Creepy - From Life

Episode Date: February 15, 2021

The thing about Milly... ***Written by Georgia Cook and narrated by Heather Thomas***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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please check out Steveblisen.bendcamp.com. The link's also in the show notes. Our continued celebration of black and female creators continues. 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 From Life Written by Dr. Georgia Cook, narrated by Heather Thomas, and produced by Steve Blizzin. Millie was beautiful. That was the first thing anyone noticed about her. It wasn't an everyday normal type of beauty, the kind you get with lighting and angles

and careful timing, but something deeper, something perfect, something almost alien. And I think I loved her. God knows I wouldn't have been the first. But we'd known each other since school, Millie and I. She was my friend. And after a while, that perfect otherworldly beauty of hers just became another fact of life. Like her laugh or her smile. Or the way she'd sit on the sofa with her arms drawn up tight around her knees.

I'll always remember that about Millie. I don't know how she found the life-modeling job. I hadn't seen Millie for a few months at that point. We'd more or less lost contact after uni, with her moving south of the river, and me staying up in Hackney. I teach photography classes at Pickman and Pell's, a little independent art school up near Hampstead Heath,

housed in an old Victorian warehouse. It's not the best job in the world, and if I'm honest, I'm not the best teacher. But it brings in better money than the wedding gigs I'd be doing otherwise, and sometimes my pupils surprise me. And then one day, she was just there. I knew about the life-drawing classes already, one of Pickman's largest rooms in this vast old warehouse space. It's got a skylight and a little kitchen air. area, and from time to time someone will run it out for large groups. Performance art, dance classes, that sort of thing.

There'd been a poster up in the entrance hall for a few weeks by then, advertising the room's latest role as a life-drawing venue for 20-plus people every Thursday evening. Looking back, I can't remember seeing any names on that sign-up sheet. Not one. I was in the entrance hall that morning, stapling a notice. to the general board about some picture frames we'd lost from the photography department, normal mundane stuff, when Millie walked in through the double doors.

She was hard to miss, was Millie. Even dressed in baggy clothes and a messy ponytail, she seemed to suck the air from the room around her, drew it helplessly into her personal orbit. People noticed Millie. They couldn't help. help it. At least, I couldn't. Her face lit up when she saw me. She asked me how I was doing, said it was a wonderful surprise to see me, and if I was still studying photography. I told her about my teaching job and she congratulated me on doing what I'd love so much at uni. Millie had that way with people. She could talk to them as if they were her best friend, as if she truly cared about their lives.

I think I really did love her. I asked her what she was doing at Pickmans, and she told me that she'd signed up as a life model. This surprised me. Millie had always loved modeling, but she'd studied fashion at university, and I'd never pegged her as someone who'd mind posing for a crowd of strangers. I asked her how she was finding it.

Cold? She laughed. and went to change into her robe. We didn't speak again that day. One of my students arrived, clutching a camera they'd loaned from the equipment office, and subsequently broken, and fixing it rolled on into a very long,

very distracting afternoon. By the time we were done, it was evening, and what had begun that morning as a light drizzle had grown into a proper autumn storm, rattling the roof tiles and sending gusts of rain hurtling down the pavement. I'd been too distracted to see anyone arrive, but the few times I'd hurried past the drawing studio, I'd caught the murmur of voices and seen shapes moving indistinctly behind the glass.

I had to stop myself from thinking of Millie, not ten feet away, standing exposed in front of a crowd of strangers. The thought made my hair stand on end. It was past eight by the time I finally left the building. To avoid the rush on the tube home, I don't usually leave any later than five, but the camera had proven illustriously difficult to fits, and the equipment office charged a hefty fee for replacements. Hurrying back through the rain, I patted my pockets and realized I'd left my keys somewhere back in the building. I don't have another set, and no housemates to let me in if I lose them. So, cursing, I turned and splashed back the way I'd come. With any luck, I could pick them up before the last class ended for the night, and maybe weighed out the worst of the rain in the lobby.

Maybe I'd even see Millie again. The building was dark as I approached. The few signs of life came from high up in the roof space, where a long attic gallery was occasionally open to the public. But for once, the stereotype of the artistic night owl was proven incorrect. I found my keys on the table by the dark room, relieved at least that I wouldn't have to go fumbling for them in the pitch black. I gathered my things, triple-checked my pockets, and was about to step out into the rain again, when something caught my eye. The door to the drawing studio was open.

The lights were off, and staring into that blank black hole gave me a prickle of unease. I hadn't seen Millie leave. I hadn't seen anyone leave. I poked my head inside, expecting to see a cleaner, or maybe the elusive life-drawing tutor. The room lay in darkness. The easels and donkey stools had been packed away. The floors cleaned of charcoal and paint-stool. smears. All that remained was the old couch they dragged out for the life models to sit on,

hulking and white in the middle of the room. There's something unnerving about an empty space, especially one you've only ever seen filled with people. It's as if all that energy suddenly has mass, suddenly has nowhere to go, and so hovers above you in the darkness, seething and silent and suffocating. That's when I saw the row of canvases. They were stacked neatly in the corner, about ten of them, side by side, facing the wall. The fruits of this evening's life-drawing class. Now, I've never been much of a painter myself.

I love the challenge of composition and lighting and photography, but the actual act of putting anything to paper has all. always eluded me. Suddenly, I was curious to see how the life class had drawn Millie, if they'd managed to capture any of that magnetic dynamism I'd always seen in her. And, well, and horrible as it feels to admit, I wanted to see her. I set my bag back down, wandered over to the canvases, and, with great care,

began to flick through them. The first few were the usual fare of carefully amateur and attractively slapdash, quick little sketches of a vaguely female shape, things that might have been Millie, but could have also been almost any other woman. I saw a curve of a breast and felt a flutter of embarrassment and thrilled, daring. But the fifth canvas... The fifth canvas made me pause.

It depicted a familiar scene. There was the room. There was the sofa, rendered in loose charcoal strokes. There was Millie, carefully posed, her head half cocked, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, her body horizontal across the cushions to show the long, relaxed curve of her legs. But something was off. In every drawing... I can't quite describe it.

it. She looked ill. No, ill isn't the right word. All the other drawings in the pile had caught Millie's face in just a few short strokes as if as an afterthought to her body in pose, but this one paid deliberate attention to it. Nothing but a practiced hand could have rendered Billy's face in such skeletal detail. Nothing but genuine skill could have pulled her lips so tightly back from her gums, sunk the eye so carefully into her skull. It was still Millie, still clearly, Millie, but Millie on the verge of death. Millie as a walking corpse, exhumed and posed with gravesized,

stiffness on that junk shop sofa. Suddenly I didn't feel quite so daring. Suddenly my little peak felt intrusive, shameful, like I'd peeled back the cover on something I shouldn't have touched. My hands sweating, I hurriedly returned the canvas to the wall and made for the door. It was late, and I was tired. And suddenly that vast empty space with its stack of neat white canvases was much, much too large. That night I couldn't sleep. As I lay in the dark, listening to the rain pound against the roof, all I could picture was the drawing of Millie,

the deliberate ugliness of it, the acute nastiness. I found myself hoping Millie hadn't seen it, or if she had, that she'd only found it as childishly amateur as eye-firm. I didn't see Millie until a week later. A nasty bout of flu had gone around my photography class, and the few remaining students were less than eager to share a tiny dark room with one another.

So we all agreed to meet at a local coffee shop to swap work and give critiques. Better to spread minimal germs and risk getting ill, than to stand in a crowded cupboard and insure it. I didn't enter Pickmans again, until the following Thursday. It was raining again. Millie's jacket was soaked through. She looked pale, less intent,

like she was distracted by something, her hair unraveling from a hasty bun as she pushed the door open. I thought perhaps it was the weather, or she'd caught the same flu as half my students. I asked how the modeling was going, if she was getting any more used to it. She paused.

It's cold, she said after a moment. Very cold. I couldn't concentrate after that. I had my own classes to teach, and depending on size, that can mean anywhere from five to ten people needing my attention. But something about Millie's face, the way she'd replied.

It stuck with me. The emptiness of it. As I lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, all I could picture was the drawings I'd found. That same figure, over and over again, in smudged charcoal. Millie's stark, skeletal face, her wide, listless eyes, her stiff, twisted body. I could have told Millie,

I should have told her. Maybe if I had. Back when it all started. Honestly, I just think I didn't want her to know I'd seen the drawings, or that I'd even looked for them in the first place. I think I tried to brush it all off as my own guilt. My conscience beating me up for being such a creep, you know? God, I wish that were the case.

Instead, I decided I'd... Take another look. On my own. Without telling her. Without telling anyone. Just to study my nerves. Convince myself there was nothing worse going on in that class than slapdash technique. For some reason, the thought of sitting out in the hall, waiting for the class to end, felt unthinkable.

I could have made up some excuse as to why I was hanging around Pickman's in my spare time. But I think I wanted to be casual about it, as unconcerned as I could appear. If nothing was actually wrong, and I didn't even know what I thought could be wrong, I wanted to come out of this with my dignity intact, not to mention my friendship with Millie. So that Thursday I stayed in the dark room, trying moodily to develop some of my older be. roll, look for all the world like I wasn't biting my time, until 8 p.m. rolled around again, and I could creep downstairs. The hallway was dark. The life drawing studio was empty. Anyone who might have been there, might have seen me, had vanished into the blustery October

night. And the paintings were there, more of them this time. Some on canvas, some on thick bundles of off-white paper, stacked as neatly as before in the corner of the room. As I reached out to take one, I found myself, dreading what might be on the other side, what they might portray. I was immediately conscious that, whoever had found their muse in Millie, had grown considerably more comfortable in their art. Here were the same collections of sketchy, half-female figures, the same. same jumble of rushed limbs and curving suggestions of spines, but they were all milly, all absolutely

milly. The lines of each drawing were spidery, spindly, as if they'd all been drawn by the same scratching hand. I could have chalked that up to shared style, or maybe they'd all been instructed to draw like that today. But that wasn't the only thing. None of the poses looked comfortable. Now, I know life drawing requires a certain amount of physical strain, especially if you're holding a pose for any length of time. But these were just a little too stretched. If they were depictions of Millie, they were depictions of her in pain.

Leaning on the wall at the back of the same. sack was a great white canvas, a little scuffed and battered at the ends, and maybe twice the size of the others. It struck me in a vague way that maybe this one belonged to whoever led the life drawing class, whoever it was that instructed their pupils to draw Millie in such unnerving, uncomfortable ways. There was only one drawing stretched out large to fill the entire canvas, rendered in harsh black Indian ink. Millie flung taut across the battered white sofa, her hands gripping the sides.

Millie, with her mouth wide open, her eyes, two slashes of black ink across a moon-white face. Millie, screaming. There was a loud clatter. In my terror, I'd flung the canvas across the studio. It lay in the corner face down, a harsh white blot in the darkness. I hurried to the door, fumbling my keys, struck by the sudden horrible image of myself trapped here, locked in with these awful pictures and their awful depictions of Millie.

The light was on in the entrance hall. I paused to catch my breath, regained some semblance of my nerves, then handshaking I turned and locked the door conscious of closing the gap between me and that deep dark space I dreamed about Millie that night in my dream she lay naked on the sofa inside the life drawing studio her arms slack her hair hanging wasted and brittle across the cheap white cushions Her eyes were blank, her mouth hung half open. The studio walls had vanished, replaced by an empty black void that stretched out behind me, back and back and back into howling nothingness.

Gathered around on all sides, hidden behind easels and sketchbooks and wide white canvases were things. Things without mouths or hair or human faces. Things with long spindly arms and scratching sketching fingers, splattering the ground with frenzied strokes of ink and paint and oils. Things that stared at her thin pale face and wide empty eyes and pressed in closer to drink in. every detail.

Perfect. Set a voice from somewhere in the darkness. Just perfect. I woke up gasping, staring blindly into the darkness of my bedroom, half convinced it would suddenly roll out ahead of me, back and back and back into that endless, crowded void of drawing, scribbling monsters. It occurred to me that I'd never actually seen. Milly's life drawing class.

Oh, I'd seen the register, and I'd seen Millie coming and going every Thursday evening. But of her class, I'd seen nobody, not even their tutor. The thought sent a chill down my spine and dislodged a second. What were they doing to her? While the first drawings had spooked me, I'd put it down to the horrendous weather of last week

and the eerie darkness of the drawing studio at night. But now, I was sure, something awful was happening in that class. I decided I'd discover who was running these life drawing sessions, just who I could talk to about Millie's obvious illness, who I could ask about the inappropriate, disquieting tasks they were setting, and the obvious effect it was having on her health.

In a way, I suppose I just wanted to make sure they were treating her right. If not for her sake? Then at the very least, my own. Pickmans has an admin team as antiquated as its equipment office, situated up in the attic space by the public gallery, and consisting, when I was there, of two ancient admin staff and an intern, Maggie. Maggie wasn't too fond of me.

When it comes down to it, the more equipment you have a chance and a habit of losing, the less you'll be liked by admin. But she was the most technologically minded of the three. If she argued, I told myself, I could always pull some administereal strings. if I had any to pull. When I asked her about the Thursday life drawing classes, she said she'd never met the tutor, but that their name and number would be on the room list

and directed me to the ancient PC in the corner of the room. Logging on, I fumbled my way through the backlog of timesheets, past what might have been years of obsolete classes and log-retired tutors, to the most recent. There it was. Every Thursday evening from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. There was the time slot. There was the studio space.

There was the name of the class. But the usual details, who had booked the room, the name and number of the tutor, and whoever had signed up, were blank. As if someone had booked out an empty room every Thursday for the foreseeable future and just left it. Maggie must have been. heard my sharp intake of breath because she peered over my shoulder at the screen.

Unbelievable, she muttered. Unbloody believable. The next time I saw Millie, I barely recognized her. My class and I met weekly in the cafe across from Pickmans, but we were now so diminished that only three of my pupils had turned up. I'd made the executive decision, after trying to spin what was essentially three rounds of identical feedback into an 80-minute lecture to end the class early, and had sent everyone away with the vague promise to be more focused next week, leaving me alone at a table meant for a much larger group, surrounded by coffee cups and a growing feeling of unease, when someone walked up to me. They were skeletal, their cheekbones sharp and gaunt, Their eye sockets hollow and dark.

What little I could see of the skin below their neck was gray and mottled, like old bone, and their hair was limp and dry. It was Millie. I balked an alarm and jumped up to offer her a seat, which she sank into delicately without removing her coat or scarf. She refused my offer of coffee, and instead sat staring wordlessly out the window at the street outside. I tried to imagine she was ill,

that this was all some awful alarming, but ultimately human malady. But all I could think as I stared at Millie's wasted face and haunted gray eyes was that she looked exactly like the drawings I'd seen of her in the studio. When I asked how she was, Millie simply said she was, fine, that she'd been busy with work, and that she was just very tired. When I tried to press her on what she was doing, to tell her about my dream, she just smiled thinly, and as she took my hand in hers, I could only notice just how thin it felt, how fragile.

It's okay, she murmured. I'm not cold anymore. suddenly I, I knew. Whatever doubts I'd had, whatever resolve I'd felt, melted in the face of Millie's deterioration. Maybe I'd just been waiting for an excuse. Maybe I'd known as soon as I'd seen that first wretched picture of her. Maybe I've colored my own actions with the benefit of hindsight, and my plan was just another way to have Millie notice me.

to see her and be seen. Maybe I wasn't really worried about her at all. I... I really did love her. I really did. I decided I'd wait at Pickman's next Thursday, then sneak in at the back of the life drawing class. I had to see what was being done to her.

Maybe it was just the sloppy skill of an unpracticed artist. Maybe my shame viewing these drawings in secret was making me jump me. But I had to know. The week leading up to Thursday was torturous. Everyone I spoke to had heard of the Thursday evening classes, but nobody knew any of the students. Nobody had met the tutor. Nobody had signed out any equipment, art materials, sketchbooks, paper.

Apparently they'd all brought their own. It was as if the entire class existed as a single invisible entity, turning up from five to eight every Thursday to occupy the studio space, then vanishing for the rest of the week. But the time slot had been paid for in advance, and people were definitely showing up, as evidenced by the moving shapes and muttering voices behind the door each week. And so nobody thought to check. I tried to call Millie, but every message I sent went straight to voicemail. Her housemates told me she was sick and didn't want to speak to anyone right now. They said this last part with a look, as if they knew the number of messages I'd left, and wouldn't have let me speak to her in any case.

And all the while, I had dreams, dreams of Millie, lying in that same deep, airless void, lost in a ring of staring, scribbling creatures. Creatures that shuffled closer every night, growing in number as they twitched and stared and tasted the air, moving in tighter around her, their eyes bright and eager, their movements growing frenzied in that tiny ring of light, until they were tearing and stabbing and slashing at their canvases, until the air grew hazy with shreds of paper and thick red ink. After that, I didn't sleep at all, kept myself awake with coffee and meds,

and finally, when those stopped working, with long listless walks, anything to stop from returning to my dreams. from watching whatever it was they were doing to her. That Thursday I arrived early, long before Pickmans opened, and parked myself in a hallway chair, facing the life-drawing studio. I had canceled my class for the day. In any case, I don't think I appeared physically fit to teach, with my rumpled hair and bleary eyes.

Certainly nobody dared to ask what. I was doing, or held my gaze for longer than a few seconds. I must have looked a wreck. I was a wreck. The afternoon flickered past in chunks and drabbles. I think I flinched occasionally, whenever one class entered the studio, and again when they left. And I think maybe I slept in short, horrified bursts, whenever the room was quiet enough. The world was a strange, hazy place, and I sat entirely removed from it, floating somewhere beyond, utterly consumed by the studio door. Eventually I fell asleep, properly asleep. Somewhere in my brain, the mixture of adrenaline and desperate horror that had fueled me for the past three days, finally ran out, dragging me down into the,

the welcome arms of unconsciousness. In my mind, it was barely a second, a brief, horrible twitch into unconsciousness. But it must have been for much, much longer, because when I jolted awake a moment later, the studio was already full. Shapes moved behind the glass. Voices, indistinct and muffled, floated out into the hall. I couldn't tell how many people were in there, but there must have been more than 30. I remember staring at the door, barely able to comprehend what I was seeing,

unable to understand how an entire crowd of people had walked past me without my noticing, without my even stirring. That's when I noticed the shadows, and for the first time managed a long, proper look at them. There was something wrong about them. Everyone I'd spoken to this week had mentioned they'd seen people moving around in the studio whenever they'd passed.

But nobody looks twice at shadows, not when they expect them to be there in the first place. But these shadows were stretched. Whenever one separated from the rest, to move across the doorway or press a little closer from inside the room, I couldn't help but notice just how long its arms were, just how thin and spindly each joint, how it seemed to scuttle rather than walk, like the gate of some twitching human spider. The more I watched, the more I listened to the low, wordless murmuring, the more horribly aware I became that the things behind the door weren't even remotely human, or only tangentially aware of how real humans moved and spoke. That was enough to jerk me from my chair, my pulse racing, my lungs' time.

height. Gathering my nerves, I grabbed for the handle, wrenched open the studio door, and found myself blinking in sudden darkness. The drawing studio was empty. There was nobody inside. I stepped inside, feeling my breath catch in my throat, searching for someone, anyone. For even a shadow, or the lingering scent of cologne among the stacked chairs and neatly ordered easels. But there was nobody. The room stood cold and empty. Just me? And the drawings.

There were more of them now. So many that nobody could have missed them. They lay in a jumbled mess of paper and cardboard and scuffed battered canvases. stuffed against the back wall, some crooked and bent, some spilling out across the polished floor like jumbled debris. I inched forward, unable to stop myself, unable to breathe, reached for the first one with trembling hands, and began slowly, horrified to move it aside. The artist, whoever they were, had graduated from sketches to single paintings. There was just one image.

Here was Millie, lying with her head thrown back in silent agony. The charcoal strokes had captured the moment right at the epoch of her scream. Her throat tight and restricted. Her back arched painfully against the blink white cushions. I took the next one. Here was Millie, twitching and writhing on the canvas. Every muscle pulled tight in screaming terror. Her hands transformed into claws by a ceaseless, unending torment.

The next one. Millie twisted at the neck with nothing but a blank charcoal void where her face should be. Millie as a twisted thing of jagged limbs and sightless eyes. Each one broken and twisted at the joint, outgrasping across the canvas like convulsing white branches, harsh against a thick red background. Millie again and again. Millie in ink. Millie in chalk.

Millie in a vivid splash of scarlet. Millie twisted and broken and screaming. all of Millie, all acutely of Millie, rendered in every medium I could imagine, and it was almost, it was almost exactly as I expected. It felt almost right, like a sudden intake of breath after a long period of suffocation, like the horror of the moment could have only led here to this. I'd been waiting for the wave to crash, and here it was, washing over and around and through me. Here was the moment I'd been waiting for all month, rendered in all its horrific, bloody detail. I left Pickmans in a daze.

I don't remember arriving at my apartment. I don't remember sleeping. I barely remember dragging my feet to Millie's flat and clap him. Pounding on the door until someone answered, lost in a haze of dread and terror and light, airy acceptance. She wasn't there. Her flatmates hadn't seen her since Thursday. But Millie was a regular sofa hopper,

staying with various friends and casual photographers across London, and so they weren't worried. That didn't surprise me. Nothing surprised me anymore. Have you ever experienced something so awful that everything after it feels like an afterthought? Like you're floating along at the tail end of a long, long rope, watching it whip away into darkness? Everything felt so expected. I didn't call the police.

I think I resigned myself to... what I already knew, and just how hopeless any attempts to prevent it would be. I think I'd awoken that morning already knowing what I'd have to do. What would be waiting for me if I went back to the studio, so I did. I remember the room, frozen in that long, awful moment as the door swung open. How normal it all looked. How sedate? The morning was cold and crisp,

filling the drawing studio with a cool October light. Motes danced between the shafts of sunlight, lancing down from the skylight. The air smelt of polish and old paint. And there was a new canvas, no larger than a pocket notebook, propped neatly against the back wall, waiting for.

me. I won't tell you how they found her. Google it if you like. I'm sure you can read any number of articles and forum posts. I don't want to talk about it. They never connected it to Pickman's, or the live drawing class, or me. And that's exactly how I want things to be. They get to fascinate and wonder. They get to write their little blog posts, speculate on the horror of Amelia Baker's gruesome murder, and how she came to be found, as she was. But they didn't see that final picture. The one I took home and burnt, even before I heard the news, before I even knew she was gone. I won't tell you what I saw on that neat little canvas. What I watched emerging from a world of sketching lines, grasping in broken and twisted,

in some desperate 2D mockery of three-dimensional life. Maybe what little remained of Millie after the artist was done with her. Maybe something called forth by the awful, unthing Millie had become as she was eaten, devoured, drawn from life. If what I did was ultimately what killed her, if the flames burning that canvas to ash was what severed the ties between Millie as those terrible, awful paintings, then I feel no remorse.

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