Creepy - Floaters

Episode Date: March 17, 2025

Floaters***Written by: Isaac Ruff***Hatchling***Written by: Garye Maraboto and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***How to Trap a Leprechaun***Written by: MakRalston and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/How_to_Trap_a_LeprechaunContent is available under CC BY-SA***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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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, Our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, a reclusive voyeur becomes obsessed with a new neighbor

only to witness her brutal attack. When he intervenes, he unknowingly unleashes an Eldridge horror unlike anything his eyes. were prepared for. Creepy presents. Floaters. Written by Isaac Ruff. I never meant to hurt anyone.

You have to believe me. I only wanted to help. It's their fault. The floaters. Those tiny black dots. I always thought of them as friends. Watching over me just out of sight. but they won't leave.

More keep crowding in, blotting things out, like ink spilling in my eyes. I have to stop them. As soon as I finish recording this, I don't want to do it, but what other choice do I have? I'm trapped in here. All alone, too many of you are out there now. If I leave, my eyes might eat you. They're clever. I tried to cut them out, but they stopped the knives.

The fire, the bleach, I'm tired. I just want to sleep, but they won't stop squirming. I wish I could cry. I try and try. But they eat all the tears. I'm scared. So, so, so scared. I want my dad.

Please, will you tell me where my dad is? I'm sorry. I've been getting mixed up lately. Haven't slept in days, I think. Gotta breathe. Focus on this. The story. No time for anything else.

You all have to know what happened here. I have to save you. I have to save the war. I lived in a studio apartment, top floor on the north side of town. I had a view right out onto the building across the street. Perfect for people watching. The windows were small, easy to duck out of sight if I had to. But that other building was lined with huge panes of glass.

I could see entire rooms through them, and plenty of people didn't bother with their blinds. Every morning they came to life. I'd make a pot of coffee, sit at my desk, and watch. Filling notebooks and flash drives with anything I could get my eyes on. Heights, weights, habits, routines, their parents' names, their favorite movies, what they looked for in friends, what they liked to drink with breakfast. I could even get audio from some of their places. Some people are willing to download pretty much anything these days.

Taking through their trash helps. Find old mail, full names, where they work, who they bank with, make an email look professional and there's no link the average person won't click. Once I was in their computer, I was in their microphones and cameras and anything else they had lying around their network. And look, to you that might sound, Kind of creepy I get it

That's what I'd think But I was not looking to take advantage I swear I'm not a stalker The rule was look Don't touch Because you can learn so much about a person By watching

Listening Conversation isn't the same Isn't this pure We're not ourselves around others We become machines, piles of gauges and dials. We tweak our words and our volume and our pitch until we hit the perfect frequency for whoever we're interacting with. That's all connection is. It's unnatural.

Disturbing. You think you know your loved ones so well? You only know the lies they feed you. Wake up surrounded by confusion and screams and bullet holes. in the wall. Do you really know what they'd do? What you would do? No. Watch someone at home, in their bubble, where they think prying eyes couldn't possibly get in. You'll see the truth. And even an ugly truth is sweeter than any lie. Most of the time it's easy, getting to know people. We're just patterns. All the things we can do you.

can't not do. See that Jeremy binges and purges. See that he keeps his life organized at all costs. Listen in on Christmas with the family and learn his dad was military. That he moved around a lot growing up. In the apartment down the hall? See that Selena is married to a woman. Read an email from her sister and learn her dad is a hardline conservative. See Selena send him a Christmas card every single year, then rush to check the mail for weeks. You can connect the dots. Watch long enough, pick up enough details and behaviors, and you build out their hearts, their souls in your mind.

You witness them, as it should be. Life was good. I tried to keep up with everyone I could see from my window, but I'm only human. It was easiest to focus in on one or two at a time. The day Emily moved in, that was Travis and Ruth. Abuse was nothing new, but their dynamic was fascinating. Travis was short and stocky with a sharp nose and beady rat's eyes. He was sprawled on their couch with some old horror movie on his laptop.

I was in its camera, watching him watch it. He kept rubbing his knuckles. A deep frown carved in his face. Ruth, his wife, skulked around the edges of their apartment. Nursing a black eye and sweeping up the plates, Travis had hurled at the wall before he hit her. She was playing out one of her murder fantasies. I could tell from the glances she shot at the back of his head. Eyes like jagged glass.

That happened on days like this. I'd check her phone's browser history and find her looking up ways to high bodies, how to hurt people so they die slow but quiet. Then she'd start shopping, buying bleach, rope, tarps, even a hacksaw once. She never followed through. At the other end of the building, Selena and her wife Dawn had just gotten home. They like to cap off their week by sharing an audiobook and a bottle of wine on the couch. That night it was book four of some fantasy epic.

They were right at the end. Listening along always relaxed me. Made me feel warm to see the love there. And some of the stories were pretty good too. I was about to switch over to them when a noise came through Travis' microphone, a door banging open out in the hall. There was movement in the living room next to his. I grabbed my binoculars for a better look.

That was when I first saw her, bundling into the vacant apartment, a big cardboard box taking up both arms. Her chin was planted on top so it wouldn't tip forward. She isn't, wasn't, beautiful, looked to be in her thirties, chunky but not quite fat. Her face was motherly, round and dimpled, and her dishwater hair had a habit of clumping into ropes. But the way she moved, floating around the apartment, baggy white shirt billowing like angels' wings as she unpacked a fuzzy blanket, a stack of heavy books, some plain sets of clothes. There was in awkward elegance in every movement she made,

like watching someone learn ballet. A couple moving guys helped her carry in some furniture. There was a wooden bookshelf, a couch, and a big glass tank. It had a little pond inside with a turtle resting on one of the rocks. She helped them out with all of it, smiling and chatting. When they were done, she gave them each some cash. Thanks, Emily, have a good one, the last man said. I tasted the name. Emily.

It fit her perfectly. I smiled. Said it again. It's been over a year since someone knew it moved in, so I was excited. I had to know more. I waited, tuning into her window every night, letting her get settled while I tried to figure her out. All the books made it clear she was well read, intelligent. Her apartment was minimalist.

Nothing on the walls, no unnecessary furniture. Her too small mattress was shoved in a corner on the floor. She didn't want to be tied down, could pick up and leave at a moment's notice. Did she move a lot for work? Was she running from something? Or did she just enjoy the freedom? The questions were fish hooks snagged in my brain, tugging me back to her, always. The only extra she allowed herself was the turtle.

She loved that thing. and it obviously felt the same. I could see the light in her. Its eyes followed her everywhere, like sunflowers. She kept its tank on the side table by the door, so it was the first thing she saw when she got home. Every day she made sure the glass was spotless, that it had clean water and fresh greens to eat.

The way it craned its head toward her finger when she stroked its shell was adorable. She had such a big, Big heart. I still believe that. But she worked long hours. Dawn till well past dusk. No days off. A week flew by and I barely learned anything new.

As far as I could tell, she had no friends. Didn't have the time. She'd get home, take care of the turtle, eat some takeout, and spend an hour or so staring at the TV. Then clean up and crash before heading out six hours later. Her shoulders had a constant slump. I'd catch her crying late at night. Never for long. She'd clamped down before the wimperes grew to sobs.

I thought she was lonely. Maybe she was. Doesn't matter now. What matters is I was addicted, starving. The rest of the world fell away when I was with her. but I was stuck with a few hours a night, a morsel when all I wanted was the shovel down plate after plate of her. I'll admit, maybe in the past I've gotten too interested in people.

Never like that. It only got worse. When she left, all the color in the world went with her. Everyone I used to love seemed dull, petty. Nobody held my attention. The instant her lights turned on, I'd drop everyone to attend to her. I hated it, abandoning people I'd spent years with just to watch her eat, sleep, and feed that fucking turtle. Every day the guilt coiled tighter in my guts.

but I kept doing it. Stopping would have been worse. Having her always just out of sight, never there but never gone. Who would do that to themselves? That night she wasn't back by the usual time. I was starting to freak out. For all I knew, she was in a dumpster with her throat cut.

I kept grabbing my binoculars, eyes darting to her window. The turtle chewed a lettuce leaf, not a care in the world. I envied it. Then her door opened. A woman's figure stood there, silhouetted by the light from the hall. A man slid into view behind her. His body was long and spindly. He shoved the woman, stumbling into the apartment.

His arms snaked in after her and flicked on the lights. She was encased in some kind of protective gear. It was all black. Heavy duty boots, gloves, a jumpsuit with a hood that cinched. And a gas mask. Fastened to her head with a web of thick straps. Someone had welded a metal plate to cross the top half like a blindfold. But there were two holes punched through.

shaky eyes stared out of them. Eyes I'd know anywhere. The turtle stretched its head towards her as the man shut the door. He was in the same black suit as Emily, except he didn't have a mask. He was older. Gaunt face etched with wrinkles. Short black hair with graying roots. His red-rimmed eyes watched Emily the way you'd watch a bear that hasn't noticed you.

As if any second its attention might turn. He inched closer to her back. Too close. My heart beat faster. Metal glinted in his fist. A pistol. Its mouth pressed through her spine. Emily started to whip around and face him,

but his free hand throttled the back of her neck, slamming her into the floor. Her head ricocheted off the hardwood. Groped at the sides of the men. as she writhed in pain. The turtle hid in its shell. The tall man ground his boot into Emily's back. Teeth bared, face screwed up tight, but tears slipped down his cheeks.

Reality snapped into focus around me. This was happening. I grabbed my camera, pointed at her window. Questions didn't matter. All I had to do was watch. Everything I'd been waiting for. Right in front of me. A chance to see the real Emily.

If she got hurt, well, that's life, right? So why was my throat so tight? Front door bent inward as something rammed it from the other side. The tall man straightened. Dirked his eyes toward it, then right back to Emily. the end of his gun trembled. He heaved her to her feet, wrapped an arm around her throat, and made her a meat shield. Aimed his gun over her shoulder at the door.

The assault was warping it. Cracking the wood. Neighboring apartments lit up as people jumped out of bed to investigate. Each bang put another dent in their annoyed glares until they crumbled into scared confusion. Emily slammed her elbow back into the tall man's gut. He sagged as a breath went out of him. His grip loosened, and she dropped, rolled sideways. The door buckled at the waist and flew apart as a boot crash through.

A man made of muscle stood in the breach, dressed in more black hazmat in a gas mask with a tinted visor. The tall man fell to one knee, dumped it. his magazine. Two shots caught the brute in the chest and shoved him back into the wall. Another three hammered his bicep, wrenched a submachine gun out of his hand. Below two black vans screeched to a stop at either end of the street. Headlights cut through the dark as the tall man fumbled a reload from above. A second gun and ducked in through the doorway.

A long suppressor screwed to the end of his submachine gun. He pointed it at the tall man and shredded his head with a burst of fire. Just like that. It was a wad of pulp. The first pistol shots had dragged the rest of the building out of bed. On the upper floors, closest to the action, people reacted fastest. Some hidden closets under beds, most ran to their doors, cramming eyes into peep holes to see what was happening. If they could get away safe.

Emily crawled towards a counter that bordered her kitchenette. The brute's gun coughed lead into her leg as she pulled herself behind cover. He sent another volley over the counter so she'd stay there. Next door, Mona and her husband Mark were hiding under their dinner table, side by side on their stomachs, holding hands. I loved that table. It was beautiful, dark wood. They'd have huge dinners on it whenever Mona's family came to town.

all those people smiling together. The bullets from the second volley tore through their wall into the tabletop, and Mark, he jiggled as the back of his skull opened up. Mona raised her head. She had this shell-shocked look. Bloody spray in her gold hair. The gunman finished reloading. More metal-wizzed past her and Mona.

Mona's face crumpled into a sob. She bolted out the door. Everyone who saw her through their doors open, giving me scattered glimpses into the hall and rushed to follow her to safety. Mona stopped at the elevator, mashing the down button. The doors dinged open.

Clogged with bodies as everyone pressed in. Further down, a bald man stepped out one of the apartments across the hall. Her rifle held white-nought-neigh-and-yed. knuckle tight. His face went slack when he saw the elevator. Back in their own apartment, Travis had Ruth by the hair. He hauled her to the door, kicking and screaming, tossed her into the hall, then stood back and waited. She landed on her shoulder between the bald man and the elevator. His rifle flew toward the movement and sent a bullet through her

eye, turned the black bruise around it red. Travis slammed his door, backed away, meeting his palms into his forehead. The bald man stared at Ruth, donned his gun, back at her. Dumb shock on his face. Panic poured down the building, picking up more bodies on every floor until a wave of terrified people spilled onto the street. More came out of buildings nearby to point phones at the chaos. Muffled screams drifted up to my window.

I had seen people kill themselves before. Seen them cut, beaten, bruised. It's not fun. Not a nice thing to watch. But even though they taste bitter, pain and fear are medicine. They cut the fat off the ego and leave a snake. good, human. Everywhere I looked, through every window, people exposed their most essential selves.

It should have been intimate, breathtaking. Nothing in the world should have been able to pull me away. Emily was hunkered behind the counter, her injured leg black with blood. She torn a strip of fabric off her sleeve and tied it above her knee. The gunman emptied another magazine over her head. She didn't even flinch. He had her pinned but wasn't moving any closer. She stuck a spoon into the fabric and twisted,

using it to tourniquet her leg. It was amazing how capable she was. Between bursts, the gunman would put a finger to his ear, maybe calling for backup from the vans down the street. Their doors stayed shut. Nobody was coming. Why hadn't he walked up and shot her? She was hurt, didn't have a weapon.

But it wouldn't be long now. He'd get brave. She had nowhere to run. That's when my body stood. So fast it knocked the camera over. My legs crossed the room and my hands opened the door. My mind was in an uproar as I took the stairs three at a time. Too many thoughts brawling in the muck.

She was about to die, one of them kept shouting. That's life, another chimed in. Nobody lasts forever. There would always be more people to watch. But my legs wouldn't listen to reason. My heart was a freight train in my chest. I'm pretty sure I was. was scared. Then why couldn't I turn around? I had no idea who those people were, what was

happening. I barely even knew Emily, and I'd seen some of them call the cops. They were on their way. Not fast enough. She needed help. Needed me. I was the only one who could have saved her. Why did I care? It was wrong, inflicting myself on her like that. That was where her choices had let her. Her choices, not mine. I had no right to take them away. But I kept seeing her in flashes, petting her turtle, stacking her books,

grappling with tears in the dark, always alone. My eyes burned. When she died, it'd be my fault. That thought looped through my head over and, over, louder and louder, all I had to do was stay away. I'd done it for over a decade, so why her? It just, it wasn't fair. She deserved better. She was a good person. Kind and sad and dedicated? Why did someone like that have to die? I wanted her to live, more than anything.

The fact I'd have to shoot someone was the least of my concerns. Death was death was death. Seeing it up close wouldn't change that. And it wasn't like I never had the urge. All the men mom used to cycle through the house, the dads for a night. I could do it. For her, I could do it. Any doubts melted away as I hit the grown floor. I saw, oh, so clearly. I didn't care that I could die.

Because I was too smart for that, right? I saw the bigger picture. I knew exactly where the danger would be. What harm can a bullet do if the gun isn't pointed at you? So clever, so courageous. It was dark outside, like the sky had bled out. The black vans stoppering the ends of the street were gone. I wondered why, but only for a second.

She made me feel fearless, made me blind. There were people everywhere, casting warped fun house shadows, into the streetlights, random shouts of go and fuck and help echoed as they ran, or froze with glazed eyes or looked for loved ones in the mess. Selina was there, her face drawn and pale. She had Don's arm slung over her shoulder, was helping her hobble out of the building. I crossed the street, throwing nervous glances around me. A mousy woman held the big glass door as she ushered people through. I pushed by and she grabbed at my sleeve, yelled,

Wait! I shook free into the foyer. Eyes down. No distractions. Dark stains covered the floor by the elevator. Bloody footprints. Sneakers and sandals and bare feet. I took a while to press the button.

A sound came from inside as a metal door. doors crawled open. Drip, drip, drip. A shape was slumped against the back wall. I stepped in, not thinking, wanting a better look. Wasn't until the doors shut behind me that I realized it was Mona. The air vent in the ceiling made her gold hair flutter. She'd fallen or been pushed, cracked her forehead on the edge of the metal handrail so hard

had split her open and lodged there. She hung off it like a wet towel. Then all those scared people had crushed in on top of her, pounded her spine into the hard angle where the floor met the wall. Footprints tracked the backs of her sweatpants. The fingers on one hand were bent and twitching like a squashed spider's legs. Blood fell from somewhere I couldn't save. probably the ditch in her forehead.

But I heard it. Drip. Drip. I stood with my nose pressed against the door as the elevator rose. I'd seen worse than this, I told myself. One dead body wouldn't break me. I thought about peeling her off the wall, letting her rest with some dignity. But that bend in her spine.

It hurt to look at. That hand made my guts crawl. Why subject myself to it? Not like this was my fault, right? The doors dinged open. I shoved the thoughts away and got out. Another clatter of gunfire down the hall, smothered by the suppressor. My feet kept moving.

Command, this is Trapper 2, requesting support. The gunman's voice was hoarse. full of gravel. I say again, a cess containment breach. Host is cornered, but I cannot advance. Deploy the cage right fucking now. But nobody answered. His friends were long gone.

The one who'd broken down the door was dead in the hall, on his stomach. Dark streak trailed behind him. I crept over. Every muscle tensed and put my hand on his gun. A high, winding scream, serrated the silence. I leapt back, tried to point the gun at the man on the floor, and it danced between my hands before I got a grip.

He stayed corpse still. The scream kept going, descending. Nothing but pain. The kind of an animal makes when they aren't killed clean. It didn't last long, a handful of seconds. Then this gruesome ripping, The scream fell apart into a wet gurgle. Cold fear stabbed my chest.

Was I too late? I stumbled in Emily's ruined doorway and froze. The second gunman was floating in midair, beyond mutilated. His mask was gone. His arms were flung out to either side like you'd been crucified. He still had his gun in one. one hand, and he was fighting to move it, but it was pinned there. Every bit of flesh had been scraped, clean off his other arm. The bones gleamed, and there was this noise, this gnashing,

metal chewing wine that raked through my ears as under that arm. Something started to grind He ended the skin on the side of his chest into wet froth, like it was polishing away rust. Bright white ribs smiled through. His head lulled, crazy eyes bulging. Foam flecked mouth working open and closed, but all he spoke was a river of blood. It was everywhere, gushing out of every orifice, wrung out of a human spun. and still the floor below him was clean. A clump of insides slopped out over his naked hip and just melted into thin air.

Emily stood opposite him, propping herself up on the counter, the two black holes in her mask drilling into him. A metallic click hung in the air. There was a spray of plaster dust as a bullet hole opened. in one of the walls, smoke swirled from the end of my gun. It was raised. My finger relaxed, and I realized I'd pulled the trigger. I don't know why.

It just happened. Emily's gaze flicked over to me. My skin went hot, started to itch. The force that kept the gunmen floating let go. He managed to swing his good arm as he fell. The gun went off, drew a line across Emily's head. Her legs turned to jelly and she crumpled as the gunman slapped onto the floor. Quiet then.

Nothing moved. Vomit was pushing up my throat when I heard the noise, coming from behind the counter. From Emily. It's a... Amazing how the brain is able to build its own private reality. Scrub the insanity away for now, it says, and focus on what must be true. In that instant, there had never been a floating man.

And I truly believed I heard Emily breathing. Even when I saw her on her back, motionless, leg, weeping blood, I couldn't quite believe it. Not until I saw the fresh holes through her throat. I've had a lot of time to think about that moment. Imagine orgasming with your eyes closed. Then opening them and finding yourself fucking a pig. Regret, confusion, shame, they cling to you like stale sweat, squeezing you so you can't get a full breath.

You want to scrub them away, but they've soaked into your skin. And something's wrong inside you. The world's shifted somehow. And it's your fault. You want to curl into a ball and disappear, make it so you never existed. But you can't. So you just keep going.

The noise was getting louder, angrier. A spitting hiss, like oil boy. coming from behind Emily's mask. The whole thing started to shudder, struggling against the mess of straps holding it to her face. Blackflex dotted the metal plate, welded across her eyes, and inside the two holes punched through it. Something was moving.

I should have left then. But I had to see. So I just kept going. I crouched over. took her head with my hands and looked into her eyes. Part of me still held onto the tiniest hope that she'd look back, teary with relief. But her eyes were gone.

Two black pits full of tarry, bubbling liquids stared back instead. Droplets of it spat out onto the metal, the mask, the floor around her head. Then the pits went, Still, I felt something watching, just out of sight, something massive. It laid its eyes on me, eyes all around me, peeling me back layer by layer. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. The liquid came alive.

It leapt out of her head and splashed onto my face, cold and slimy. I jerked back, fell, my back at the ground, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't see. The world was black. I clawed at my face, trying to get it off, get it out, but it moved. Probing, slipping through the gaps by my tearducts, pouring itself into the space around my eyeballs and hugging them tight. I felt myself scream as I writhed on the floor. A weird disembodied howled it Never seemed to end

And then I could see again The screams sputtered out Black floaters hung in my vision I blinked them away Back's my eyes itched Everything was too bright I got to my feet Trying to rein my breath in

God I was hungry starving. It filled my brain to the brim. Sirens wailed outside. Lights washed in, painting the room red and blue. Something tugged at my head, reeling me towards the window. Three cop cars made a line on the street. Officers were trying to herd the drags of the crowd behind it.

Selina was there. An old shirt pressed to a gash in Don's forehead. had. Travis had made it. His eyes bounced between the officers as his tongue flickered across his lips. Rob held his little son Nathan into his burly chest. Jeremy's red hair bobbed as he paced. There were so many more. Everywhere I looked was a face I'd spent time with. The itch in my eyes was like fire. I ground my fists into them, but that made it. it worse. When I pulled my hands away, the edges of my vision were fuzzy and dark. A black dot drifted out into view. A floater, smaller than a nap. It was moving towards one of the cops.

I tried to blink it away, but more shook loose than more and more. The first landed on the cop's shoulder. A big bearded man with tattooed forearms. He winced and slapped at it. There was nothing there. He looked around, confused. He couldn't see it. It never left my eyes. Another one went over his cheek and he hissed, slapped there too. But it was like trying to swat away a sniper. His buddies were giving him weird looks. Floaters, see. kept pouring out of the corners of my eyes, a great buzzing swarm. They fell over the cop's hand first, packed so close they made a quivering silhouette, like a glove of flies. He yelled, tried to yank his arm away, but it was cemented in place.

His friends started shouting, tracing their pistols across roofs and windows. Tension rolled through the people behind them. Nobody understood what was happening. The cop opened his mouth to scream and the swarm darted into it. Blackened his jaw. He pawed at it and they spilled up his fingertips as they hoisted him into the air. Now his friend's guns were pointed at him. Every mouth hung open.

The crowd were on their feet. But nobody moved. They all watched in spellbound silence. as a man was eaten by the air. More floaters congealed around the cop's body, lunging at any hint of movement. And where they went, he came apart like soggy bread, deflating.

No more room on his bones, so they descended on the crowd. So many I could barely see through them all. People started swatting at themselves, slapping their arms and legs in a strange dance that kept picking up tempo. Then they started to scream. One of the cop's friends put a bullet in his floating skeleton. I slammed my eyes shut.

I didn't want to see. I thought it would stop them. They didn't like that. Itching, burning, excruciating pain all over my eyes. The nerves hooked into them became molten chains, rattling back into my skull down my neck. I shrieked short and sharp like shattering glass. My eyes flew open, and the pain was gone. The floaters were black flames flickering over a field of bodies.

The people were made of wax. They melted, flailing and the body. and sobbing into puddles of bone and torn clothing. Mangled screams piled on top of each other, like bodies in a pit, until they were one awful noise. Officers shot at the air. Bullets ate into the street,

smashed through windows. One tore past Don's face as her skin peeled away into muscle, into skull. Selina kept trying to scoop her back together. Another stray bullet pinged off a lamp post, blew chunks out the back of Salinas head, and they both toppled at Travis' feet. His squeals died as a black splotch gripped his jaw and squeezed.

It climbed further up his face, left wreckage behind. He was crying when they swept over his eyes. eyes, one by one, the screams winked out, like all the stars dying, then a silence that ate the world. My eyes cleared as the swarms broke apart. They swam back into the dark corners of my head, swollen and lazy. The street was a carpet of death. All the people I dedicated my life. I dedicated my Life too. Blended together on the asphalt. I couldn't tell who was who.

If I'd never been born, it wouldn't have happened. I snapped my head away. My stomach was swollen. The backs of my eyes purred. A long moan limped out of me. My knees at the floor, but the pain and everything else was far away. blurry around the edges. Reality was watercolor.

I couldn't hear over the blood hammering my temples. The ragged breath sawing through me. I cried fat, silent tears that never made it out of my eyes. Those little things sucked them down as soon as they welled up. Panic set in. Bone deep. I tried to clot in my eyes, but every time my shaky hands got close, that rabid pain woke back up, so I tore at my hair instead.

I wanted my dad, wanted his arms around me. The smell of beef on his work clothes as he hugged me and told me it would be okay, but he was dead. I used to see it when I could still sleep. The garage door gaping open. His brain's pink on the car's black dashboard. mom never let me read the note. He hadn't acted any different before. He'd always been sad.

I should have watched him closer. I would have seen it. He knew what mom was doing. I could tell from the way his lips pressed white when I told him. He'd been able to live with it. But I had to confront him. Had to rub his face in it. like he was a dog.

He couldn't even look at me. I only wanted him to be happy. To take me away? He was gone when I woke up. My wimperes morphed into hacking, breathless laughter. I threw up. Nothing but bile. Floaters ate that too.

I wiped slime off my lips and they picked it off the back of my hand. The crowd of tangle screams echoed through me. I sprang to my feet, dug around the kitchen drawers until I found duct tape and ran it in strips over the windows until no light could seep in.

Then I crawled under Emily's sheets and hit. Keeping track of the rest was hard. The brain can only take so much. It's a coward at heart. There were more sirens. people gathering outside, waiting to starve me out or getting ready to storm the building. What would happen when they did was the only thing on my mind. Well, not the only thing.

Wasn't long until I got hungry again. And then all I could think about was Mona, in the elevator with her eggshell skull, dripping sweet red juices. The wads of brains clinging to the tall man's neck. Getting stiff, starting to stink. Why'd help clear the air if I looked at them? Maybe just ones in the room. I was so, so hungry.

I could barely breathe through the drool. The thought of normal food made me sick, and my eyes were getting angry, stinging like wasps. I started with the gunman, the half-eaten one, just to tide me over. I stared at him until his bones shone white. After that, I sat back. The turtle was at the edge of its tank, looking back and forth across the room. It had such sad eyes.

It must have been thirsty. So I went and filled the dish with water. When I put it in the tank, there was a little squeak. At the edge of the pond, floaters pranced over tiny bones and broken bits of shell. It happened so fast. They snatched it out of the corner of my eye. I tried to cry again. But it's not the same without tears.

Muscle memory tried to blink after, but my lids were stuck in place. I realized that I hadn't played. blinked in hours. It's a weird feeling, having your eyes pried open. But it doesn't hurt. They keep them wet. Pick away all the debris. I miss it, though.

Blinking, crying, human things. I went straight to the kitchen knives and stabbed at one of my eyes. The point was about to drive home when they chewed through the metal and it disappeared it down to the handle, like a retractable prop. I kept going until handles were heaped on the counter. Next thing I knew, I was under the covers again, trying to ignore the constant squirming behind my eyes. It hit me then that, in the right hands,

they could have eaten cancer, eaten disease. Emily dedicated her life to making the world a better place, and I killed her. I killed everyone. The next day I ate the tall man. Better that than let him rot. At least he was dead already. At least it stopped the pain in my head.

It's what he would have wanted. I found some bleach in Mark's apartment. Tried to pour it in my eyes, but all it did was burn my face. I tried everything. And still one by one. The bodies turned to spotless bone until it was just Emily and I, a small army outside by then. Hundreds, maybe. I heard them marching, voices, barking orders, trucks rolling in.

I was getting hungry again. They got more impatient with every meal. I couldn't eat Emily. She deserved rest. Maybe I could peel open the window an inch. Just a taste couldn't hurt. An arm or a leg? The thought made me sick, but there was nothing in my stomach, so I reched in the corner like a cat.

The world was worse with me in it. But they'd find someone else to jump if I died. I had to fix it. I made myself think about Emily She'd want to help them To save them from me Took some effort to actually get my eyes on her But the hunger won out in the end

My hands shook as I ended the straps of her mask Her skin was modeled The color of rotten grapes It seemed to size too big Those deep fleshy pits were her eyes had been were fixed on me. Her face was different somehow. A smile slashed across it. I'd never seen her smile like that. The corners of her mouth twisted up into cruel points like she was laughing at me. Like I was the punchline to a sick joke. I fell back. My hand hit the tall man's pistol

and scittering sideways under the glow of a lamp. Light bounced off the black metal and the gun gleamed like smiling teeth. The whole world was laughing. I went cold and heavy. My blood was lead. I was tired. Tired to the bone. The noise outside was getting louder.

My hand scrabbled to the floor till I closed her on the pistol. I made sure not to look. You're inside now. I hear boots down the hall. You'll be here soon. Whatever you do, don't let me see you. They'll still be in me after I'm gone. But I'll put up a barricade and slide this under the door.

Hope that whoever finds it listens. Please listen. Please. Maybe everything ends up all right? You could try to remember me. For our second story this evening, after a brutal wisdom tooth extraction, a young woman's recovery takes a nightmarish turn when she starts to feel something wrong with her jaw,

and it's only the beginning. Creepy Presents Hatchling, written by Gariah Maraboto, and narrated by Megan McDuffie. It's been two weeks since I got my wisdom tooth removed. Bottom right only. It was not an emergency. It was only just starting to peek out and it didn't hurt yet.

The thing is, I was supposed to be leaving for Europe soon. Well, I was moving to London for a bit, and I was scared it would get bad while I was there. It was a terrible mistake. The surgery was brutal. The local anesthesia worked fine, nothing hurt, but I could still feel everything that was going on inside my mouth. I knew it was over for me from the moment the dentist made the first incision and let out a quiet, oof, this one's a good one. After that, it was 40 minutes of open-mouthedness, with the cheek retractor stretching my dried-up lips,

the sound of the drill ringing in my ears, and the cracking noise of my molar, breaking into several little pieces. As the doctor pushed and pulled at my jawbone, I had a lightweight piece of cloth covering the upper half of my face, going from my nose to my forehead, to prevent any of the nastiness coming from my mouth getting onto the rest of my skin. I couldn't see anything, and AirPods were not allowed. The only thing left was concentrating on my breath real hard

to avoid thinking too much about the sucking sounds of the plastic thingy, charged with suctioning my blood and water into the drain. After the procedure was done, the rest of the day, all I could do was sleep. I only woke up at around nine when my mom woke me up to take my antibiotic. We also had a cheeky laugh at how funny my swollen face looked. Seems like you're hiding candy in there, she said. The next few days were a welcome red. tasting of water-based ice cream and sublingual katerallac.

But my face only seemed to be getting bigger. Every day, my jaw felt a little bit more rigid, and the range of motion when I opened my mouth had significantly decreased. By the fourth day, I could eat nothing but mushy baby food, and by the fifth, the pain became so intense I could feel my gums pulsing. It hurt so bad I couldn't sleep. On day six, I went back into the office to get the dentist to take a look at it, and he said it was nothing to worry about. It had become a little infected, unfortunately, but it would go away with the correct treatment.

He prescribed more meds and sent me on my way. By this point in time, a ball the size of my fist had taken over my right cheek, but the new medicine did help. The pain subsided, even if the size stayed the same. Things were looking like I would have to finish treatment in London. I didn't even want to look at the prices for dental care in the UK. I've lost my flight. I've probably lost my mind as well. Something happened during the night.

There was a weird sensation coming from the wound. The skin of my gums felt too tingly, almost ticklish. I tried to ignore it for a minute. I was still trapped in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep, and I believed it was a sign of my body healing the gaping hole in the back of my mouth. The tickles traveled down to my tongue, and it began to feel closer to the sensation of a ladybug walking over your hand. I ran towards the mirror and pointed my phone's flashlight into my mouth.

Everything was red, and moving in between blood and thick spit, I saw it. There was a caterpillar coming out from the space in between the bone of my jaw and the skin of my cheek. It was twisting and turning right on top of my tongue. I heard the screen of my phone cracking when it hit the floor and I howled in terror. I was too scared of closing my mouth and accidentally biting the bug, so I kept it open in a scream while bloody saliva and tears dripped from my chin into my. my neck. The only thing I could think to do was pull it out. I picked up my phone and pointed the light back inside my mouth with one shaking hand, the other too busy trying and failing to grip the

caterpillar in between my index finger and thumb. Its body was slippery, and I could not stop gagging every time I felt it moving inside of me. I never even considered the possibility of the situation being a nightmare, the sensation between my gums was far too vivid to be questioned. When I managed to get a hold of the thing, it had already taken over more than half my mouth. I pulled and pulled and pulled, and its fat yellow body would not stop uncoiling from the hole where it had spawned. I don't recall what happened after. Maybe I was so shocked I fainted. Maybe I cried and puked until my body gave out. next thing I knew my mom was shaking me awake

her eyes were bigger than I'd ever seen them and she was manically repeating Kifway, Kifway! In between sobs I explained to her the situation as best I could and she sent me to her room to clean up and take a shower. I was too frightened to look in the mirror but I could feel my face had gone back to its regular appearance the swelling completely gone as if it had never been there.

I could still feel the ghost of the caterpillar's movements in the back of my throat. I puked again and fell asleep once more, head rested in the seat of the toilet. It was mom who came to my rescue again. She cleaned me up, gave me new clothes, and put me to bed. When I woke up the next morning, she showed me the caterpillar, safely contained in a glass jar. She said she'd found it trying to climb up the wall right. next to the bed, possibly looking for me. I began crying again. At the same time, my phone buzzed beside me. There was a text message from the dentist. Hello, sorry to inconvenience you.

If everything went well, the animal must have already hatched. Whatever you do, do not kill it. Make sure to keep it safe. It's part of an important experiment I've taken on. Please be so kind as to bring it to the office and hand it to the receptionist, she'll provide you with further aftercare instructions for your wound. For our final story this evening, with St. Patrick's Day upon us once again, there are a few things you need to know before you go off searching for a pot of gold. Creepy Presents How to Trap a Leprecon, written by Mack Ralston and narrated by Owen McKeown. So, you want to catch a leprechaun, eh?

My fascination with the tricky little green bastards started one year ago today, St. Patrick's Day. Or rather, the eve of St. Patrick's Day, when my daughter brought home one of those tiny makeshift lepricon traps that they make in elementary schools for the holiday. It was a cute little thing, an old shoebox, painted green, held up by a popsicle stick tied to a sliver of green yarn. clever i'll give it that it was what she said however as she placed the thing next to the doggie door in the kitchen that struck me as deceptively clever

you can only catch him if you believe in him dad now that's exactly the kind of thing that a public elementary school teacher would say if it doesn't work you didn't believe hard enough a good excuse no doubt which leads to my first and most important point and let's get it out the way, you don't actually believe in leprechauns. I know it's a cute idea, the whole pot of gold at the end of the rainbow scenario. But let's be adults here. Scientifically speaking, anyways, rainbows have no end. They're circles, which makes the entire idea one big joke. Kids eat this stuff up, just like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. But just like anything that's too good to be true, it isn't. There's no pot of gold. because there's no end to a rainbow.

And there's no little Irish guy that you can catch that will magically grant you three wishes to let him go, right? Well, so I thought. See, despite my unbelief, my daughter very much believed in the whole leprechaun thing. And that's the part that matters. How's the proverb go? Faith like a child?

Well, that's the idea here. So, step one is, that you need a child, presumably yours. If you don't have a child, then I question your interest in the whole lepricon thing to begin with, but I digress. Obviously, the younger, the better, because younger children tend to be more, pardon my bluntness, stupid. They believe in a lot, and you'd be surprised as to how large of a commodity belief is

in the world of the supernatural. In a word, very. Step two is getting to know your adversary. Just like any hunter, you've got to get, at least in a rudimentary sense, an understanding of your prey. Leprechauns are small, but they aren't stupid. And I know you still don't believe in them, but they don't care. In fact, they hope you don't believe. That's a part of their trick.

Leprecons are Irish folklore, obviously, deriving many of their legends and lores from the stories of Celtic fays or fairies. Unlike many types of fay, however, leprechauns are always male. Don't ask, it's magic. And just like most males, leprechauns are mischievous. Oh, and they love money. Mostly gold, but you already knew that. When I say love, I really stress love, as in they will kill for this gold. Think about it.

Imagine being three to eight inches, maybe taller, I'm not exactly. sure, in stature, cunning as hell to begin with, and all schlockered up on Irish whiskey. You'd kill anyone that tried to so much as look at your gold, wouldn't you? So, moving forward with this whole ordeal, be careful. I will not be held responsible if you're not so lucky by the end of this. Well, now that you've got the basics, it's time to get into the nitty-gritty, catching a live leprechaun. You're going to feel like an idiot.

But just like any idiot that strikes gold, you'll be begging for someone to pinch you because you'll feel like you're dreaming. Either that or you weren't wearing any green. My daughter saw into that one. Well, this leads me to the bait, which, if you fish, you should know this, is the key to catching the right prey. There are a couple of options, some better than others, but here's the basic breakdown. Simplest of all, you got potatoes. Leprocons love potatoes. not as much as gold

but as any drunk Irish dude at a pub will tell you they love a good spud the downside to potatoes is that you'd only entice the really hungry leprechauns the other ones wouldn't dare stick their neck out for a quick bite secondly you've got shoes I know you do probably some old nasty ones

stinking up your closet up to the high heavens right about now it's a little known fact that lepracons are shoemakers and shoe-makers and shoe fixer uppers for that matter. So if you leave out some worn down shoes, most of them can't resist but mend and polish them. And hey, if all else fails, at least you'll have some nice shoes to fill by the end of this.

Lastly, and most costly, is obviously gold. They simply can't resist it. An old gold watch, gold tooth, gold whatever, will do the trick. Just make sure it's not fools gold, or else the only fool is going to be you. Now, to trap the little runch, you're going to need one of two things. A four-leaf clover or iron. And considering the four-leafers are one in ten thousand,

I assume the latter will be more readily available. Iron is extremely harmful to fairies of any kind due to its contents being strictly from earth, whatever that means. Iron is found in loads of common household products like hammers or frying pans, so it should be easy to access. Even something as simple as a metal nail will do the trick.

This is magic, after all. In brief, you're going to construct a little lepricon trap of your own. Don't overthink it. Keep it simple, just like the kitties do. And speaking of kids, it needs to be arranged in the same household as a sleeping child. As I said before, their belief is the key to all of this.

It can be as small as a small as, a shoebox or as large as an entire room. Ideally, it should have only one exit point to prevent the little bastard from escaping. Place your bait of choice in an obvious spot and tie off something that makes noise to it. I need not go into every option, but use your imagination. We are talking about hunting leprechauns here. The easiest option would be to tie a tiny bell or something similar onto whichever bait you choose. That way, when the leprechaun snags it, You snag him. Leprechauns are solitary fairies, which means they tend to stay out of the limelight,

which also means you'll probably need to be up late for this trap to work. It could be anywhere from sunset to sunrise, but a good rule of thumb is between midnight and 4 a.m. I cannot stress enough that leprechauns are tricksters. You probably won't see the little imp, but don't let your unbelief fool you. He's there. Any rapid clicks or chimes that you might hear late in the night are nothing but the belts on his shoes. And if you hear them, you'll realize how fast these little things are, so be alert.

If you've ever read up on St. Patrick, you might have heard the legend of how he banished all the snakes from Ireland. Some say this is a half-truth. Some say these snakes were actually leprechauns themselves. No scholars will confirm this, of course. But keep in mind that Patrick wanted to spread Christianity in a nation full of pagans. Pagans who believed in and worshipped gods like Lach,

a craftsman and crafty warrior. If that name doesn't ring any bells for you, keep in mind that Lach is sometimes pronounced Luck, as in the luck of the Irish. I told you these things are deceptive, little devils. Why else would St. Patrick call them snakes? Once you hear the audible sound of your trap snapping into action, you'll have but seconds to react.

As I said, they're fast. If your trap's under a box, pull the string and place your iron object to top it. If the trap is in a room, barricade the door with your iron object. It'll take only seconds for him to realize he's been caught, but even less time to think up a trick to get himself out of it. Do not forget this.

He owes you three wishes now. Don't be surprised if he doesn't start talking right away. He's counting on your unbelief. waiting for you to lift that box, open that door. Don't give him the satisfaction of such a simple escape. If you successfully keep him trapped for a certain duration of time, he'll realize he's been bested and think up a new scheme to weasel his way out of his obligation of the three wishes.

They're stingy. Don't let this one escape without your ransom payment. Some lepricon catchers claim they've heard sounds from within the traps. sounds of helpless pets or loved ones begging to be set free. Or maybe they'll watch a beloved family photograph randomly fall from the wall, prompting the use of that iron hammer also conveniently. These are tricks. The lepricon knows just the right buttons to press. They think humans are stupid, greedy monsters.

Don't let him win. You've got to be tough. You've got to believe. "'because when I heard the voice of my daughter from the other side of our basement door, "'I doubted myself and this whole leprechaun thing for a long minute. "'Daddy, why are my school sneakers in the basement? "'I can't open the door, Daddy.' "'It's a really good trick, the kind that messes with your mind.

"'Do not, no matter what he tells you with that lying, deceptive tongue, "'open that door, lift that box. "'And be prepared for a little bit. long struggle. Leprechauns don't give up their gold, their wishes, their lies, easily. They might take hours, days, weeks to get the little bastard to give in. Hell, it took mine nearly a week just to give up the whole daughter mimicry charade. It hasn't spoken since, but I refuse to open the basement door until it does. I know it will, eventually, and always remember,

It owes you those three wishes. 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-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the story's author.