Creepy - Everything As It Was

Episode Date: May 23, 2022

I musta spooked her...***Written by: Warren Bendetto and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins, Meg Molloy, Pacific Obadiah and Henry Galley***Bonus Episode: "Happy House Hill" written by Tewahway***Content warning: violence toward animal, child death, sexual assault***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Now, 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 not simply fabrications

is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit names. Language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Everything as it was. Written by Warren Bendetto and narrated by Alicia Atkins. When I first walked into our Crookedoo Room House, Mama was standing at the sink,

staring out the window at the barren fields outside. The wind was blowing steadily, sending great big clouds of dust swirling through the air. It made a shushing sound against the glass, like someone was asking for quiet. There weren't any crops in our field, or the next field, or the next, or any, it seemed like, for as far as the eye could see. When nothing in its way, the wind just blew and blew forever, right through Oklahoma, and into infinity carrying all the dirt along with it. I stood behind Mama and watched as she wiped a plate with a dish rag,

round and round and round, real slow, like her mind was somewhere else. After a while, I opened my mouth to try to say something, but I couldn't get any words to come out. I guess I made some sort of noise, though, because Mama turned around really quick. I must have spooked her. She dropped the dish onto the floor, where it shattered into a thousand.

pieces. Her face went sheet white. She whispered. Annabel. She put her hands over her mouth, then took a step closer to me. Her eyes got wet. She reached out and touched my cheek, then my hair. Her hand was shaken. It was like she was testing that I was real, that I wasn't some kind of ghost or apparition. Finally, she dropped to her knees and hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would break. I put my head on her shoulder and let her hair tickle my nose. I could smell soap on her neck and sweat in her hair, smoke too. She wasn't supposed to have cigarettes. Papa said it made her smell like an ashtray, but I knew she kept a few rolled up in the bedrail along the side of the mattress. She'd sneak a quick puff or two out on the backstep sometimes when Papa wasn't around,

blowing the smoke sideways into the wind, then snuffing the cigarette out on the side of the house and tucking the leftover stub into the seam of her apron. Mama hugged me for what felt like forever. Finally, she pulled away and held me at arm's length, her hand still on my shoulders. She touched my cheek again. Glory B.

She said. My baby's home. Mama ain't changed much since I last seen her, though I'd be lying if I said she didn't look at. older. I wasn't sure how long I'd been gone. Six months, a year. But her hair seemed grayer than I remembered. Her skin was looser around the eyes, too, with dark circles, real puffy, like she'd been crying a lot. I suppose maybe she had been. Can hardly blame her. Times have been tough around here, real tough. Of course, the first thing she said when she saw me, actually caught her breath,

was to tell her that I looked to fright, and to set about fussing with my hair. Appearances had always been so important to her. Even though we didn't have much, she always found a way to look nice. Her hair done up in curls, lipstick on her lips, everything clean and tidy.

She was a real looker, as how Papa put it. Used to be, at least. He'd say that second part with a wink, and Mama would snap him in the rear with her dish, towel and say, Dale, stop teasing. Then later I'd see her in the mirror, pulling at the skin around her mouth, trying to make the lines go away. They never did, for long. After she swept up the pieces of the broken plate, Mama took my hand and walked me into the bedroom. I made a new dress for you, she said, for when you came home. She opened the bedroom closet and rummaged around inside.

Papa said I was wasting my time, that you weren't ever coming back, but I told him. I said, my time's my business, and yes, she sure as heck is. He wasn't too happy with that. She laughed. The sound was sharp and loud in the tiny, low-roofed room. You know how he feels about sassing back. Did I ever? If there was one thing Papa hated, it was sass.

There wasn't any place for a girl to be talking back to her father, or her husband, or any man, really. Not unless she wanted a handprint on her hide. I learned that lesson the hard way. Only had to be taught once, though. Papa made sure of that. I prayed on it, though. Mama continued.

I prayed on it really hard. She pointed behind her at a small table by the bed where she had set up a photo of me, along with some melted down candles, a handmade cross, and a small jar full of dirt. I prayed that you'd come home and the crops would come back and everything would go back to how it used to be. and now, Glory B, here you are. I walked over and picked up the photo. It was a picture of me and Charlie Henderson from next door, taken by Papa at the Church of God Easter Festival a few years back,

before he had to sell off his camera to pay for groceries. We were five, maybe six years old, both clutching these huge jackrabbits, and looking just happy as could be. A big banner sagged over our heads, with the words, He is risen, painted on them in bright red letters.

I remembered that day so clearly. The sky was blue, the wind was still, there wasn't any dust, we weren't sick yet. It was a good day. Maybe the best. Maybe the last. Pretty soon after that day, the dust storm started. Black blizzards was what people called them.

They'd come across the sky like a tower and black ocean wave, as far and as high as the eye could see, just waiting to crash over us and wash us clear off the earth. Except, and said of water, these waves were made of dirt. When they hit, the dust was so thick that we could hardly breathe. We couldn't even step outside without a wet towel over our face, lest we take in too much dust in our lungs. Mama said the storms were a test, that God was testing our faith. But Papa saw it differently. He saw it like God had abandoned us, all of us, all at once.

We were forgotten by God, forgotten by the government, forgotten by everyone. A man has to make his own way now. Was how he put it. We're on our own. I remember Charlie's dad, Mr. Henderson, answered amen to that. That was a church word, which I thought was a funny thing to say to someone doubting God. But maybe that was the point. Before long, people started getting sick, coughing, spitting up black flam, dust-sick, they called it.

Babies and old people had it the worst. It got the Miller twins down the road first, one, then the other, a few days later. Then it took old Mr. Kelthman, and also Mrs. Robinson from the grocery in town. Soon, even strong men like Calvin White and Tom Frats were laid up. Their breathing sounded like rusty nails and his hair. shaking tin can. Not everyone who got dust sick died, but the ones who didn't cough so bad, they wish they would have. While we were hunkering down during one of the storms, I asked Papa why everything had gone so bad so quickly. He said we were in a depression and that nobody could

fix it, not even Mr. Roosevelt. That scared me because if the president couldn't fix it, who could? I wasn't expecting an answer, but Mama gave one anyway. The Reverend, she said. Papa snorted out a bitter laugh, then spit into a jar. Some Reverend. Man ain't even got a church. Papa was right. The Church of the Resurrection was nothing more than an old tent, with a bunch of wooden benches and a raised-up stage in the front. The Reverend preached from behind an altar made a bushel baskets, with an old door laid across them.

That was part of what Mama liked about him, though. He didn't need a big building like the Church of God did. It means he's humble, she said. He's regular, just like us. Humble ain't got nothing to do with it. Papa grumbled. Mama opened her mouth to object, but Papa kept going. Just look at him.

Regular folks ain't got suits like that? That's a city-made suit. Nah, he's a huckster through and through. He just likes the attention. wants to hear poor full clap for him to hoot and holler and shout Glory be at whatever nonsense he's spewing We had started going to see the river in around a year before

Things were about as bad as they could be for us at the time First we lost our crop Then grandma got dust sick Then Mama lost her baby right when it was ready to be born For a while Mama couldn't even bring herself to get out of bed She just lay there with the crook of her arm over her eyes, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. Nothing Papa would say could get her up.

It was Mrs. Henderson who said the Reverend could help. She had lost a baby too and started going to see him soon after. She said he was really something special, said he claimed he could do miracles, that he was our salvation, that he alone could save us. After a time, Mama wasn't getting any better, so Papa took us to the reverend to see what all this fuss was about. He was a big man, the biggest I'd ever seen. His face was sun-baked, with light hair that flew around his head like a crazy halo when the wind blew.

He always wore a black suit with a long red tie, no matter the weather. He was a sour man, humorless. I never once saw him laugh or... even crack a smile. He'd show his teeth, sure, when it suited him, but there was no joy in his eyes when he did. They were flat and black, and his smile was mean, cruel.

The kind of smile you'd see a man make when a cripple fell on the steps, and his groceries spilled out on the ground. You'd think a man as big as he would would have a voice to match, but he didn't. His voice was thin and reedy. It seemed to come more from his nose than his mouth. The way he preached didn't sound like any preacher I'd ever heard either.

The mass we used to go to at the Church of God was quiet and reverent, with its hymns and homilies and silent prayers. The Reverend's Mass wasn't like that at all. In fact, he didn't even call it a Mass. He called it a revival. It was loud and angry, with toxic demons and plagues and the devil. of the end times and the God-forsaken ground. That's what he called it.

God-forsaken. Said Satan himself must have cursed the land for it to dry up like it did. He'd get the congregation all fired up, to where they were shouting and cursing the land as if it was out to get them. I always thought, how can land be bad? It's just land. It didn't do anything except sit there and try to be left alone.

It was people who were doing things to the land, not the other way around. When I asked Papa about it, he said some people didn't want to blame themselves, so they took it out on the land instead, made them feel better to point their rage at something that couldn't fight back. Like the lamb? I asked him. No. He said, looking troubled. That's something different.

The lamb was still fresh on my mind, from the Sunday before. I didn't think I would ever forget the way it squealed and screamed, with four men holding it down so the Reverend could slit his throat. I could see the whites of its eyes, staring at me, wide with terror, pleading. Papa tried to cover my face, but I pulled away so I could look. I wanted to see, until I did, that is. Then I wish I hadn't. I watched that the Reverend plunge his hands into the torrent. into blood arching from the lamb's throat, then raise his blood-gloved hands towards the sky.

Blood snaked down his forearms and into the sleeves of his suit. Glory be! He proclaimed. The lamb's blood poured down the altar and soaked into the dusty ground. Mama and Mrs. Henderson and the others chanted and swayed. Spit flew from their lips and missed the air as they intoned, Glory B, over and over again and arrived. swelling of delirious rapture.

Papa was stone silent. His jaw set. His head slowly shaken side to sign. He locked eyes with Mr. Henderson nearby for a moment. Something unsaid passed between them. Once the lamb was dead, we made a line and waited while the reverend made the sign of the cross on each person's forehead, with a finger dipped in blood. I felt sick.

What's that had to do with God? I asked Papa when we got home afterwards. Nothing. He said, taking a wet rag and gently dabbing at the mark of my forehead. Nothing at all. Then why did people let him do it? Because they're scared. And when people are scared, they'll believe anything just not to be scared anymore.

Take things back to how they used to be. Are we scared? I asked him. Papa took a long time to answer. He looked over at Mama, who was on her in need. in front of her small bedroom altar. Candlelight flickered on her face. Her hands were clasped tightly at her chin.

Her lips moved in silent prayer. Finally, he nodded. Sometimes. I took one last look at the photo of me and Charlie, then put it back on the table where I got it. Mama was still digging through the closet looking for the new dress, mumbling. Where the heck is the darn thing?

And... If he threw it away. Finally, she gave it. up searching the closet and went to look for it in the big trunk at the end of the bed instead. Wax from the melted candle was pulled and dried on the table scratched up wood. I scraped at some of the wax with my thumb, then picked up the handmade cross and turned it over in my hands. It had been crafted by one of the ladies at the Church of the Resurrection.

The tips of the cross were stained a dark reddish-brown, dipped in the blood of the sacrificial lamb. I guess that was supposed to make it holier. somehow. Conssecrated was the word the Reverend used. Papa changed it to a different word, though, under his breath. Desecrated was what he called it. The Reverend preached that the road to resurrection was traveled on our knees. He said if we prayed hard enough, then God would bless the ground, and the crops would rise from the dirt, just like Jesus did. Our old life would be restored. Everything would be as it was. As it was, again it all shall be, I thought.

Remembering the line from the prayer Mama made me say every night before bed. The fallen shall rise, the loss shall be found, the taken shall be returned. Glory be to the God of the grain. Praise to the Prince of the Fields. Amen. That was why Mama took to praying all the time, why she had Papa build a little altar her beside the bed. She brought in a jar of dirt from the field, along with the bloodstained cross and the candles,

and made her own little place of worship. The picture of me and Charlie wasn't there at the time. She must have added that after I left. Mama prayed at that altar every morning, noon, and night, asking God to bring back the crop, to bring back the rain, to restore what we lost, to give her a sign that everything would be okay. Papa got pretty frustrated with the whole charade. He said Mama spent all her time praying into a jarred dirt

instead of actually doing something useful. Don't you see? He told her. Things ain't going back to how they used to be. Times have changed. We need to change too. We're going to get left behind. But Mama didn't want to hear any of that.

She didn't want to change. She wanted things to be the way they always were. change was the devil's work that's what the reverend said god made the world just so and it was meant to stay that way eventually papa got to the point where he made a ruckus outside the tent one sunday after the revival in front of the reverend i don't know pauline he said to mama all this praying don't seem to do no good as far as i can see on our knees every night and twice on sundays and for what We still ain't got no rain. I ain't got no crops either. We got dirt, though. Got plenty of that.

He bent down and picked up a handful of dirt, then threw it down. Got a bumper crop of dirt. Dust too. Oh boy, you want dust? We got a special two bushels for the price of one. We'll throw in a mud pie too if you can spare a cup of water to mix it in. We ain't got none here, see? He said it like it was supposed to be funny, but it wasn't.

Mama started to cry. After he was done ranting, Papa got in his truck and sped away, leaving me and Mama behind. We had to hitch a ride home with Mrs. Henderson. She told Mama not to worry that Mr. Henderson had lost his faith too. She patted Mama on the knee. Here it is. Tadda!

Mama finally found the new dress, all the way at the bottom of the clothes trunk. She pulled it out with a floor as she, held it up for me to see. Like my other dress, it was made from the leftover flower sacks we got from the relief office. President Roosevelt knew that poor folks like us used the sacks to make clothes, so he did what he could to make them nice. Mama had found a sack with a bloom of pink flowers, like the kind we grew in our garden before it dried out. She turned it into a cute dress with short sleeves and a small waist, and a belt that she braided from different colored lengths of twine. It was nothing fancy, but she sewed it up extra fine. It was pretty, I thought. Mama shook

the dress out with a sharp snap and laid it out on the bed. Dust went swirling up in the air little spirals, then drifted down toward the floor. The way it caught the sunbeam streaming through the windows made me think of God. Like, maybe he was still around. Like we hadn't been abandoned after all. Hope it fits. Mama said. Let's see. She lifted my arms and pulled my old dress off,

up and over my head. It was really dirty, pretty torn up too. She balled it up and threw it in the corner like it was trash. Then she slipped the new dress over my head and tied up the string in the back. She walked around me to the front, checking out the fit, tugging at the seams, brushing off the shoulders,

picking off little pieces of thread, and lent as she went. While she primped and groomed me, I looked out the bedroom window at the Henderson's house next door. Their front door was wide open, with the screen door banging in the wind. Mr. Henderson still ain't fixed that latch, I thought to myself. Charlie Henderson was my best friend. Always had been, since we were babies. We did everything together. Grew up together, went to school together, played stickball together, and when the dust storms got so bad they blocked out the sun for a week at a time, we got dust sick together.

Ended up right next to each other at a little old Mercy Hospital up the road in Boise City. And now, we were coming home together too. I thought to myself, I hope Charlie's parents are as happy to see him as Mama is to see me. Mama circled her fingers around my wrist. lifted my arms and examined my hands. First one, then the other. Oh my, your nails!

She exclaimed. She was right. They looked terrible. They were ragged and torn, with semicircles of dirt caked underneath. We've got to get these clean. She disappeared from the bedroom back into the kitchen. I could hear the water running,

as she soaked her dishrag and loaded it with washing powder. While I waited for her to come back, I looked out the window again. I was surprised to see Mr. Henderson emerge from their barn and headed towards the back door of their house. He was leaning into the wind, shielding his eyes against the sharp sting of the sand with one hand. In his other hand, he carried his rifle. He threw open the back door and disappeared inside.

Mama came back into the room, her dish rag dripping a trail of soap bubbles along the floor. She wiped the grime from my hands and cleaned my nails, then straightened up and took a step back. Her eyes got all teary. Glory B, look at you, she said. You look so pretty. Then she took me by the shoulders and turned me around to face the mirror so I could see for myself. I stared at my reflection in the dust-streaked glass. I didn't feel pretty.

The skin on my face was the color of dead leaves. It was dried and tight on my skull and split in some places, exposing dull white bone underneath. There was a hole in my cheek where the teeth showed through, and a sunken black crater where one of my eyes used to be. I didn't have a nose. Half my lips were gone. I tried to say something, but my jaw wasn't working right.

It just hung wide open and a little bit sideways. That's how I could see. that I didn't have a tongue. As I stared at my ruined face, I could hear screams coming from the direction of the Henderson's house, followed by gunshots. I started to get worried. That ain't good, I thought. I hope Charlie's all right. I watched in the mirror as Mama took her wood-handled hair brush through the mats in my hair. She was doing her best, but the bristles kept getting stuck. After a few tries, she gave up and put the brush down on the dresser. It had big clumps of hair in it, with ragged strips of rotten skin still attached. Undeterred, she gathered up what

hair I had left on my head and started weaving it into a braid instead. Suddenly, the floor shook under my bare feet. Heavy footsteps thudded across the front porch of our house, followed by the familiar your squeak of the front door opening. A few more footsteps, inside the house now, then Papa threw open the bedroom door. He stopped dead in his tracks. His face went as gray as the Boise City Post. Mr. Henderson entered behind him, still carrying his rifle.

Red-black flecks of blood were peppered across his cheeks and neck and were splattered down the front of his white undershirt. His expression was grim. Mama primped up the dress around my shoulders, then turned me around to face my father. Look who's home? She said. She smiled. Tears streamed down her face, cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks.

Papa's breathing tappered down to nothing. He was silent. He closed his eyes and pressed the back of his hand to his lips. Mr. Henderson chambered around in the rifle. With his eyes still closed, Papa reached out towards Charlie's father. Mr. Henderson handed him the rifle. Go.

Papa said. His voice was choked, barely a whisper. Mr. Henderson made the sign of the cross, then backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Papa gripped the rifle in his hands. His finger rigid against the trigger guard. He swallowed hard. Annabelle.

Mama said quietly. Say hello to your father. With a firm hand in the middle of my back, she guided me closer to him. Papa opened his eyes. His face was pained. I looked down at the floor, ashamed of my horrid appearance. I didn't want him to see me like this. I couldn't bear to have him looking at me.

I wanted to crawl away, back into the dirt where I came from. Popper reached down and nudged my chin up with the side of one curled finger. He took a moment to look at my face. Then he leaned the rifle in the corner by the doorframe and dropped one knee. He extended his arms and enfolded me in a warm hug. I hugged him back. The stubble from his cheek was rough against my skin. I heard Mama exhale a shuddery sigh.

She knelt down and embraced me from behind. We held each other like that. for a while. Nobody's saying anything. Finally, Mama lifted her head and looked over to the small table where my picture was. She drew in a breath, then touched Papa's arm. Dale. She said. She flickered her eyes towards the table. Papa looked over. A sob hitched in his chest. In the small jar next to my photo, a bright green shoot of leaves was poking through the dirt. It wasn't like any normal shoe I'd ever seen. It was twisted like a corkscrew with a sharp tip at the end.

But it was there. It was alive. Everything as it was. Mama said. Papa placed a soft kiss on my forehead. Then kiss Mama on the lips. Glory B. For your bonus episode, creepy presents.

Happy House Hill. written by teoway once upon a time there was a marvellous house on a modest hill at the edge of a quaint little town the happy house was a good house it loved to try to make people happy but it always knew that the people who had come to live within it would leave eventually it struggled to understand the human mind it made happy how sad to think about how low lonely it would be without a family as it wondered. Why do people leave me? Where did they go? I make them happy, but end up alone. The happy house was overjoyed. A family had arrived. A daughter, a mother, and a father. They had a small dog with them as well. The happy house didn't like animals very much. They never seemed to like the happy house, regardless of whatever the happy house would

do. It liked that the dog made the family happy, and that was enough. The happy house thought that maybe it had something in common with the dog in that regard. The happy house noted that the family seemed to want to change things on the inside. Some of it tickled, but a lot of it hurt. It didn't want the family to leave, so it put up with about as much as it could, until it realized they were getting closer and closer to its heart. The dark, moist room hidden behind the kitchen, was always warm and filled with strange devices and machinery. It was the Happy House's absolute favorite spot for humans to visit,

but it's also the only part that was seriously at risk of injury. If someone changed my big happy heart, perhaps then again the sadness would start. The Happy House winced in fear. There will be only one who I'll let inside, for the daughter alone my heart opens wide. Late in the night, as the daughter was sleeping, the happy house noticed something concerning. The parents were awake in their room, panting and moaning, struggling to situate themselves properly, struggling to sleep. The happy house knew it had to stop whatever was happening to them, for this obviously couldn't make them happy.

I know the way to help them relax. The shelf shall fall, swift as an axe. No sooner did the happy house come up with the idea. Then the shelf fell, connecting with the father's head, putting him instantly to sleep. The mother seemed ecstatic. She screamed with joy and hopped out of the bed. She hurried to the phone and began to contact someone. It's obvious that she was so thrilled she had to share the news.

The father never had trouble sleeping again. For several weeks, the Happy House was so thrilled. The mother and daughter rarely left. The father didn't do much. He had plenty of strange beeping machines around him now. He really likes sleeping. I truly excelled. I've never seen someone sleep half as well.

The Happy House praised itself. It was worried that it hadn't done well at first because the mother, daughter, and sleepy father all left in a strange white vehicle. But they came back, and it's never been happier. The daughter had found the entrance to the heart shortly after they returned. She certainly liked to spend time there, and this pleased the happy house to no end. She'd often crawl into the lower cabinet beside the fridge. The happy house would then shift the wall to let her in.

It could tell that she felt safe there. With the father enjoying his rest so much, the daughter and mother went to see him less and less. They must have been worried about interrupting his deep sleep. It was very blissful for the happy house as it felt the father's dreams. It saw many strange things, but mainly the family being together.

It didn't like that they weren't in the happy house in these dreams, but it was slowly working on, trying to fix that too. Today is a sad day. I feel like I'll cry. The father alone still remains inside. The daughter and dog went for a walk. The dog ran away and gave her a shock.

Normally the happy house wouldn't have been terribly concerned about the dog, but it had caused the mother and daughter to leave in search of it. They had been gone all day. The happy house knew it had to do something to bring them back, but I couldn't think of what. As the hours passed, it dawned on it. It truly is rude to interrupt rest, but waking him now would be for the best.

The father rose, confused and weary. He had a strange vacancy in his thoughts. The happy house had never been this connected to a human before. It was truly a delight to know their mind. It bade the father to, go outside and look for the place where the dog's got to hide. It didn't take long for the father to find the dog. It grabbed it tightly by the collar.

The dog began barking loudly. The happy house knew the animal was causing far too much distress for the poor family, so it had to get rid of it. As the father gripped tighter, trying to stifle the dog's barks and whimpers, the happy house saw the mother and daughter running over. The dog slipped free to the father's surprise and ran off into the surrounding trees. The daughter was all too happy to greet the father and hopped into his arms.

This is exactly as it should be. The dog's better too, having been freed. Everything seemed to be coming back into place for the happy house. But it noticed the mother hadn't greeted the father yet. Instead she looked off in the distance to where the dog had run. For some strange reason, the happy house could see something through the father's eyes, something he couldn't see on its own. The mother was not happy.

She was concerned. Time went on and the daughter was happy. The mother seemed happy too for a while. It was strange, though. Now that the happy house could connect with the father, things seemed different through his eyes. the happy house could tell the father what to feel, so he was usually happy. But for some reason, he had the strange desires that the happy house couldn't quell. The happy house also noticed through the father's eyes.

The mother wasn't truly happy. There was something missing. It studied the family for some time, trying to understand the father's thoughts. It even slowly began to understand the strange noises that the daughter, and mother would make. It seemed they were concerned that the father wouldn't make the same noises anymore. One day the mother made it clear that she wanted to live elsewhere. She wasn't happy in the house.

The memories of the mother and father tossing the night of the father's long sleep came into its mind. What can I do? I've given so much. Maybe she misses the father's old touch? The father began to have a strange sort of excitement. Perhaps she felt the same way. It made the father head to the bedroom where the mother was packing her things.

Grab the mother, she needs your love. If she tries to resist, just give her a shove. The father mindlessly obeyed. He pushed her onto the bed and she yelled and wriggled about. The happy house felt strange. Through its own eyes, it could see that she was happy, screaming in joy. When it looked again through the fathers,

it felt wrong and disturbing. He pushed her head against the backboard a few times until she settled down. This is the right way I'm starting to learn. I feel both their hearts for each other they yearn. The happy house relinquished its hold on the father, hoping simply to spectate. It couldn't help but notice the daughter

had quickly run to the cabinet and was entering the heart. She must be so happy her parents are reuniting. The father stood blankly over the bruised naked mother on the bed. He was unsure of what to do next. Without the happy house, how could he know? Suddenly the mother rolled off the bed and started running down the stairs. She was yelling something to the daughter.

She wanted them both to leave. The daughter was slowly calling out of the cabinet, heading toward the mother. You can't let them go. Use all your might. Don't leave me alone. It just isn't right. With the Happy House's commands once more filling the father's thoughts, he swiftly went to the closet in the hallway, removing an axe.

He stormed down the stairs to see the mother facing the kitchen. She reached for the daughter's arms, but the father's axe was too quick. It had been firmly planted in the mother's skull, handle protruding outward as if lodged in a stump. The happy house no longer felt her at all. The daughter screamed, tears running down her face. She turned back to the kitchen and fled to the heart. The happy house, for the first time, could tell the daughter was scared.

It could feel the terrible flood of negative emotions sympathetically through the father. The mother is gone, sad as it is. Go comfort your daughter. At least she still lives. The father grunted an acknowledgement of the happy house's new command. The first sound of sentience in his coma, with a firm stride he headed into the kitchen. As the footsteps closed in near and near,

the daughter scrambled for an escape. She began yanking clusters of wires, clawing at the walls and pulling in straight pipes. The happy house started to writhe and agony. The foundations began to shake. Stop her now, at any cost. She's harming my heart. Our paradise lost.

With no hesitation, the father swung the axe into the wall again and again. He was able to see her through the gap. She screamed even louder, banging on some strange infernal machinery inside. The father hacked and hacked. The happy house began to feel weak. It tried to issue one. one last command to the father. I'm losing my hold, but I can't let you free.

If I lose my strength, you'll be a host to me. The fog had now cleared. Thoughts had returned. Terrible pictures in his mind burned. He questioned his brain. Is this all real? He struggled with what and how he should feel. My thoughts are riddles.

why do they rhyme? The happy house voice then chimed in his mind. With the last that I am, now we are one. Don't be troubled by what we have done. The man saw his daughter's mangled remains.

What have I done? He cried out in shame. One final idea, he knew it his own. I'll burn it all down, this demonic hell. home. He gently blew out the pilots and cranked all the knobs on the oven. After closing the kitchen door and windows, he shifted through a drawer, finding a matchbook. The man sat down, no longer a father, no longer a husband. A deranged cadence of protesting thoughts assaulted him as he waited. He could

smell the gas building. He felt light-headed. Don't continue. You know not what you do. We'll start again. A fresh, a new. I've killed my family. I can't comprehend. This is the way. Together we end, he said aloud as he struck the match. Still to this day in the locals' renown, go to the woods by the edge of town. You'll hear she'll scream, smell smoke and fire. No one around will call you a liar. If you go up, be ready to pray. Ignore all the whispers, whatever they say.

There's a dog in the ruins, weeping at will. Up in the ashes of Happy House Hill. 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 share-a-lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

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