Creepy - Eyes Closed & The Mime

Episode Date: September 25, 2025

Eyes Close***Written by: Ty Anderson***The Mime***Written by: Bikram Mann and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warning: suicide***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 creepy pastures 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. Eyes closed.

Written by Ty Anderson. You don't remember when it started. You only remember the first Polaroid you saved. The morning of your fifth birthday, you wake up. You stir. Your hand brushes something under your pillow. You take it out. It's an envelope.

White, sealed, blank. You run your finger along the flap and tear it open. A picture falls out. A Polaroid picture. It's a picture of you, asleep in your bed. You're lying peacefully, flat on your back. Your mouth open and all of the lights are off. You're caught in the camera's flash and still.

You turn the photo over. On the back, scribbled in black, warming letters you read. Last night before you turn six, eyes closed You're puzzled You turn the photo over again Looking at yourself Looking at what you're wearing

The same caterpillar pajamas Little reaching crawling things Patterned all over you Are what you're wearing in the photo The same ones you woke up in But before you can think too much about it Your mother calls you from the hall It's your birthday

And you have a special breakfast waiting You kick off the covers and run into the hall, the photo nearly forgotten. Until next year. The next year, the sun rises and so do you. You reach your hand into your pillow, half asleep, stretching, and there it is, another white envelope. And once torn open, another picture, falling between your legs to land on top of the blanket. Face down, the letters scrawling on the back reading, last night before you turn seven.

eyes closed. You're asleep in this photo too, lying on your back, just as you did before. And isn't it so interesting the way we sleep when we are most vulnerable, the ways we accept that the dark and the quiet can be a comfort. What a gift. You're wearing your pajamas, which are slightly bigger and different with monochrome gray and white stripes, and your mouth is open once again, even if your eyes are covered. closed. You stand up, taking the picture, examining it just like last year. You remember,

I know you do. And yet, you're not so alarmed. You take the picture to your dresser and open the topmost drawer, reaching in and carefully taking out the picture from the year before. Two Polaroids, two years of celebration. You put the newest on top of the oldest and placed them both back in the dresser, closing it, walking, still unsteady with sleep, to your bedroom door, leaving for the shadows of the hall. How pleased I am to see you're keeping them, that you're hiding them away. When you're eleven, you've moved the photos from the drawer into a shoebox. That year's ear you look most concerned.

Sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, amongst a fleet of disassembledgo boats and trading cards, you placed the last photograph into the box, and, instead of the closeness of your dresser, you put the box holding five years of sleeping soundly moments on the top shelf of your closet, shoving them back as far as your arm can reach. It is too bad, and I think it might be the last year for the photos then. But sure enough, the next year you awake with the same clean, simple envelope, the same photograph inside, the same boy growing with each and every picture. Did you talk to your parents, I wonder?

I wonder so very closely. What did they say when you brought up the pictures? It must be something like the tooth fairy in your mind, some childish ritual you ascribe to them gone on too long. And I hope, I very dreadfully and secretly hope, that you're blaming them for the Polaroids taken so very late at night to some embarrassing hold on from your younger years like baby pictures you're too ashamed to show anyone else

I can hope I can see what I see next year you're 13 you open the envelope and stare at the picture you squint at the writing on the back even harder than you have before running your thumb along the ink. It smears. You glance around your room, toward the closet, under the bed. Every shadow feels heavier than it should. To the doorway, to the outer hall, to your window. You looked pale, your eyes wide. I have to be very, very careful. Next year's photograph isn't put into your box you've stowed away in the back of your closet. It barely gets a glit. It barely

It gets a glance before it's thrown into the wastebasket next to the desk you've had in your room for two years now. The top is covered in scattered papers, homework and notes and some comic books. You barely think of throwing it away. I can see that before slumping out of your room and into the house beyond. It is really too bad. But the photographs don't stop, because you don't stop, do you? Getting older, I mean.

Every year you get a little bit older and a little bit bolder. I heard that said somewhere. Some song. Yes, a little bit bolder. But so do I, birthday boy. You're away from home. It's your first year after moving out, and you're asleep in a place that's your own making. Entirely, thoughtfully, messily, you.

It is harder to watch, but I find my place. You wake up, stretching, so lost in yourself that you almost don't notice it. And that's also because you're not expecting it this time, are you? You've moved out and away from home, and no more mother or father to sneak into your room at night and take the special photograph of their birthday boy for him to awaken to the next day. And so why would you have checked this year? It is by a freak of the morning, a chance stretch yet again that brushes your pillow off your bed,

and when you turn around to see, Oh, the joyous little pang I feel twisting inside my guts, seeing you discover that yours envelope. You stand up, straight up, tearing the paper open. Your hand falls below the tear as if acting on memory, and you catch the photograph that falls out. The back, of course, reads, Last night before you turn 19, eyes closed.

Only this picture is much closer to your sleeping face. Your eyes are clamped shut, as if bracing against something you never imagined seeing. You take out your cell phone. You call Mommy and Daddy straight away. I have the exquisite pleasure. The unbearable gift of listening to the call, you ask. And pause and then...

Did you and Dad come over last night? Did Brody let you in? You listen. You pace. Your feet are bare and they kick aside dirty sheets and jeans. You fold your arms over your chest like you're cold. Well, what the fuck is this? Look.

You turn your phone to phone. FaceTime. I duck even though I'm sure you cannot see me. You flip the phone towards the envelope, towards the picture on the bed. This is seriously creepy. You had no right to just come in here. It's kind of sick. Your mother is on speakerphone now. Another delicious gift. Sweetie? I hear her say. That wasn't us. You pause. You breathe. You sit down on the edge of the bed.

You ask them what they mean. We thought it was you, honey. She says, her voice shaking, her going hoarse as you go still. We thought you'd been taking Dad's camera and, I don't know, setting it up to take a picture while you pretended to sleep. Why would I do that, Mom? You ask, and you're angry. You're angry at something you don't quite understand yet, do you? you.

That's so fucking weird. Why would I ever do that? Why would we? She asks back, her tone rising too. I listen to you argue. Listen to the sense, leave your conversation and the fear creeping into your voice. Good sucking God, I almost squeal. Should I call the cops?

You ask, when your voice dies down. When you're feeling not so. far away from being a little boy yourself again. You listen. You nod your head. I watch you walk to your closet. This one's so much smaller. I see you take out your shoebox.

You've carried it with you all along. It tears me so very sweetly that you have. You put the box on your bed and you remove the lid. I watch as you take out each photograph year by year. and you lay them out in the bed before you. You thought you were just getting bigger in the photographs, glanced as they were on your birthday and then so'd away. You thought you were just growing, as all birthday boys do,

and that's why you were bigger in each. But laid out as they are now, your phone and your trembling hand poised to call the police, you notice it for the first time. That you weren't just getting bigger in each photograph from growing, sweet boy. No. It was really I who was coming closer, a little by little, each year.

And I know that this is when I have to be the most careful of all. Careful, yes, but not careful enough. You're standing in your room, your hands are shaking. You're holding this year's photograph and staring down at it. It wasn't in an envelope this year. But that's not the only difference, Birthday Boy. You're staring at the back of the picture, inscribed in hasty screaming letters, is this year's inscription. Last year before you turn 20, eyes open.

Eyes open because this year you almost saw me, didn't you, birthday boy? You weren't so seldom asleep as you usually are the night before your birthday? No. This year you were waiting and you almost caught me. I put the camera on your face. I flashed the photo and applying to do long enough for me to run, to flee screaming, pleading screams into the pitch of the night, but not before I got an excellent kind of birthday surprise. In the photo, your eyes are open, open wide, and you're crying, aren't you? Crying and trying to pull away.

The picture is just of your eyes this year, birthday boy. And now that your eyes are open, it gives me such a sweet and special idea. I wait. I have to be good for this year. This year's photograph will be a different sort of gift, and I think the last. I sit alone in a cool, dark place.

I listen to the earth move, around me, I hear the calls of all the years and feel such a pent-up joy inside me, such a hope for a gift I have yet to give. I take it out, my old Polaroid camera, so much like your father's. And for the first time, I turned the bulbous lens to me, to my face. I cannot help but close my eyes as I take the picture. It's too bright, and as I hear the old thing grab it. find out the latest Polaroid, I cannot bear to look at myself.

I don't want to see that, but it's for you instead. I scribble hastily a single word on the back of the photograph. Me. I stuff it in an envelope, I run my tongue along its lip. I breathe hard as I write on the pale surface for the first time. A simple message, a simple pleasure. Would you like to see me? And I think this year birthday boy, I'm going to wait for you to open it.

And I'm going to wait right upon the edge of your bed. I will be sitting there holding my mirth, holding my shaking frame together with my hands in a big hug, waiting for you to wake up. Happy birthday to you, and most especially happy birthday to me. See me soon. Creepy presents.

The Mime. Written by Bikram Man, and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. For as long as I can remember, my father has been irrationally afraid of mimes. I've seen him get reduced to a sweating, quivering mess at the mere sight of them. No one knew why this was, as he would always angrily brush it off whenever he was questioned about it, and pretend that they didn't affect him. at all. While this had become a running joke in the family, I was always curious about the reason behind this odd little quirk of his. Well, this Christmas, I finally got him to spill the beans

after filling his stomach with copious amounts of cake and wine and took his story down, almost word for word, on my phone. It really is something. I'll tell you that. You really want to post this on the internet? This sounds extremely unbelievable. So don't be surprised if they accuse you of making all this up, okay? Jeez, where do I start? So, you know that I came to this country back in the early 90s, right? It was a couple of years before I met and married your mother.

Times were tougher back then. Not that they're any easier now, are they? I had to work too young. just to put food on the table and have a roof over my head. Even then, all I can afford was the rattiest apartment in this decrepit old building, and then crime-infested shithole of a neighborhood. Like, it was so bad that you couldn't get a good night's sleep without hearing at least one gunshot each night. Just a moldy, crumbling place.

Now my second job was basically a weekend thing, where I worked as a bartender at the local strip club. It was called the rear end. Fucking hilarious. It was trashy. Not something I'm particularly proud of. But working at a titty club sure beats sleeping on the streets. I'll tell you that.

What's that? Yeah, your mother knows. Just don't talk about that part of my life. Don't look at me like that. Those women were some of the bravest, most honorable people I've ever known. Anyway, my job meant that I would come back to my apartment late. I mean two or three a.m. late. I need you to understand how late it would usually get those nights.

So you can truly appreciate just how bizarre what I saw in the elevator that night was. It was a Saturday night. I remember it well. I was exhausted and just wanted to go back to my bedroom as quickly as I could. I got into my building, shoveled over to the elevator, and saw a fucking mime waiting for me there. You know, makeup, white face, blood red lips, striped shirt, the whole shebang. He was holding a string, tied to a balloon in one hand and waving with the other, at something in the distance with his weird, lifeless smile plastered on his face.

And his hand wasn't moving naturally either. It had this weird robotic or doll-like quality to it. Like it was something... Mechanical, you know? He jerked his hand left, right, left right. Just smiling at something far off into the distance behind me. With these wide, unblinking eyes. Oh, yes.

There was absolutely just a wall behind me. Nothing else, which is what made it so creepy. I mean, I've seen all sorts of strange shit in this country, but nothing came close to seeing a mime in the elevator of my apartment building at fucking 3.30 in the morning. Needless to say, I was thoroughly creeped out and decided to take the stairs to my apartment on the ninth floor. You see, I didn't actually have this belly back then. I was in decent shape. so that climb while tiring wasn't impossible.

Sometimes I would even climb up and down those stairs just to get exercise. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wasn't worried about climbing all the way up to the ninth floor, so making the decision to use the stairs wasn't very difficult. I think I had reached the fourth or fifth floor when I noticed something moving in the corner of my eye. I paused, turned around. And there he was, climbing the stairs just a couple of floors below me. Have you ever seen those old silent films? Ever see a character tiptoe around in an exaggerated manner when they're trying to make it obvious how important silence is?

That's how he was walking, with his hands balled up into fists in front of him, and climbing with these freakishly long strides, jumping over multiple, steps out of time, only using the tips of his toes to pull himself up. He froze when I saw him, mid-fucking stride, like a fucking statue with one leg suspended in the air. I expected him to trip over and fall backwards any second, but he didn't move, not even an inch. It was like he had turned to stone. Not all of him, however. He had the strange expression on his face. Almost this cutsy, oops mommy caught me stealing the cookies again type of shit. And his eyes were darting around rapidly, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

I was this close to losing my shit, but I steeled my nerves and spoke up. Hey, man. Could it out? I laughed nervously. You got me, man. hilarious shit. I tried to rationalize it to myself that it was nothing but a prank or a practice performance or something, you know. I don't have any money, man, added. I'm dirt poor, so you can stop now. With that, I picked up my pace and started running upstairs. My blood ran cold as I heard him start moving again, much, much faster this time. but in the exact same motion, I looked behind me again.

Fuck, he was just one floor below me, once again turned into this living statue shit. But he was so close to me this time that I could see the whites of his eyes as he stared off into the distance. It was so bizarre. I didn't even know whether this was malicious or not, you know. Was this my I'm trying to hurt me? I think knowing that he was a psycho nut would have made it easier to deal with. But this. It was irrational.

Fear I felt was primal and shook me to my core. I screamed at him. What the fuck do you want? I shouted at the top of my lungs, not caring who would wake up. No, hoping someone would. Leave me alone, asshole. Fuck off! His expression instantly changed at that.

He looked, sad almost, but it was frighteningly disingenuous. Like he was putting on a show. His face fell. And he brought his hand up to wipe off in non-existent tear. I watched and stunned silence as he then proceeded to climb the railing of the stairs and jump before I could so much as open my mouth. I screamed and quickly bent over the stairs to see what the fuck happened. He was sprawled on the ground, six floors down, limbs twisted at odd angles and lying in a pool of blood.

I must have spent almost a minute just staring at his lifeless body, wondering what the fuck just happened. At the back of my mind, I knew who I had to call the cops or something, but I was far too shocked to even move. It was a tingling sensation in my spine that brought me. back to reality. The strange feeling of being watched, like thousands of ants running down your bag. I looked up at the stairs above me, and I kid you not, son. There he was. That fucking mime, looking down at his own dead body with a shocked expression on his face. He was holding his cheeks like that scream painting. His mouth had dropped open with his eyes threatening to pop out of his face was just inches from mine and i damn near peed my pants do you see my hands right now do you see how they're shaking

just thinking about that night imagine how terrified i must have been back then my body had just shut down refusing to move and we both stood there like statues like a fucking living art installation the one who moved. After about a half minute or so, being utterly still, his eyes moved and finally locked onto mine for the first time that night. Shivers ran down my spine as I stared into those deep pits of nothingness. But the spell was broken, and I could move my body again. I stumbled and fell backwards, but quickly scampered off to my feet and ran, and kept running and running, until I left the building. Not even bothering to check whether I was still being followed.

I stayed awake that whole night, grabbing a coffee at the first cafe that opened at the crack of dawn. I anonymously called the cops from a payphone in the morning. But of course there was nobody in the building when the cops later showed up. I am not a very religious man. But I knew. That shit? It was not something logic could explain.

For the next week, I stayed away from my apartment as much as I could, only going there to shower or change my clothes. Spending night at friends' places after making the weakest excuses imaginable. No, I didn't tell anyone. Are you crazy? Who fucking believed me? And no, there were no CCTV in that building. Poverty is fucking cruel, son. I could no longer impose myself on my friends, and there was absolutely no way I was going to the homeless shelter.

So I decided to go back to sleeping in my apartment. I tried to fool myself into thinking that what I had experienced wasn't real, that I had just dreamed it all up. Like it was all just a hallucination. But deep down, I knew that it was real, all of it. and that it would probably happen again. A feeling of tremendous dread washed over me when I stood outside my building. Eight nights after I first ran into that mime. It was again pretty fucking late.

Around the same time I had run into him the last time. With a heavy heart, I trudged over to the elevator, trying to avoid thinking about the fear clawing at my heart. I couldn't even look at the spot where he had fallen and chose to keep away from it. The elevator opened with a soft day. I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw it was empty. Why didn't I just take the stairs? Hell fucking no.

Too much trauma associated with that place now. Better to be cramped inside a fast-moving elevator than risk climbing the stairs and meeting the suicidal mime from hell. I guess I should be thankful that my elevator ride was peaceful. I don't think I would have survived if he had shown up there. A heart attack would have killed me long before he could slice me up or something. I don't know. Outside the apartment, I fumbled with my keys, but quickly got in and locked the door shut behind me. Kicking my shoes off, I immediately ran to the comfort of my blanket and curled up in there,

trying hard to fall asleep. but staying awake like a fucking owl. So this apartment was pretty small, right? Just two rooms excluding the bathroom. So you can hear whatever is happening in any corner of this place. You get where I'm going with this. No, he wasn't in the house, but right outside of it. I heard something rustling outside my front door

and instinctively knew that it was him. At first I thought I'd just stay there, in my bed, but the rustling didn't stop. The fear just kept building inside of me. And it was becoming unbearable to just stay there. My heart was beating so fucking fast I feared that it would leap out of my mouth. Fuck it. I whispered to myself and got up to investigate.

I banged my toe against the foot of the bed and yelped, with the noises from outside ceasing almost instantly. After controlling my pain, I walked over. over to the door as softly as I could and look through the people. I whimpered as my fears were confirmed. There he was. That fucking mime. Standing with his back to the wall in front of me,

at attention like some damn army cadet. I think he must have sensed me watching him, because as soon as I looked through the peephole, he bent over forwards. such that his upper body was almost parallel to the floor. His blood red lips stretched into the most vicious smile, and he began to stare right at me. I don't know how, but he was somehow looking straight at me. No, he wasn't anywhere near the people, so I don't know how.

But I knew he was watching me, watching him. I felt his eyes pierced my very soul. taunting me, letting me know that he was playing with me, that he could kill me whenever he wished. He brought his palms up to the side of his face, opened his mouth, and began clicking his tongue. Except I never heard the clicking sound.

What I heard was a knock, and my door began to shake. Knock, knock, knock, short bursts of three. I fell back in fear. You know, he wasn't near the door, but he's still fucking knocked. I don't know what the fuck was happening, but I knew I couldn't stay there even for a second. I climbed out of my window and went down the fire escape. I heard something impossibly large and strong slam against the door to my house as I began to climb down that rickety iron staircase attached to the side of the building.

My door gave in with a painfully loud crunch, and I almost fell down. Why didn't anyone come out to check what was happening, you ask? Well, people mostly minded their own business. Home invasions, murders, drug deals gone wrong. To them, these noises can mean fucking anything. Not necessarily something demonic. At what point on my way down, I consider just jumping and ending my life. I was that terrifying.

But I shook my head and continued to fight for my survival. I was soon free. I was out of that infernal building and panting and catching my breath on the streets below. I looked back up at where my apartment was and saw him for the last time in my life. He was standing on the railing on the emergency stairs, right outside my bedroom, without a care in the world. I don't know how the fuck he balanced himself on that thing, but he just stood there,

staring at me with that fucked up smile on his face. He theatrically brought his hands up and clapped once. I watched in terrified silence as one by one. The lights and all the apartments began to switch on. He was there at every window, in every fucking apartment that I could see. Fucking everywhere. He was Jesus.

He was performing, if that makes any sense. In one house he was mimicking drinking tea, and another juggling invisible balls, riding an invisible unicycle, just a fucked up sight to say the least. But the original one continued to stare at me, and then with another clap, switched off every light in the building,

and disappear. Leaving me shivering in the darkness. Holy shit, Dad. Did that really happen? Believe what you want. That's up to you, he sighed. I know what I saw. So did you go back there again?

I asked. He shook his head furiously. No, never in the night. Never again. I moved out as soon as I found another place. What happened to that building? He took a deep breath. I keep tabs on it.

The owner had to sell to a builder. It was just not profitable anymore. A bunch of suicides occurred there. Like two to three each year for half a decade. Bad omens all around. The new owner tore it down and built a shopping mall there. A shopping mall? Which one? I asked.

He looked at me blankly. Oh, you don't mean. My blood froze as the realization sunk in. But they have a mime performance in the amphitheater there. Every month. He nodded as his eyes watered. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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