Creepy - Forever Inc. & The June God

Episode Date: July 25, 2024

Forever Inc.***Written by: Joseph Yenkavitch and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***The June God***Written by: E. N. Dauvin and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. Forever Inc.

Written by Joseph Yankovic and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. It took a long time to get this right. A lot of science and a lot of brainpower. A few friends were a big help. Friends, that is, with plenty of money. What I explained, sketched out, and showed working examples, piqued their interest. They knew me well enough to know that I didn't do things haphazardly, and certainly, not without plenty of planning.

These people weren't about to take the final leap without assurances, as far up as a percentage ladder as possible that it would work. you don't take them far from a hospital or any kind of superior care and expect them to hand themselves over to you without something rock solid nothing though could have been accomplished without their money the setup doesn't come cheap they forked over the dough and got in on the ground floor and that afforded them a promise one only in my head But a promise, nonetheless, that others won't get. I intended to stand by it, a bit hypocritical of me. But that's a minor flaw. I'm taking on a lot of responsibility. A heavy burden.

And standing by this one gesture makes me feel better for other customers who are close to die. Well... I have other priorities. I'm proud of what I've created. The banks of marble-fronted cubicles have grown. 31 now. A few have been upgraded and the rest will be in due time. The only people who know anything about what I have accomplished are all in here.

And they're not telling. They wouldn't be here if they even intimate it to anyone. what they were doing. These are all people with money after all. It must be that way. For now. Plenty of others should also be here, but this place gobbles up dollars. Not every rich person would be accepted, mind you.

What I look for isn't only connected to having a lot of dough. Although, there does seem to be a connection. Some day perhaps, I'll be able to accommodate others. Surveying the cubicles, I can see most of the indicator lights are green. A pretty array amidst the silence of the room with its slight electrical smell. All is well with the lives and those interiors. Some lights cycle through colors as programs change, but those are only on the the newer ones. A little taste of what they paid for. Solid greens rarely change unless I've

discovered a reason that there's been a mistake. That only happened once. An unusual flaw in my compiling of information. I must be certain, and that doesn't come from a cursory glance at the information available. Like I said, I take this responsibility seriously. The consequences are too important. I lost one customer a short time ago. That can't be avoided. The schedule was tight. When I need them to be here, they can't exceed my time limit.

And dying being what it is, well, that's a factor that can't be pinned down. This guy had every possible test done and held the most, positive attitude possible. I've set up a waiting area for those who want to be certain, but, again, dying could happen fast or go on for months. I can't afford that. Lately, though, a few have suggested euthanasia, and that's helped with the efficiency. Anyway, his heart simply tired of keeping him going and quit.

He was 200 miles from here Something emotional A grandchild lover who knows He should have been better Still, no doubt he was lucky He belonged here Fortunately another equally good replacement was available A guy named James Fedmore

DRIpped importance Their well-paid sources I found out he had a diagnosis that indicated his demise had a quite certain due date. He had been contacted through appropriate channels about this opportunity. After enough back and forth, I felt confident enough to give him a small preview of what it would be like. That, in knowing what I did about him, I felt confident he'd be. be interested. He turned down to be picky, not content with all my information and conversations.

I remember him standing here like I am, staring up at the cubicles, gazing at the walls, teared with catwalks and the marble rectangles three by four feet each, covered with gauges, dials and lights. The control center wrapped in a blue glow especially held his attention. I remember him pausing,

looking at the gold letters above the wall that read forever incorporated. And my name, Dr. M. Maybe the business name brought home

all he was about to enter. By now, I had the information I needed on him and felt confident this installation was going to work out fine. But he became hesitant. Not about the procedure, just the idea of the whole thing. For a moment I thought I was going to lose him. Maybe having to answer inconvenient questions.

But he bucked up and returned to his imperious air. I breathed a sigh of relief. I really wanted this one. Still, he seemed angry. I asked why. He looked at me like I just got off the boat. I'm dying, he said. You don't think I want to be here?

At least not just yet. I've got it all would prefer a lot. lot more time to enjoy it. I did everything necessary to get it. Now I'd like to keep it. He pointed at me and said, you'd better be right about all this. I nodded with a smile. He asked again if this was legal. I told him, of course. He eyed me in a way that said, don't put me on. I liked the projection. The kind of person. I made this for. Truth be told, I never did make it known what I was doing.

Why alert competitors, regulators, lawmakers, you know. Okay, a bit more hypocrisy. He pointed and asked if that's where he'd be, behind one of those marble fronts. His brain, of course, I mentioned. Like a good undertaker might, I said the rest of him, could be in a casket or urn somewhere, or in a nice tree-shaded cemetery where people can leave flowers. We all take care of that. And no one knows of this place, he said offhandedly. Those with enough money do, I replied. Others see a large plot of land with a few buildings

that could be anything. Underground? Well, that's a different story. I told him, "'Weren't you good at hiding things like money, processes and the like?' Sheepishly and with a touch of humor, he agreed. The main question I've been waiting for eventually came. He stepped closer to the bank of marble rectangles, hands on his hips, and in there he finally said after a long, quiet moment, I'll have the afterlife I want, the one I deserve.

I stepped up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. You'll lay it out, and I'll make it happen, I said. There will be technical issues, necessary ones, variety so as not to overtax the brain and make things continuously real. I want to provide you with something that's a lot of you. as real as possible. He looked at me with a penetrating look, nodding, his lips mouthing, the word brain. Yes, I said.

Everything of you is in that brain. I pointed to his head. I'll create the environments to make your wishes exist in a realistic world. Fedmore chuckled. Nothing like being able to buy immortality, he said. and puffed himself up. I asked about his wife. What do you want her programmed inserted to keep them together in some manner?

He turned to me with a wicked smile. When he said, you've got to be kidding. The malice came out dripping. He quickly added he intended to be with a lot more women and didn't need that hanger on. Obviously not a good wife, I said. "'Who cares?' he spat out. "'I haven't been faithful now. I do so for eternity.' "'Your kids?' I asked.

"'Who had time for them?' he replied. "'I already had all this in my notes, but it's good to hear.' "'I pointed out my research showed he did a lot of business overseas.' "'What does that matter?' he answered. "'Well,' I replied. Seems there have been accidents of your various sights. I can't tell. Were they out of your control? Shaking his head, he replied that he was running a business.

That if he followed every safety precaution, the enterprise would barely have been profitable. His workers were paid. A few arms, a few lives. Well, things happen. Cost of doing business. I see, I said, confirming the notes in my iPad. Again, looking for confirmation, I indicated some environmental agencies got on him for not being careful with waste. He gave me an angry look. The world needs things, he said.

I got them. Go talk to a do-gooder. I've ruined enough of them. I nodded. pleased. No one I've dealt with could stay away from the technical side of things, and Fedmore was no different. I mean, this is a big step for everyone, and it's natural to want to know how it all works. He started with the obvious observations from the TV or the movies or the headsets and Best Buy.

He asked if this was like those virtual reality booths in arcades, where you put a a helmet on your head and the scenes are projected into your eyes or how you can play tennis in your living room. In a way, I replied, and continued with a small explanation of what happens here. Very simple, I assured him. We'll feed your brain eternal images that you'll feel, including many things and places you've known. He stood fascinated, if not completely grasping what I explained.

There are no eyes, I said, just your brain. Up there, perfectly preserved connected to a labyrinth of wires. Remember what you see, feel, hear, whatever happens in your brain, stimulated and something happens. And in essence, that's what I do. The world you'll now live in. I held up a disc the size of a postage stamp. Each one of these, I told him, holds up to 16 hours of any reality.

Slip it in at an appropriate time. You could be anywhere and do anything you desire. I have your list of those things, naturally. I don't spend all my time here changing disks. We have automated processes for that. He then asked the usual question I get from everyone. Isn't it boring? I shook my head and told him everything follows closely, everyday cycles,

boring parts and all. Of course, all the exciting things you've told us about what you want will be incorporated. But he questioned. Forever? I told him. You don't view all the disks nonstop. There's a regular program to be followed with the unexpected built-in, and realities can be altered. We have an infinite number of permutations.

There are even times of nothing to represent sleeping. Prevents overstimulation. It's even possible for the brain to grow and envision things I haven't entered. Programs can be altered. But I will enjoy myself. He quipped, walking around the room. He then asked, Will he know it's not real?

I assured him he wouldn't. By now I could tell the slight jaw to his walking. There'd be fewer questions. But there was one more. Could I die? He asked. He looked scared when he turned to me. I walked up to him.

Only if the brain dies. I said. And we have more precautions than you can possibly imagine. That mollified him. Bedmore left that day and I didn't hear from him for nearly a month. I got a call from someone he decided would bring him here and wait for the cremated remains to be handed over. No brain in those ashes, of course.

At this point he could barely talk or move. in the operating room in the near-death state. He still had that look of someone in command. I told him again the procedure had to happen before death. He gave a weak nod and then grinned while closing his eyes. I anesthetized him following it with an injection to finish death's work. His brain joined the others. Over the next few days, everything was hooked up.

checked and made ready. I inserted the first disc and watched the indicators to see if things were working properly. The digital lights and numbers displayed a smooth operation, and I knew Fedmore was getting the images I had promised. Deep in his brain he was getting the world he wished for. The afterlife he longed for. The perfect existence for purchase. I fed these in for a day or two.

Until today when I put the last disc in of this type. See, I knew exactly what he was experiencing, something that fit him perfectly. I leaned back in my chair at the main console centered in the wall and closed my eyes. This was one of the experiences that had seemed to fit fed more perfectly. Above him, I knew. Todd's sails bulged like a breath being held, while a cool sea breeze flowed across the boat where he lounged,

mingling with delicious summer warmth. A splash of water rose as the boat knifed into white-tipped waves. A soft voice was calling to him, and he turned slowly, bringing into view of the lithe body of a young, woman stretched out on the cockpit seat, an odalisque of sensuous beauty, tanned everywhere and unhindered by a bathing suit. He'll reach out and run a hand over her smooth thigh, and she'll rise pressing herself against him, kissing him. His hand will roam down her body and quickly this day will be lost to her. It's there that he will sense this is what he can

have. Forever. Getting up, I stood before Fedmore slam, my hands behind my back, rocking on my feet. For a moment, I fell into a deep concentration as I did each time. I could almost hear the tiniest sounds of electricity. You were not good, Mr. Fedmore, I said. Heaven or hell. Heaven. Heaven. Heaven. in or... Seems like I have no choice. I moved to one of the machines placed near the floor, bending down. I took a hold of a dangling wire well hidden within a mass of other wires. I inserted it into the back of the machine and then stood and flicked a switch on the large console.

Balance Mr. Fedmore, I said. Just balancing the... scales. I returned to my chair, sat down and again leaned back, closing my eyes. I pictured a new scene emerging. I knew. Momentarily, a soft breeze would still blow in the Fedmore's face, and sunlight would lay on him pleasantly. Again, a flawless woman reaches out a slender hand, fingers touching his lips, a playful look on her face. But now, a growing darkness is startling him, and he's feeling an awful void. Briefly, the boat, the woman, the sea, and the perfect sky will return before disappearing,

followed by heat. Heat unlike any he would have felt while he was alive. Everything melts away in the scorching wind, and now flames are beginning to rise, a cumulus of red and orange envelop him, searing him. Pain is beginning to slice to the core of himself. Somewhere deep in the cells of his brain, he'll be screaming as the flames devour him. Enter him like a red-hot shard of iron, forced down his throat that burn and burn forever

creepy presents the June God written by E. N. Dalvin and narrated by Megan McDuffie Something bad always happens in June. Aunt Louisa was silent until she came around the corner of the Hascap bushes dropping a few more berries, filling her ice cream bucket with a tumble.

She spotted me sketching in my chair. She told me that George came round and said something happened to his dog. She'd spare me the details. More berries plopped into the bucket. I sat in the garden chair, my sketchpad leaning against my recently tanned legs. I added some shading to the weather vein on the potting shed. It's June. She looked at me incredulously, while asking what that is.

got to do with anything. My fingers clenched around my pencil, tracing the lines of the vein pointing south. Something bad always happens in June. Aunt Louisa came around to me, setting down her ice cream buckets in front of my chair. She explained that she hardly thought the neighbor's dog was worth me swearing an entire month of the year is cursed. It's mostly the end of it that's bad, and you know, I have reason enough to feel this way. Aunt Louisa blinked. She did know. I knew she did, but she wouldn't admit something as devastating as losing my parents could be lumped in with whatever had happened to the neighbor's dog. I closed my sketchbook. I'll finish this inside. I've had enough of this sun. She didn't stop me as I got up and ran through the garden to the house. Hidden in my own room, I opened the sketchbook again, looking for the signs my pencil had placed before Aunt Louisa started talking. There was all. always something, some detail that I had no memory of drawing in. There, in the Carragona's lining the garden, a little yorky dog rolled over, eyes sparkling, its tongue hung playfully

from its mouth, and just beside it, a hand, nearly skeletal, with long talons reaching to grasp it and pull it through the hedge. The ravens croaked in the spruce trees on the side of the house, Their horse voices kept me up at night and woke me in the mornings. Aunt Louisa never seemed to notice. She was used to them. And despite sleeping here at Aunt Louisa's house many times throughout my life, I never had, especially now that I was here permanently. Aunt Louisa pulled a cereal box down from the pantry and set it in front of me.

She told me that she put together a few casseroles for me, and she'd leave some money for pizza too. She asked again if I was sure I didn't want to come with her. She took one look at my grouchy face over her open suitcase. She doesn't deserve that. I nod. With the suitcase half closed, she quietly told me that it was okay if I wasn't ready to see family yet. And then she asked how I was doing.

I shrugged while shoveling flakes into my mouth. She looked at me and asked that maybe when she was gone I would look through the pamphlets. She was thinking that it was about time to look them over. They grumbled something at her. everyone was pretty confident when they told me it was time to move on with my life. They didn't seem to think they needed to get themselves out of their dead-end jobs. I could see Aunt Louisa staring at me, hesitating. She finally reached in and gave me a swift kiss on the side of my head before heading for the door.

She quietly told me that she was proud of me and that my parents would be too. I robbed at the spot, but after I heard the door lock, I reached for the door. art school pamphlets. They flipped through the glossy pages of smiling, diverse young people. Who was going to pay for this? Aunt Louisa couldn't. That was almost certain. I felt a little bad for how short I had been with her, how much she's been taking on with me. She lost my dad, too. And I'm not sure how much money my parents had left for me. They had plenty of debt from their house and credit cards that had eaten up much of what was there. I had never had never. I had never had. been here alone for so long before. This house had never felt like mine, and I wouldn't be here

long. I would have to go to school and find some way to pay for it. And yet, nothing should be done yet. Nothing until June was over. Aunt Louisa shouldn't even be traveling now before the cursed month was up. I curled myself again with my sketchpad in the garden. The midsummer sun was still high in the sky. I tucked my phone again. against me so I could hear when Aunt Louisa hopefully arrived safely. I stared out at the lines of Saskatoon shrubs mingled with the raspberries, growing wild into brambles. My pencils began to find their lines, focusing on the tiny thorns, pricking along each side between the leaves. The birds were singing high in the maples, barn swallows, with some sparrows chirping in between,

and the low cooing of a morning dove, over, and over again. Several of them, the same rhythm again, until I was lulled into a state of nothingness beyond my arm scribbling on the paper. I awoke with a start. Darkness was descending rapidly over the garden. My hand was cramped from the pencil, and the birds were no longer singing. Their song was so obviously absent, I felt a chill go down my spine. I snatched up the sketchbook, my phone and hurried to the dark house. I looked at my phone. No text from Aunt Louisa. The house was dark and quiet. The birds outside were silent and the neighbor's houses were black. A few hours had passed without me realizing it. It was late. Too late to call Aunt Louisa?

Maybe she just forgot to call me when she arrived. I typed up a quick text. It wouldn't send. no service. The sick feeling in my stomach reminds me that it has been hours since I've eaten. I try to flip on the light over the kitchen sink. The power's out. That explains the no service and the dark houses all down the block. I wolfed down some cold casserole from the fridge. The noodles, slimy in my mouth.

Thunder rumbles outside before a deluge of rain spills over the house. I peer out the window, still slurping up Aunt Louisa's Tex-Mex, lasan. you. The rain is falling in sheets, bouncing out of the filled eaves troughs. There's something in the yard. They peer closer. A tree? Something completely ordinary looking strange in the dark storm. No, there's nothing normal in the middle of the lawn. A figure, tall, the rain dripping off a noticeably shiny body, long, clawed hands dragging into the grass. ass. Something calls me to pull over my sketchbook. I pull up my sketch of the garden. I can barely see it in the dark. But there, next to the Saskatoon's, the same figure as the one staring at me now from the backyard.

I glance up again, looking for the figure. My phone in my hand, useless, though it was, I tried to hit send again on the message to Aunt Louisa. Still no service. The sick feeling in my stomach. remains, despite the empty bowl, and yet I know that the figure on the grass will not hurt me now. I just wish I knew if he, the June god, took Aunt Louisa. I sit in the kitchen chair to watch him, out in the rain. The memories of last June flooded back, the sick feeling, the agony is my head as I screamed on the roadside, the lights of ambulance and police cars. flashing in the dark, rainy night. My parents being wheeled away into the ambulance,

an eye untouched, still holding the sketchpad I had been drawing on. My finest drawing, although I have no memory of sketching it. I had worked on it, although it was too dark to see in the backseat of the car. I didn't need to see. The image was in my mind. And later, the same image in the middle of the road as the car seen. skittered on the wet pavement. The June god in exquisite detail. My text messages weren't going through. Eventually I slumbered, slouching in the chair. When I woke early, the June god was gone,

replaced by nothing more than chirping birds and the air already sultry in the sun. Finally, my mouth was full of cereal. My phone dinged, an influx of pictures of family from Aunt Louise. and a simple, my phone died. That was all then, I mused. She wasn't ignoring me. I glanced down at the figure in my open sketchbook. Whatever strange things came about last night, the warm light of the morning sought to regain my trust.

And yet, things were not completely right. Aunt Louisa sent a few other messages. I expected this. She was busy. but the birds, the wind and the trees. The birds were not singing the correct rhythms. The wind didn't blow through the trees as it had before. I sat outside looking through college applications, puzzling over the changes.

Perhaps I was hyper-vigilant after last night, or perhaps the June God restarted everything, as it is in another universe. And something my father said in the days leading up to the accident stuck in my mind as I filled out the forms. The world doesn't feel like the one I was born to. Dad said that a few days before, over coffee. We sat in the backyard of the house I was born in, now sold,

with some other family living there. We listened to the birds on the very first warm day in June. When he said it, I didn't think anything of it. Of course it didn't seem the same. He was born before the tech boom, computers, technology. things had changed throughout his life. But now, I wonder if he heard something else. He noticed something else that I was just now beginning to see,

that the June God was coming for him. And perhaps the June God was coming for me too. The list of June deaths is comprehensive in my family. Over the past year, I've compiled it. It's not the kind of thing you can ignore, after it has gone on so long, the June God needed a few attempts in some cases to inspire fear and dread, injuries, health scares, losing pets, anything bad can happen in June, and the June God is always behind it. Or maybe I'm the only one that is noticed. He's not letting me sleep at night.

He's always out there now that Aunt Louisa is gone. just watching the house. The birds don't chirp. The crickets don't sing. Not while he's out there, watching the house. I draw the only thing that feels safe to do while I sit at the back window watching for him. I keep my pencil on the paper,

losing myself in the trance until I awake, exhausted, slumped onto the art school pamphlets, strewn over the dining room table. Only then, when the birds are singing their strange rhythm, Do I go to bed? Aunt Louisa should be home soon. The food she left in the fridge is starting to run low, and I need to make sure that June God lets her.

It's June 30th. His last chance, and one of the worst days. That's why she wanted to be home with me today. Today is the day. One year ago, my parents died. I dragged myself from bed, although I've only slept an hour or two. The June God is absent now, or sleeping.

I need to stop him from taking Aunt Louisa, even if he takes me. The darkness is falling. I draw to keep myself busy, glancing out of the window at the June god now and then. Waited out. Aunt Louisa will come home, July will come, and I'll still be here. Whenever I feel myself slipping into a trance, a flow state, I jerk myself back, breaking my pencil, another sip of coffee, anything to return my eyes once again to the god outside.

It only works for a time, though. I slip within into the world of paper and pencil lines and eyes shaped by my own hand, peering out from the cedars lining the garden. I draw, only vaguely aware of the storm beginning outside. The leaves are picked up by the wind, The branch by the dining room window scratches on the glass. Rain patters on the windows, followed by the rumble of thunder.

My pencil moves on its own. The June god moving closer as I flip over sheets of paper to begin anew, his horrible clawed hands reaching out from the paper to claim me. A rumble shakes the world around me, casting the whole house into darkness. My pencil moves on. no shaky lines I keep drawing line after pencil blind

shading in further and further the dark space around the glaring white of his eyes my hand aches my nails biting into my palm I keep drawing there's a tickle in my throat the air is hard to breathe my mind screams within to wake up

my eyes are blurring and tearing dripping onto the paper, I screamed in my hand to stop tracing the lines of the Jumgat's face. I cough, gasping for air. As I hack, clawing at my throat, my hand finally leaves the page. Smoke. I glance around, the living room leading down to the basement is full of hazy, orange-lit smoke. Coughing and wiping at my face, I grab my notepad and crawl to the kitchen door, slipping out to the fresh air outside. I roll on the deck, gasping. The house is on fire.

The June God tried to get me, and now I'm out in the garden, where he could be slipping behind any shadowed tree. Is he out here? As I regain my breath, I roll to look out to the garden. A dark, shadowy shape slips by the plum trees. A hand grasps my shoulder.

The breath leaves my lungs As I fight from its grasp I swing with my fists Aunt Louisa stares down at me Her eyes dark and wide She tightens her grip on my shoulders As I relax She asks me if I call the fire department

He's still out there The June God This year it was Aunt Louisa's house It'll be months until it's restored I'll be long gone to university Before then Some of my drawings of him got me a scholarship.

Is that where he wants me? I'm not drawing him anymore. He seems to have left me alone for now. He'll be back next June, though. He always is. Bad things always happen in June. Or maybe I'm the only one that has noticed. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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