Creepy - Ever Since I Woke Up From Surgery...

Episode Date: July 3, 2023

There must be some mistake...***Written by: B.A. Ries and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Bonus Episode: "Haunterspecting" written by: Ben Lockwood***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex AldeaHosted 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.

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Not sure if I mentioned this on the show or just social media, but I want to let you all know that I'll be appearing at the Midsummer Scream Convention, July 29th through 31st, the Long Beach Convention, Center in California. I'll be a part of a digital horror panel along with Shelby Scott of Scary to Sleep and Trevor Henderson, the creator of Sarenhead. I'll also be doing a live performance for those interested who are in attendance. There are a ton of confirmed panels and guest appearances from people across the horror genre. Get your tickets now at MidsummerScream.org.

I'll see you there. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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. Creepy presents. Ever since I woke up from surgery, everyone tells me that I'm married to a man I've never met. written by B.A. Rise and narrated by Danielle Hewitt.

It's been ten months since I first remember meeting Brandon. But, according to the rest of the world, he and I became a couple three years ago. It all started after the surgery. When I awoke from my anesthesia-induced sleep, I nodded grogly as the doctor listed common post-operative symptoms, like drowsiness, dizziness, and disorientation. Then two nurses wheeled me down to an elevator, through the main lobby, and outside the hospital. Even though I'd arranged for my friend May to pick me up, the car that arrived was not her black sedan, but instead, an unfamiliar silver SUV.

The stranger who emerged from it was a tall, well-built man with hazy green eyes and tousled red hair. Panic rushed through me as he squeezed my hand and told me in a firm, deep, voice, that he was so glad that the operation had been a success, and that he'd be taking good care of me while I recovered. I tried to scream. I tried to explain to the nurses that they were delivering me into the arms of an abductor. But in my weakened state, all I could manage were weak wimpers and incoherent mumbles, that the man and the nurses dismissed as side effects and temporary confusion as they lifted me into the car. The ignition started. As the hospital faded into the distance, I tried to beg the man to free me.

With immense effort, I managed to croak words like, please, don't, and stop, but to no avail. If the man heard me, he gave no sign of it. Meanwhile, a sense of absolute exhaustion gradually descended over me. The last thing I remember before darkness overcame me was the man's love. and smile, and three words that haunted the frightening dreams that followed. I love you. When I awoke the next morning, I found myself, to my immense relief, in the familiar location of the bedroom of my townhouse. For a moment, I wrote off what happened as a dream, or hallucination

brought on by my semi-conscious state. Maybe May had picked me up after all. Soon enough, however, The same man stepped into my room. He placed a tray with two slices of toast and a small fruit smoothie on the bedside table. And, upon seeing that I was awake, asked me how I was feeling. The scream I uttered left him flustered and pale-faced. He asks me what's wrong. He knew my name. Get out. Get out now!

I hollered. He nodded and quietly backed out of my room. I mustered what energy I had to leap out of the bed and lock the door. I found my phone in its usual place atop a dresser. The photo that displayed on the background of the phone screen caused me to drop it. A nauseous feeling ran through me as I picked it up and stared, wide-eyed at the image of the stranger in me, smiling and holding hands. The sight of an ornate diamond ring on my finger in the picture.

One that matched the gold band he wore. made me dizzy. With trembling hands, I dialed 911. When the police arrived, the man, who identified himself as Brandon Harrison, spoke calmly as the officers interrogated him. Everything he said checked out. He produced a marriage license, and his driver's license listed my home address. He showed the officers the numerous photos of us together that were displayed around the house.

He repeated to them that he was just so worried about me, and that I'd never acted like this before. Don't listen to him, I begged. He's lying. One of the officers led me upstairs while her partner stayed behind with Brandon. When I started to ramble again, she cut me off. Look, ma'am, please try to see this from my perspective.

You're still recovering from a medical procedure. And this man has everything, and I mean everything, to prove that he is, in fact, your husband and that he lives here with you. You can't be serious, I replied. You're not going to leave me alone with this man. The officer interrupted me again, asking me if Brandon had threatened me or tried to hurt me.

Well, no, but... My voice drifted off. But, officer, I have friends and family. They'll confirm what I'm telling you. The officers left after my friends and family did the opposite. every person I contacted swore to the same version of events, that I married Brandon almost a year ago, and that we'd been living together as a couple for even longer.

My own social media pages were consistent with the happy pictures of us displayed around the house. Post after posts reflected us living and traveling together. My phone and text message histories, meanwhile, were filled with corresponding communications. All of it left me absolutely baffled and confounded. I had no idea what to do. I just knew that I did not feel safe having Brandon in this house with me. It's my house, too, you know. He replied when I asked him to leave.

But okay, I'll go to a friend's place or a hotel. Or somewhere else until you figure out whatever is happening to you. If you promise to see a doctor in the meantime, I'm so worried about you. Fine, just go, please. Over the next few days I met with practitioner after practitioner. Many had records or notes reflecting my marriage to Brandon, such as me mentioning him in response to routine questions. And none could clearly explain what was happening.

They all agreed that I exhibited no signs of mental or physical illness that could explain why three years of memories of my husband had somehow vanished from my mind. I was sitting on my living room couch, tall glass of red wine in my hand, when Brandon called. I hit decline, took a big gulp of my drink, and leaned my head against the wall. What the fuck do I do now, I thought? The whole world was telling me something that I knew wasn't true.

During a long call with my parents, my mother had insisted that I invite Brandon back. And my father had even implied that I was deliberately lying about losing my memories of him. logically the only answer is that somehow everyone else was correct this man really was my husband and i was losing my mind or in denial or something as much as i felt otherwise no alternative explanation was possible and brandon wasn't acting maliciously instead he was complying with everything i asked of him to the point that he was living out of a hotel despite having the legal right to reside with me here. In a house, he apparently co-owned.

If it were all some elaborate lie, then what was he gaining from it? I downed another glass of wine and called him back. He answered right away. We talked for hours. He asked about my health and the results of my recent appointments. I asked him about how we met. He related how he used his old red pickup truck

to pull my car out of a ditch during a blizzard. By coincidence, we'd run into each other at the bar a few weeks later, where I insisted on buying him a drink as a token of appreciation. We hit it off quickly and made plans together to meet again. Before long, we were considering ourselves a couple. He described leaving his apartment to move in with me, proposing to me in a park by the harbor and planning our small wedding. He told me that I had never been as beautiful as I was when he saw me approach the altar. I don't know what's happening, April, he told me. But I love you with all my heart, and I know we can work through this.

We were happy together, and we can be happy together again. I realized I was crying. He sounded so sincere, and I could sense real emotion behind his words. I believe you, I said. But try to imagine what it's like for me, to just be told by him. everyone that so much of my life happened differently from what I remember. He responded that I should take my time, and then I just needed to let him know when I was ready to see him again. I tossed and turned all night. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was living a life that wasn't mine,

like I'd slipped from one reality to another, one where I didn't belong. Because no matter how patient and understanding Brandon acted, I couldn't change the fact that I didn't feel anything for him. I barely knew him, much less loved him. I thought about the pain he must be feeling, for his whole life to just be inexplicably upended one day. And I couldn't help but feel like I was somehow responsible. I decided to call my mother again. Honey, she told me,

I would never lie to you, ever, and you know that. So listen to me when I say this. Brandon is your husband, and you need to let him back into your life. An hour later, I called Brandon and told him that I was all right with him moving back in, so long as he stayed in the guest room in the basement. Months passed with us living together like roommates. At first, we handled our own meals, but after a while we started cooking for each other.

Sometimes we'd sit at opposite ends of the couch and watch TV. I asked him questions about our time together, and he supplied me with plenty of stories. the early date during which I'd putted a golf ball so badly that it went spiraling over a fence and onto a nearby highway. The time he'd carried me for nearly half a mile after I injured myself during a jog. In our honeymoon, on an Alaskan cruise, we had a natural chemistry,

and he often made me laugh. At the end of the night, he'd retire to the pull-out couch downstairs. We took many walks together at a nearby public park. These outings were generally uneventful, except for one occasion when Brandon intervened to stop a crazy woman from harassing me. I'd been giving her dog, a sweet ridgeback, who'd run up to me, some scratches and pets when she started to scream at me. As I backed away from the dog, she made a hostile, guttural sound,

and I noticed what looked like a narrow stream of blood running down from her eyes as she wailed. She charged at me, but Brandon intervened, shoving her off and telling her to leave me alone. Another bystander restrained her as we hurried away, and I thanked Brandon for looking out for me. Otherwise, life fell into mundane routine. We were watching a tense movie once when I realized I'd been gripping Brandon's hand. Afterwards, he told me his back was aching from all the nights he'd spent on the foldout downstairs.

I took a deep breath. I'm being a jerk, keeping the bed all to myself. We should set up a rotation in terms of, who stays there and who's in the basement. He replied that that wasn't what he meant, that while the bed was more comfortable, what he really missed was going to sleep with me. He related how he had been having nightmares recently.

In them, I was living my life without him. He would try to speak to me, but it was like he was a ghost, and I couldn't see or hear him. He would then wake up in the basement, covered in sweat, and I wouldn't be there to comfort him like I used to. I'm sorry, Brandon, I... I just... I just miss you so much.

He stammered. Brandon, I'm just not there yet. He sighed and told me he understood. I finally asked him a question I'd been holding back for weeks. Do you think I'm lying about not remembering you? No, he responded abruptly. Not at all. I don't know what it is if it was some fluke side effect of the surgery or some kind of undiagnosed condition.

But I know that you would never lie about something like this. I wouldn't have married you if I didn't trust you completely. As much as I appreciated his words, the exchange left me feeling terrible. We were a married couple after all. I had to assume that we'd done plenty of things together. But now, I don't even want to fall asleep in the same room as him. The truth was that I continued to feel no meaningful attraction towards Brandon. I'd developed an affection for him, sure.

He seemed polite, self-sacrificing, and protective of me. Perhaps he was good-looking, too, in an objective sense. But he sparked no romantic interest in me. It made me feel awful, given how kind and patient he was being with me. Maybe that would change with time. Maybe. Eventually. I'd feel towards him the way I must have in the photos displayed around the house of us kissing or embracing.

But what if that never happened? I couldn't stay married to someone I didn't love, no matter how good he was to me. Still, I figured the least I could do was return some of the kindness he'd shown me by switching out our rooms as I'd offered. I wanted it to be a surprise for him. After he left for work the next morning, I said about moving the belongings he'd brought to the basement back up to the bedroom. I decided to wash the sheets and pillowcases he'd been using as well.

When I lifted his pillow, I noticed a slight bulge in the fabric with a mattress met the back of the couch. Reaching my hand under the fabric and up to the backrest, I felt something solid. I gripped it and slowly pulled it out. It was an old, tattered book. A pattern was infused onto its otherwise blank mahogany leather cover. A golden triangle stood in its center. Three charcoal ovals lay over it, each intersecting with one of the triangle's sides.

At the top, just above the triangle's pyramid tip, was a half circle. Tiny, unrecognizable characters lined its thin sepia perimeter. Its aged brown pages were of uneven sizes. Curious about their contents I tried opening the book, only to discover that it was locked by a narrow metal clasp with a tiny keyhole. I didn't know what to make of it. I couldn't find the key for it. And when I looked online, I couldn't identify anything that matched the pattern on the cover.

It could be something as innocuous as a vintage private diary or a family heirloom. But the way Brandon had tucked it out of sight disturbed me. Clearly, he didn't want me to find it. And this was the first time. to my knowledge, that he'd tried to hide something from me. For the moment, I elected to leave the book where I found it and not mention it to Brandon while I gathered more information. I had a friend who might be able to help me after all.

I took a picture of the cover, texted it to May, and carefully put the book back in its place. I pulled up to the house that May, her boyfriend Casey, and her roommate Olivia rented half of, soon after. She led me away from the closed door to Olivia's room. through the kitchen and down the short hallway to where she and Casey, who was at work, stayed. As we sat together on her bed, I noticed that May's one small collection of cacti had expanded into an indoor garden that filled at least a third of the room.

I asked her if she still named them after people she knew. With a smirk, she pointed to a potted cactus by her desk and asked me to guess its name. When I answered April, she shook her head and giggled. No, silly. It wouldn't feel right in naming one. one after you. This one's Brandon. What?

You're ridiculous, May. Compared to the cacti and succulence around it, Brandon was smaller in size. Yet on closer look, I discerned that the clusters of spines that covered it appeared particularly long and jagged. Once we settled down, I brought up the book I'd sent her a picture of. I explained how I'd found it, and how I'd wondered if it had had anything to do with why I had no memories of Brandon. I know this is a ridiculous theory, May.

I just don't know what else to think. You used to be obsessed with the occult, and I thought maybe you'd recognize as symbols on the cover. I felt my face grow red with embarrassment as I realized how unhinged I must have been sounding. May put her arm around me. April, I'm glad you came to me. Don't ever be afraid to talk to me, okay?

I've seen some shit that defies rational explanation, so believe me, I'm not dismissing your theory offhand, but I don't recognize the image you sent me, and I turned up nothing when I researched it this morning. My best guess is that it's just a fancy diary of some kind, nothing more. This calm me down. We talked for a while about other subjects from Casey's shoegaze band, to Olivia's ongoing lawsuit against her former employer,

to their landlord's efforts to find any excuse to find them in breach of their fixed-rate agreement they'd been renewing for years. And I felt better the longer we chatted. I was about to leave when May stopped me. I watched as she got to her feet and moved slowly toward her desk. Her steps were shaky and erratic, like her body was navigating contradictory commands. She removed a small business card from a drawer and tossed it in my direction.

It flew past me and landed on the ground. As I turned to pick it up, I heard a tumbling sound, followed by a sharp cry of pain. When I looked back, May's hand was covered in blood. To my shock, I realized it was stuck in a tight grip around Cactus Brandon, with dozens of its needles protruding all the way through her palm and out the other side of her hand. What the hell? I shrieked. May, let me help!

Her face had grown pale, and her expression was understandably agonized. She begged me to call 911. Olivia and I followed the instructions the emergency operator gave us as we waited for a When the paramedics arrived, May repeated to them what she told us. She'd slipped and fallen, and when she tried to catch herself, her hand had landed on the cactus. As they carded her away for treatment, I examined the card that May had thrown at me. It displayed a name and an address. Mom's Signor, Herman's Occult Artifacts.

6-6-81 Cheshire Lane. I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't know what to make of a lot of things. But once Olivia assured me, I didn't need to wait at the hospital with her, I decided to follow this lead to its end. Rainfall pounded at my umbrella as I hurried from my car to the door of 6681, Cheshire Lane. The store inside was lit primarily by scented candles that smelled vaguely of black cherry.

Its shelves were lined with books, with titles like Encyclopedia of Demon of demonology, or dark magic and incantations, separated by prop skulls and baffamate statues. I came across a bald man placing an ornately decorated hardcover titled crafting with human skin on a top shelf. His name tag read Gene, and when he noticed me, he asked me if there was anything he could help me with. I, um, there's a symbol, a pattern that I saw on one of my husband's books. I have a picture of it. I'm just wondering if you might know what it means. I passed him my phone.

When he looked at the image, his eyes narrowed and his brow widened in a brief expression of concern. Then his face softened, and he smiled as he returned my phone to me. He insisted that it was meaningless, that a craftsman out of San Antonio makes blank notebooks with this cover and sells them online. The designs vaguely allude to some pagan symbols, but don't have any particular meaning. In an earnest voice, he asked if I had any other questions. No, I said, a mix of puzzlement and relief running through me.

I think not. I didn't mention the day's events to Brandon. After we switched beds that night, I noticed that the book had disappeared from the couch downstairs. I decided it was likely just a diary Brandon wished to keep private and decided not to press him on it. May left the hospital before long, albeit with an array of bandages around her hand. When I mentioned Monsignor Herman's occult artifacts, she indicated that she'd been there plenty of times before, but insisted that she didn't remember giving me the card. Over the next few weeks, the episode slipped from my mind.

Brandon continued to be kind and supportive, even giving me rides to and from work when my car needed minor repairs. I began to feel even closer and more comfortable around him. One Friday night, he prepared a fancy candlelit dinner. He explained to me that it was the anniversary of the date we first met. I tried to picture the story he told me, me, stranded on the side of the road, and him driving up in his red truck to save the day. It was a good story, and I was ready to accept that it was true.

We sat together after the meal, He asked me how I felt about coming upstairs and staying with him in the bedroom. He insisted it didn't have to be anything more than us sleeping in the same bed again. I gripped his hand. Yeah, I'm okay with that. Brandon, I'm so sorry for what I'm putting you through. I just wish I knew why this is happening. He insisted that it was all okay and that he would always be there for me.

Brandon Were we Did we have plans Like life plans moving forward He described how we've been trying to have a child We'd had it all planned out Hannah for a girl Martin for a boy But don't worry about that now April

He said in a soft voice We can take things one step at a time I felt secure enough around him that I fell asleep quickly that night. I awoke several hours later to the sounds of Brandon having a nightmare. He was sweating, shaking, and making low, panicked murmurs. I put my arms around him and whispered, Brandon, it's okay. You're just having a bad dream. He calmed down quickly. In a groggy voice, he mumbled that he loved me. I love you too. I whispered back. He quickly went back to as I realized what I'd said. I'd finally spoke in those words, and I'd done so, so spontaneously.

Maybe things really are going to work out, I thought as I dozed off again. The next morning, I waited for the dealership shuttle to arrive to take me to pick up my car. As I climbed inside the van, I saw that it had a different driver than before. I slowly realized, to my surprise, it was Jean, the man who'd assisted me at the occult store. As he drove, Gene told me in a frantic voice that I need to listen carefully to him and that we didn't have much time. What are you doing here? How do you know my name? I pulled out my phone.

He snapped at me to put it away. I realized, meanwhile, that he was driving at a dangerously fast speed in the opposite direction of the dealership. Look, please, pull over and... He cut me off. We don't have time. Hear me out, please. There's a reason May sent you to me. That got my attention.

I told him to start talking. He spoke as he merged the van on to the interstate. You have no idea how hard I've worked to pull this off. We only have a brief window before he catches on. If we're lucky, it'll be just enough time to get Emma, and then the two of you need to get as far away from here as possible. Emma. Who the hell is Emma? Jean removed a Polaroid photo from the glove box and passed it to me.

In the picture, I was in an orange sun dress in a park by the harbor with a beaming expression of joy on my face. A woman I vaguely recognized was kneeling before me. In one hand, she gripped a leash that connected to a ridgeback puppy. In the other, she held out a beautiful golden ring. Emma is your wife, April. She's waiting for us in a secure location. You should be safe there, for a little while at least. My what?

No, no, no, no, it couldn't be. I realized where I'd seen her. She was the crazy lady at the park, the one Brandon had protected me from. But why? If that's true, it was too much to take in. I started to feel lightheaded. Jean told me about an obscure text containing a legend about some kind of creature,

a Cambian, as he called it, named Grousel. He explained how everything about the book, in the image I'd shown him, the symbols, the lock, and the rest of the design, was something only the real Grousel would have. Nobody knew for sure, but the most common theory is that the book was where he recorded each altercation he made. Jean continued as I tried my best to die. suggest what he was saying.

Groussel casts illusions that are almost impossible to see through, and he can command people to do what he wants. It takes incredible willpower to even notice his influence, and even more to do anything about it. Even temporary resistance comes at the cost of severe physical punishment. I remember the blood running down the woman's... Emma's face as she scrambled after me. Had she been trying to tell me who she and who I...

Really was? I thought, too, about May's bloody accident, just as she directed me to the one person who had the answers I was seeking. When you showed me the book cover, Jean said, I had to pretend I didn't know anything about it. I arranged to pick you up, here, in circumstances that he wouldn't view is suspicious. As far as he knows, you're still on your way to the dealership. But as soon as he realizes you aren't where you should be,

he will search for us. And if we're not far enough away from him, he'll find us. So you're telling me that this thing, whatever you call it, is making all of this happen. But why? And if he can fool everyone else, why can't he just make me remember being married to him? That's how he harnesses his power, said Jean as he took an unfamiliar exit.

He latches on to a particular target, and there are limits on how much trickery he can use on that person. Sure, he can change pictures or legal documents, but he can't actually insert himself into your past memories. The more you choose to believe his lies, the stronger he gets, and the more elaborate his illusions can become. But why me, in particular? I asked as the car turned down a dirt road that led through a thick forest.

I can't say for sure. He replied. But I suspect it's because you're a challenging target for a lot of reasons. He could prey on the mentally unwell, or those easily susceptible to influence. But fooling them doesn't give him the kind of power he craves. He chose you because he knew how skeptical you'd be. If he behaves as the text describe, he'll discard you in a few years, once he's sucked all the life out of you.

And then he'll move on and find a new victim. I need to ask. How successful has he been so far? What do you mean? Well, prior to this ride, how convinced were you that he was telling the truth? That you were, in fact, married to him. I don't know. We haven't done anything, really, but I was starting to believe it.

Last night I even told him. Gene turned to me, an anxious expression on his face, and asked me what I'd told him. him. Watch out! I cried, pointing to the road, but it was too late. The red pickup truck that I'd just spotted speeding out from the woods side-swiped the van. Jean cried out as the world flipped upside down. I remember the smell of smoke and excruciating pain as I lost consciousness.

When I next opened my eyes, I found myself in a hospital bed. My vision was blurry and I felt sore everywhere. A doctor leaned over me. He told me that I'd undergone emergency surgery to address injuries I'd sustained in a serious car accident, and that I'd been unconscious for nearly three days. He said it would take months of healing in therapy before I could walk again. But that, with any luck, I'd eventually be able to make a full recovery. He told me that I was fortunate to have such a loving family,

as they'd hardly left the hospital over the last few days. I lacked the strength or muscle control to say any of the things I wanted to say. I just watched, helplessly, as he opened the door to the hallway and called out that I was awake. Seconds later, Brandon approached. He displayed a wide, toothy grin. He told me that he and Martin had been so worried sick about me, and that he was going to take good care of me for as long as it took to get me better. A small,

Auburn-haired child emerged from behind Brandon. Anguished tears flooded my eyes as he placed his hand gently on my face and spoke four words. I love you, Mommy. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. Hauntorspecting. Written by Bent Lockwood. Secrets are funny things, aren't they? I used to think taking a secret to the grave was the true measure of a man, that there was honor in it, an almost sacredness.

But as I've grown old and acquired a few of my own, they've started to eat away at me, like moths at fabric. There is one in particular that keeps me up at night. And every day the urge to let it out get stronger. Today I think the weight has finally gotten too heavy for me. And so I don't know any other way to put it than to simply say that in 1969, I received the first of what would ultimately be a series of incomprehensible letters from former U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson. One thing you need to know is that I am not an important person, certainly not important enough to receive letters from a former president. and in November of that year, I was even less important than I am now. At 18 years old, I was a freshman at Ohio State University.

I remember there was a revolutionary spirit in the air those days. And after Vietnam War protest on campus, I found myself swept up in it. The whole thing began when, after the protest, a few other students and I decided to send some letters to politicians to tell them what we really did. really thought of him. It's the kind of thing you'd do to overcome the feeling of helplessness that life in America produces. I chose Johnson for the simple reason that he'd been responsible for increasing U.S. involvement

in Vietnam. And after the protest, I was fresh on my mind. I asked him, in more colorful language, if he was proud of sending young men to die. I folded up the letter, sealed it, stuck it in the mail, and promptly forgot about it. About three weeks later, I received the following response. Here Cecil, a good man can never be president. If he is good when he takes the office, he won't be when he leaves it. L.B.J.

Now, at first, I didn't think very much of this. I figured the former president must have some office to keep some office to keep track of letters like the one I'd sent, and they had a standard response they used to reply with. What kept me thinking about it is that I didn't read like the kind of standard response you'd expect a politician to give. I showed it to the friends of mine who'd also sent letters, and we decided to see what kind of response they got before we credited the man with any kind of genuine self-reflection. The issue was that no one else received a response, and after a few months went by, we'd all I've forgotten the whole thing and moved on.

Which was about the time I received a second letter. Cecil. I've thought a lot about what you said, and I feel they need to confess something. Everything I've ever done, helping the poor, advancing societal issues, even civil rights, I did out of ambition for my own political gain.

Does it matter? Is it the actions to make the man or the intent? I don't know. In church today, the preacher had the head of a jackal. But no one else seemed to notice. L.B.J. I didn't tell anyone about this second letter. And this was when it became a secret for me.

Looking back, I'm not sure why that was. But at first, I thought it had to be some kind of prank. Surely a former U.S. president. wouldn't confide in some obscure college student from Ohio who happened to write an angry letter to him. But then, who would go to the trouble? The letters had the actual U.S. government seal letterhead on them, and the paper itself was so thick that it couldn't have been a cheap prank to pull off.

Eventually, I decided it was real, which meant that I had to grapple with what the letter said. There was a desperation in the words that unsettled me, and at the same time gave me a kind of sick fascination with whatever guilt this man was experiencing. I decided to respond this time, and I began drafting a letter. I wanted to thread the needle between telling the former president

he was getting exactly what he deserved, but also pushing him to share more. Ultimately, though, that proved harder than I thought it would be. I couldn't get the wording right, and after several attempts I abandoned the idea. Instead, I stuffed the letter into the drawer on my desk and forgot about it again, going back to focusing on classes and girls and whatever else seemed important to a 20-year-old. Two quick years went by before I received another letter. This one, even stranger.

Vietnam has damned me, Cecil. It's hard to imagine a more malevolent campaign. We didn't go there as liberators, and certainly not for the good of the Vietnamese. We went for capitalism. It was colonial. Nobody knows this, but our military found stone shrines hidden deep in the jungle. Black, tenticular depictions with faces that mocked us. They were ancient, by all accounts, and they drove our men mad.

Reports often followed of entire companies of soldiers slaughtering each other whenever they came upon the things. I still have some of the photos in my files. Sometimes at night I take them out and pray to the stones. Might they deliver me from my fate? L.B.J. By this time, I was into my senior year at Ohio State. The anti-war sentiments were spilling into the street, feeling protests almost weekly. But while I still held some of my radical ideas, my heart wasn't in it anymore.

I developed the kind of air against it too often comes with education. I was convinced the world wasn't as black and white as my compatriots like to believe, not to mention that I was secretly harboring plans to go into business law, which would undoubtedly require me to set aside my lofty ideals. All of this said, I remember reading the letter in my apartment on an unseasonably warm Friday night in early March. I had the windows open to let the breeze in, and as I read the letter I had an almost trance-like expression.

I poured over the words again and again, imagining Marines pushing their rifles through layers of vegetation, until between the tall palms they found the shrines. In my mind, the stones were as black as midnight, depict. unknowable deities, and as the men approached them, the madness took them. One by one they pointed their rifles at each other and pulled the triggers. I saw the flash of their muzzles, the smoking gunpowder, the red blood covering the dark greens of the forest. As these images played in my mind, from my open window I heard the sounds of the jungle.

insects, birds, macaws. At first this didn't register. It planted seamlessly into my mind's vision of unfolding events. But as I looked up from the letter, I realized the sounds persisted even as the mental images faded. I stood, approaching the window, and the darkness of the night seemed to increase as the tropical noises streamed in on the humid air.

The sensation was disorienting, and when I leaned closer, a series of loud pop set off streaks of light in the darkness, like rounds of automatic gunfire. Shadows of huge palms were projected in my viewpoint when bouts of napal magnated deeper in the jungle, and silhouettes of men holding guns approached a tall spiraling onyx figure between the trees. My heart pounded in my chest. And I think for a moment I nearly passed out from the experience. But, with no small effort, I managed to pull myself from the window and slam it shut. I don't think the mind can really process that kind of thing. At least, not right away.

So what I did next was open the bottle of bourbon on top of my refrigerator, pour myself a double shot, and dump it down the hatch. Then I poured another and did the same. Half the bottle was gone by the time I had calmed down enough to go to bed. The next morning I heard a radio report of a ride on Ohio State's campus the night before in response to some of Nixon's war plans. This was enough to convince me that I had not, in fact, seen what I knew I had seen. And internal doubts aside, I chalked the whole thing up to nerves playing tricks on my senses.

Once again, I put the letter away and did my best not to think about it. A few months later, I graduated and went off to law school. But then I'd completely abandoned the radical, countercultural notions my early college days. And it was a year into my time at Georgetown when I received another letter. The doctors tell me my heart is failing. Sometimes I wake in the night to find a figure standing at the foot of my bed. during the day I see it everywhere just at the corner of my vision

a peripheral haunting is it you Cecil LBJ now if you're smart smarter than me anyway you're probably thinking to yourself that maybe the most unbelievable part of this whole thing is that these letters kept finding me

if that thought crossed your mind you're right I'd moved three times since receiving the first one, and at no point had I ever sent a response. And yet I kept receiving them. It wasn't until the fourth letter that this thought occurred to me. It's hard to overstate the paranoia I felt upon this realization. After that, I saw spooks everywhere. Men in dark suits stood a few people behind me in a line at the library.

A woman walking her dog in the park was really walking. watching me reading on the bench. Undiscipherable figures lingering in the corner of my eye, disappearing whenever I looked. Were any of these things real? I don't know. Probably not, but I turned to booze again to get me through the rest of law school.

And eventually the paranoia subsided some. Though nagging anxiety, it burrowed itself into my mind and stayed there to this day. After finishing my degree, I took a job in corporate law, working for an industrial agriculture chemical company. I won't say which one, but it's safe to save heard of him. Years went by without receiving another letter, which shouldn't be a surprise considering Johnson died from a heart attack in 1973.

His death was barely a blip on my radar, though. Because during those years I became embedded in some of the vilest corporate schemes one can imagine. I'd imagine. I busted unions for the company, helped the board of directors commit corporate fraud, and even helped cover up a sexual assault scandal that had landed our CEO in hot water. But maybe the worst thing I did was in the early 90s. When an internal study revealed that the main chemical used in our agricultural fertilizer products was a known carcinogen. The study itself was prompted by a series of reports that both company employees and farmers

who used our product had been diagnosed with the same form of lymphoma. Any reasonable moral person would assume that upon hearing this news, the company would have stopped using that product. But that's not what happened. No. Instead, me and my high-powered legal team put together a very sophisticated, professional-looking report showing that it would, in fact, be cheaper to pay off the employees and farmers,

and continue using the product until government regulators got their act together to ban the specific chemical used. Our team of lawyers and lobbyists estimated that we had another five to ten years of product used before that happened. So, that's what we did. It ended up being eight years before a major news story broke about the effects of our product. By then, every agricultural company in the country was using it, and we'd already laid the legal groundwork to skate through and,

any class action difficulties while our chemical engineers were on to new product development. In the end, thousands of people were diagnosed with the kind of lymphoma our product caused. I don't know how many have died. I retired not long after that, and I do my best to avoid any news about it. Company had taken good care of me during my years there. And I now have a private, forested property in upstate New York, several calls. cars, and even a small kitchen staff. Suffice it to say, until recently, I hadn't thought about Lyndon B. Johnson in some time.

It ended up being a 60-minute's report of all things that finally brought him to mind again. Some historical society in Texas had unearthed half a room's worth of previously unknown documents at his former estate. It was bound to shed new light on the former president's life, the society claimed. About two weeks after that episode aired, I received a letter from the group, saying they'd found an envelope among the documents addressed to me from the former president, but never mailed. It read. Cecil, this may be your final correspondence. I have visions now of things that are to come. I've seen the growth of an abomination. Black and tendril, it swells and spreads as it devours grotesquely across the lands. Do not serve it.

LB.J. I'm older now than Johnson ever was. And I've had as much financial success that a kid from rural Ohio could ever hope to achieve. And yet, I've never been able to rid my son. that nagging anxiety. The paranoia in the back of my mind has never quite left me. Has it all been a cosmic warning against the karmic injustices I've committed? Maybe I should have listened more closely.

Like Johnson in his final letter, I don't have much time left. Cancer, funny enough. I suppose there's a balance in that. if you're the poetry type. Certainly my family, none of which wants anything to do with me, won't be troubled by my passing. As I sit here at my estate, surrounded by nobody but the staff I pay to be here,

I'm looking out my window to see the jungle we've made for ourselves. A world of bloated red slaughter and my part in it, and I think I finally understand. what Lyndon was trying to say. 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 author. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.