was the one. Eddie made sure everything Mia needed,

Mia got. Once Eddie selected her, she never paid for her food, her drinks, or even her fees for working. All these favors combined with the other dancer's warnings, Mia started to piece together who Eddie truly was. Twelve years ago, Jasmine was Eddie's fascination. She never befriended him as Mia had, but she still received the same treatment, the special treatment, the extra vigilance during a private dance, all of it. Jasmine would never tell the specifics of this time, but everyone knew it went horribly wrong. Despite her knowing better, Mia tried using this favoritism to her advantage.

She eventually learned most of Eddie's tricks. She'd watched the camera with him. She noticed the blacked out spot in the dressing room and made it hers. She knew Eddie was watching, so she'd always end up where he couldn't see. Mia had no idea Eddie also knew about this spot. Mia also had no idea Eddie could just unplug the cameras any time he wanted, with nobody to bat an eye. She thought she was just getting one up on him, but she was sadly mistaken. Somehow, at least once a shift, Jasmine and Mia were put on stage together.

By month three, Jasmine wanted no part of Mia. She'd been through that hell once and staying close. to Mia could only make it happen again. They'd spin around and dance to carefully selected songs, usually by Eddie. His favorite was Cherry Pie by Warrant, which was concerning all by itself. Mia always took a second to go back into the dressing room and grab a drink and snack before making her way out to the dark club floor. Jasmine knew better.

She would exit the stage and always find a table to sit at with a customer. Mia never had any issues with this. A lot of girls had a mini break after an intense stage time. That was until the night of February 24th. Mia exited the stage to the dressing room, and instead of her cup and a snack cake, she found something much worse. In the dark corner of the dressing room, sat Eddie.

At first, Mia thought nothing of this. Sometimes Eddie would bring snacks or a tip left at the bar for her, It wasn't until Eddie started getting closer to Mia that she knew this wasn't a normal exchange of pleasantries. He pressed his large frame up against Mia until she was flat against the dark blue, sticky wall. Not trying to cause a problem, Mia made a joke, asking Eddie if he needed a sugar snack as he was diabetic. He didn't laugh. He encouraged her to leave her outfit off and give him a hug. Thankfully, Jasmine came running into the room as if she did.

been summoned. Eddie took the sugar snack and retreated to the bar. Jasmine hugged Mia without a word, knowing exactly what was about to happen. All Mia could do was get back to work. She stayed on the floor for the remainder of her shift and walked out to her car with one of the regular turned employees. She hoped this was a one-time misjudgment on Eddie's part and returned the next day as if nothing had happened. There was some lingering tension between Mia and Eddie for the weeks following, but eventually things returned to normal. He was still treating her like the queen of the club, and she was still playing into it. Mia slowly started letting her guard down. Some nights she would drink one too many Long Island iced teas and become a tad too friendly with Eddie. He was her best

friend, after all. He was the only friend she had left. The other dancers were on guard around Mia. They assumed she'd become just as creepy as Eddie. maybe even helping him. This was all the more evident to Mia the night of June 12th, the night that truly began the end. Mia always loved going over the top for her birthday, a true summer child. She'd never worked on her day before. Working a shift on your birthday was an easy way to double your night's profits. Almost every customer she interacted with bought her a drink. This led to a very sloppy last call. She made more than she ever made before and got drunker than ever before. To celebrate, Eddie let Mia behind the bar to play bartender while it was slow. He taught her how to

pour his favorite drink. It was just Jameson in a glass with ice, but she felt like a professional making and serving it to him. Mia spent the last hour the club was open in the dressing room with her head down. She had enough brainpower left to know if she didn't sober up. Eddie would be the one driving her home. Unfortunately for Mia, it didn't matter how sober she was. Eddie was set on taking her, regardless. Despite her fighting him, Eddie threw her into his blacked-out 1500. The other dancers watched as if this were normal occurrence and said nothing.

He didn't drive to her apartment. Mia wasn't sure where they went, but by this point she was losing consciousness and was about to fall fast asleep. Mia woke up in a grungy one-bedroom apartment that stunk of cat urine and old socks. Her outfit from the night before had been ripped to shreds, and she had $1,500 more in her bag than she'd remembered. Eddie walked into the darkened room

and handed Mia a three-xel sweatshirt to put on for the ride home. No words were spoken during the entire 34-minute drive. She entered her apartment in silence and took the longest shower of her life. She napped and got back up to go to work. She pieced together some of what had happened to her and had an ironic giggle at the assumption Eddie put the extra money in her bag as payment for what he did to her. She didn't know what to do.

She had no idea how to support the lifestyle she'd built doing anything else. And while Eddie was terrifying, the unknown was somehow scarier. Mia knew it would be hard to continue working with such a monster, but she also knew the owner viewed Eddie as a son and would never fire him. She had to come up with a plan, whether it be one to remove Eddie or herself from the club. She couldn't continue as it was. Dancing as a way to escape a domestically abusive situation is a story told by more dancers than anything else.

Fast money, discreet, flexible schedule, and few necessary skills to start sound like a dream come true to someone struggling to stay alive. However, that savior clad in black light can quickly become a nightmare. Mia never imagined anything worse could happen to her. She was sure she'd seen the worst of it and figured out how to avoid it happening again. Most nights where business as usual, go in, dance your stage sets, do a few private dances, and go home. She was able to avoid Eddie for the most part, until the night she walked in on Eddie cornering Jasmine in the dressing room, just as he had done to her months before. Mia was frozen, staring at the situation she'd been on the other side of.

Eddie hurriedly zipped his pants and ran back to the bar. Jasmine scoffed at Mia and adjusted her outfit, sitting back down to touch up her makeup. Mia was at a loss. Why is this happening to us? Who will stop him? She knew the time to plan was now. She never was a very spiteful person, though a vengeance had been awakened inside her.

Face to face with her demon, she began figuring out a way to get back at Eddie. She'd read an article earlier in the day about how if ingested, eye drops can cause illness. Her revenge plan was unfolding right before her eyes. As the weeks went on, Mia kept the fire of vengeance burning within her. She played as nicely as she could with Eddie until, eventually, their dynamic was back to normal.

She was allowed to do whatever she wanted, and he watched from the cameras. A slow night gave way to an opportunity for Mia. She decided to drink as much as she could, except she wasn't drinking. Every extra strong Long Island Eddie gave Mia was immediately poured down the bathroom drain. Throughout all this, Mia encouraged Eddie to drink with her. He allowed Mia to make him drink after drink. Two things Eddie didn't know. Mia was sober, and she was testing the eyedrop trick, and he was the guinea pig. The first few eyed-lop-laced drinks showed no effect on Eddie, probably because of how big he was. Thus, she continued. Every drink had a few more drops in it,

until eventually she ran out. Eddie seemed unfazed. She assumed what she read was a lie. Mia accepted defeat and began acting like she had sobered up. In true Eddie fashion, he didn't accept this. He forcefully put Mia in his truck and began driving to his apartment. Though she knew where they were headed, Mia attempted to playfully reason with Eddie. What she wasn't expecting was Eddie turning to her and telling her,

and telling her everything he'd ever done, every girl he'd assaulted, excruciating details of the last time he drove her home, all of it. She'd never seen someone so calm say such horrifying things. She knew she had to get out of the truck. She begged him to stop at a gas station on the way for a snack. Despite knowing what he did, the naive part of her wanted to think he'd just needed a snack and would go back to normal after his sugar regular.

Her requests went unmet. Eddie drove, and Mia held onto the door for dear life. She had an idea of what was to come, but somehow forgot about her experiments from earlier in the night. The posted speed limit said 55, but the dash said 107. Eddie sped through the back roads, not seeming to have a destination in mind. He continued to brag about all his conquests through the years, as if he'd win an award for sexual assault. Despite her lack of religion, Mia closed her eyes and let out a desperate prayer. Please let me out of this truck. Just as Mia reopened her eyes, she felt like she was on a roller coaster flipping over and over and over. Time froze. It was as if she was outside watching all of this happen in slow motion.

Assuming she had fallen asleep, Eddie jerked the wheel to wake Mia up. The worst thing he could have done at now 117 miles per hour. The truck swerved to the right, then the left. The driver's side fender hit the road first, then the roof. Repeat seven times. The entirety of the driver's side of his already beat-up truck was essentially gone, crumpled as if it were a piece of paper. When the truck came to arrest, Mia sat suspended in her seat, wondering how she was going to get out.

She eventually found something to cut her seatbelt and break the window with. She crawled into the dewy grass and stared at the mangled sheet metal. Sirens in the distance blared towards her as she stood, frozen, assessing what had just happened. The police arrived after what seemed like hours. White as a ghost, Mia was barely able to tell the first responders what went down. Confused, the officers continued questioning her until they eventually cuffed her and placed her in the back of their cruiser. She was fully in shock, unsure as to why she was being arrested. Upon arrival at the police station, Mia was given a breathalyzer test, along with a drug test.

Nobody would give her any explanation until they made their way to the interrogation room. Mia told the whole story, the dressing room stalking, the assault, forcing her to his house, even the eyedrop attempts. She was charged with attempted murder and reckless operation. She couldn't figure out why she was being charged when she wasn't the one driving. Finally, an officer explained to Mia that she was the only one in the vehicle. They were surprised she survived with how badly crushed the driver's side of the vehicle was. regardless of her stories Mia was placed in a cold

five-by-five cell for the remainder of the night where did Eddie go how did he survive Mia was sentenced to 15 years in prison for her attempt on Eddie's life six months into her sentence she started receiving letters

they never said anything concerning but she just knew they were from him these ominous letters came once a week for the entire 15 years. By the time she was released, she was 41 years old.

Mia was now a convicted felon. Her small town held little to no career opportunities for her. After months of searching for a job, Mia found herself at the front door of the local gentlemen's club. Since she'd been gone, new owners had taken over the club, so she assumed she'd never see Eddie again. The new owner cautiously allowed Mia to work,

on the condition she wasn't allowed to drink or partake in any drugs. She obliged and worked successfully for three entire weeks before it all went south. There was a dark corner of the stage, unable to be seen by the cameras. They'd never been updated in the years she'd been gone. Mia was called up for her set on the stage, just as she'd done a dozen times that week. The second song of the set sent shivers down her spine. Cherry pie. Giving it all she had, Mia tried to make it through this song without breaking down.

It was almost as if Eddie was staring up at her from the bar, laughing at his odd song choice, except he wasn't. Eddie was in that dark corner of the stage that couldn't be seen by the cameras. He had a scar from his left temple all the way down to his right ear, like his face had been completely busted open. He laid a hundred-dollar bill on the tip rail And without a word, exited the club This became a weekly tradition Like clockwork cherry-pie plays Eddie appears, then disappears

As the weeks went on, Mia felt a slight relief That this was all he had planned Why she kept underestimating him, nobody knows A slow night, a severe thunderstrand storm and a bottle of laced water. The perfect combination to the end of Mia's dancing career. A normal night, maybe even a few extra tips. Mia stumbled to her car in the dark parking lot.

She started driving home as she noticed a set of headlights shining directly in her back window. Back road after back road, Mia tried to lose this followed car. Eventually the car turned off and Mia thought she was free. She headed down her street and entered her apartment. Her bedtime routine only consisted of a quick shower, and then she was off to bed. She was extra tired, but thought nothing of it. She closed her eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep.

Mia didn't return to work the next day. It was normal for dancers to no call, no show, so nobody really bad at an eye. As the weeks went by, Mia's regulars began asking questions. no answers were to be given. One dark night, an old familiar face visited the club to hang out for a bit. Jasmine heard the stories from the dancers about what had happened with Mia. Horrified, she ran out of the club. Jasmine called everyone she could to find Mia's address.

She made her way to Mia's house and broke down the door. Mia was nowhere to be found. Her phone, purse, and even shoes stayed on the table next to her front door. Jasmine called the police, explaining all she knew and all she'd experienced herself. They searched for Mia. No leads. Mia had been swallowed by the shadows. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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