Creepy - Glass House

Episode Date: December 11, 2023

Mind the stones...***Written by: Kyle Harrison***Bonus episode: "Deacon Jim"***Written by: Joshua Bryant and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warnings: child abandonment, animal abuse, animal attack, body horror***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***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.

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and disturbing creepy pastors 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 Glass House. Written by Kyle Harrison. I was outside at the patio grill. soaking in the evening sun, and wife Mia handling a basket of laundry when it happened. Behind me, I heard the dryer click and whirl and then die. At the same time, the lights flicked off, and I heard Mia kicked the machine and jostled a bit before cussing towards the door.

She was waving for me to come in and check the generator, so I turned the grill on low and use my phone as a flashlight to find the device in the bathroom. I told her I'd report an outage of the company and logged into the account as I pushed the window open in the bathroom to get fresh air. This was when I saw the real issue. Our bill hadn't been paid. It was late. Really late. I saw Mia standing there in the doorway, waiting for an explanation, and I held a finger up as I called my bank to figure out why the payment didn't go through like usual. 15 minutes later, after stand on hold with an automated message and arguing with a rep about what my online banking had said my balance was less than a day ago,

I soon found out that nothing I did was going to get our power back on quickly. I'll save you the banking speak, but we had expenses, and unfortunately, the power bill was the one thing that didn't get paid. and for whatever reason our online banking hadn't reflected these changes when they happened making me think we had more money than was really available and so we were in a bind again when I told Mia she blew her top and yelled in my face when are you ever going to get our finances straight she asked me as she threatened to call her mom so she could have a cool place to stay for the night

I was too tired and frustrated to argue, so I went out for a walk. My steps eventually led me to the neighborhood bar, a friend of mine named Tony greeting me at the door. He bought the rounds, and a few drinks later, I started telling him about my problems at home. Day in, day out, because I can't catch a break, I told him. Tony seemed deep in thought and grabbed a napkin, scrawling a few words down on it with a black ink pen. He flipped it over and showed me it was a web domain. All eyes.

You might want to check this place out, he said. He explained it was actually what helped him and his girlfriend Capri stay afloat during the birth of their newborn Nikki. What is it? Some kind of online job service that people. He's quick, I asked. Tony told me that the website service was designed by a security professional, and it was a contract between real people that wanted aid and the monitoring company.

All you have to do, he said, has agreed to be watched. I felt myself lingering on his words, thinking about the life he now had. He and his family were happy, stable, no longer lived. from paycheck to paycheck. When you say that we're watched, what exactly do you mean? According to him, the agreement would be that I'd be allowing private cameras into my home, and those would stay online at all times. An anonymous audience would watch me live my life, and as long as I complied with occasional

request from audience members, I'd get a monthly stipend. There are other caveats, of course, like making sure the cameras were consistently powered on, keeping a regular day job, and agreeing to penalties if I refused to request. The way Tony talked, all of it sounded rather normal. Honestly, after a few months you forget, they're even there, he promised. A few more drinks in, he had me convinced. Now was just a matter of making me a seat that way. She had plenty of questions, and I did my best to answer him.

The stipend we got was a hefty sum, enough that we could stop having to worry about deferred bills and tow trucks hunting for our car in the middle of the night. If things don't work out, I'll just cancel, I promised her. I wanted to make it work, and eventually my infectious excitement rubbed off on her and she agreed. It was a surprisingly short application. Only nine questions to be precise.

The last one was a bit strange, I'll admit, but I didn't reflect on it long. It wasn't even really a question at all. Just a reminder. The audience is always right, it read. I wasn't sure what that meant. But after filling it out, I was able to see that I got approved in only 30 minutes. A few days later, a large silver truck that reminded me of a U-Haul pulled up outside her house.

All eyes had arrived to install the cameras. I casually asked if I could watch as I handled the process, but the technician told me it was better if I didn't actually know where the cameras were at. He said they had an issue where people had been taking the cameras out or selling them on the dark web. That took me to lunch, our first deposit already in the bank. We sat at a small downtown cafe and watched his families played in the park. A new discussion began about starting our own. I was admittedly floored that she wanted to talk about that at all. I thought you said you didn't want to have.

have kids. That was before, she said. Now maybe things have changed since we can be stable. It's exciting to hear, but then our first snake occurred when I realized that if we wanted to start trying to make a baby, our privacy would be invaded due to the cameras. She fell silent after that and sipped her coffee. But five minutes later, I got an email from all eyes telling me that the system was fully operational. We drove back in silence to our home, where the truck was already long gone. Inside the house, I couldn't help but look around for any signs of the cameras. But after about ten minutes checking small corners and crannies,

I concluded that they must be smaller than the naked eye. Mia was standing in the middle of the living room, rubbing her hands against her side uncontrollably, and I went to her. "'Is something wrong? "'You said you wanted this?' I told her. "'She confided in me that she hadn't really thought it through, "'especially when it came to the routines of hygiene or intimacy. "'I didn't want to think about that either,

"'especially since I could really use a shower at that very moment. "'I'll ask Tony about it. "'I'm sure there's a workaround. "'Surely these people don't want to see us taking a shit. I joked and then laughed softly as I realized our words are also being broadcast. She nodded and told me she would go get working on some chores while I texted my friend. I asked if we could meet at the corner pub like we had before and Tony's more than happy to join me for a few drinks. When we met he explained that you've been getting a little stir crazy at home.

Is it because of the cameras? I admit, it's been bothering me, too. That's actually why I wanted to talk, when I told him. Tony laughed when I told him my concerns. He said he felt the same at the beginning, constantly feeling like the people behind the monitors were assessing his every move. Then he found upgrades, where he could start receiving audience requests, he said, and realized people were more interested in other stuff than just chores.

You mentioned requests before. What exactly is that? I asked. I recalled seeing him in the brochure, but I wasn't sure what it meant. Tony explained with a free upgrade offer from the company, I could interact with the people that were watching me by taking requests. I didn't have to do it, unless I clicked and agreed to do it. Once you agree, you follow through with the request and get paid.

You'll see how much the person's offering to pay. He said. So what sort of stuff are you doing? I asked. Tony pretended to act like it was nothing serious. He told me that very day he got in a request to juggle three potatoes. It sounded silly. Then his face darkened as he admitted he'd been asked to do a few unsavory things.

There are some perverts on the app for sure. They got their kinks. and even with the monthly payment it's still tough, he admitted. I told him he didn't have to go into detail. After we finished our drinks, I decided to go ahead and finish the upgrade request. If I could easily reject any request from a customer, I thought, what was the Harmon just looking? That night as we got into bed, my phone pinged with my first request from a watcher.

Mia was half asleep and I rolled over to see what the notification read. Give your wife a kiss on the cheek. $5.00. Do you accept? The message was clear and precise and sounded so easy that I clicked yes in a heartbeat. And I leaned over and kissed my wife good night. Five minutes later, there was a deposit in my account for the amount just like they said. I smiled, closed the app, drifted off to sleep.

The next day after I brushed my teeth and dressed for work, I saw that I had several new requests. from the app. I was surprised to also discover we had 30 people currently watching our feed. Mia also finished a shower and one of the requests said they wanted a picture of the steamy bathroom mirror. That sounded simple enough, so I did it. But when I did, Mia asked me what I was doing. Oh, well, it's a bit strange, but it'll help us, I told her.

I showed her the app and the requests. She was initially weirded out by the idea doing what anonymous internet users wanted us to within the privacy of our homes. I reassured her that they couldn't make us do anything. We can decline any of these, so it's perfectly harmless, I told her. She checked her phone and she said she was late for work, not wanting to discuss it any further. Now it's going to be late too. but a request from a viewer specifically asked me to attempt to drive backward down the road. The offer was for $100.

We live in a pretty decent neighborhood. Not a lot of traffic. It's a cul-de-sac, so I knew that attempting to drive would mean I needed to make a couple of turns, avoiding parked cars on the side of the road. I walked my garage and looked out towards a street. There were only three cars parked at the moment. I decided to accept a request and got into my car, turning the gear to reverse and watching my rear view camera carefully. I didn't attempt to speed, but I'm not exactly a perfect driver, so it took me a little longer than I anticipated.

I got a few curious looks from neighbors as I finished the task, but nothing unexpected happened except I did hop on a sidewalk briefly. I chuckled in relief as $100 was deposited into my account. I couldn't help but to wonder what the next interesting request would be. By the time I got home, I actually had five. Most of them were small, but one was marked with a black box in no text. I clicked on it and was immediately met with an explanation about why it was different. This request has come from a use. user that pays extra towards your account when you finish the task.

However, the difference is that you cannot know what the task is beforehand. That sounded risky, so I ignored it until I saw the user was willing to pay $200 for the task. Curiosity got the better of me and I opened the task. I'm a bit surprised to see that it was so simple. Make yourself a sandwich and watch sports for two hours. For $200? Easy as pie. When Mia got home, the game was still on and she asked me to help with dinner.

I was about to get up from the couch when I got a warning notification. Failure to fulfill the task will result in no payment. They wanted me to stay there watching TV for another 30 minutes. Sorry, babe, I gotta stay and finish this game. I called out to her. My wife stood in front of the TV demanding an explanation and I showed her. the request I was handling. It's really not a big deal, I told her.

Me, did her best to not roll her eyes, but let me keep watching. She told me that I owed her big time. I chuckled and finished watching the game, the deposit coming soon after. I went to the dinner table and sat down, telling her that I will buy her something nice when I got another pang. Mia huffed in frustration. She insisted I turned the thing off while we were eating. I think I can't, I admitted as I gestured around us towards the unseen cameras.

She announced that she was going to eat outside. I put the phone down reluctantly and followed her. Something's wrong. You're acting different. I told her as I sat alongside her on the back steps. What she said next took me by surprise. She claimed I was the one that was changing, and it was all because of the cameras. Right now, they're asking you to do things that are harmless, but what happens if that changes? She asked.

She said she was worried I was becoming obsessed with what the watchers thought of me. I didn't dare mention my stun with the car that morning, and I promised her that I was being responsible with the request. This is money that's changing our lives. lives for the better. You should lighten up a little. These requests just add a little spice to our life, I said. To prove my point, I showed her one that requested we attempt to play a musical instrument with one hand tied behind our back. It looked very silly, and me aside, but agreed to do it, but that agreement didn't last much longer as the days passed. Our audience was always watching,

I was requesting me or her to do something a bit out of the ordinary, and she was becoming irritated with it. I also was getting more black box requests, and they were becoming more bizarre. One that I immediately declined, which caused the penalty, was when a user requested that I leave the toilet unflushed for a full day. The penalty, though, prevented me from using my funds the rest of that day. a pretty steep risk if we needed to handle a financial crisis again, I realized reluctantly.

Me, it became more and more distant from me, frustrated that I was fulfilling these requests. But then when I showed the results by buying her flowers or some expensive gift, she relented and let me do another. It was actually becoming addictive. But I wasn't going to admit that. I wanted to do things to increase our viewer rating. Because I noticed that when I didn't, it would begin to fluctuate. Users would get bored if we simply did nothing. I logged on one time late at night to see two separate black box requests waiting for me.

It was half past three in the morning and I had to get up to pee. One amount was worth $500. For that amount, I'd be willing to do just about anything. Right? Opening the tab, I saw that the user was requesting I send him pictures of Mia asleep in bed. I considered rejecting it, but I knew that the penalty could be far worse this time. Instead, I stepped out quietly to the room and raised my camera up. I took one without the flash and sent it immediately.

Instead of getting paid like I hope, I got a notification. Too dark, need better quality. Reluctantly, I took one with the flash, my wife mumbling in her sleep. This time I got paid along with a small text box that said thank you from the user. Sighing, I slipped into bed and checked the other black box. Cut off a strand of your wife's hair, $35. I had already clicked, so I knew I'd have to do it or face a penalty. This one also came with a timer.

I had 20 minutes or I'd be dealing with the consequences anyway. Quickly I went to the kitchen and found a good pair of scissors, and I slowly climbed into bed and turned towards her. He looked so peaceful, unaware of the strange action I was about to perform. I was just about to cut it when my phone abruptly rang. His eyes groggly opened and I hid the scissors as I answered the phone. It was from the police. There's been a fire at Tonys.

We're on his list as emergency contacts, I told her. We hardly got dressed and drove across town to see that the house was almost entirely a smoldering crater. As we arrived and identified ourselves, EMS told us, that Tony did not make it out alive. And his wife was now in a coma at the local hospital. According to them, this meant their little girl, Nikki, was temporarily in our custody

since they didn't have any family on their contact list. It was either that or leave her with child protective services. We didn't even have to think before agreeing. Mia held Nikki as the little girl cried in confusion, and I looked at the fire, worried about my friend's wife. What caused the fire? I asked one of the personnel on scene. They looked at me and said they were still investigating the scene,

but it looked like someone had deliberately started a small fire in the garage. That was where Tony's body had been found, inside his car. His death was from asphyxiation, though, they told me. A sudden dark thought came to me his mind as she asked if Tony had his phone with him at the time of death. their response told me that was correct and it made me wonder how my wife thought of that connection. It's obvious, she said, as we drove home. He was fulfilling one of those dumb requests. We have no way annoying that.

I argued as I felt a twist in my stomach. What if she was right? Had Tony taken things too far? As I got home and we settled Nikki into our guest room, we agreed to rest alongside her and I collapsed. into our king-sized bet. A notification pinged me just before I fell asleep. A new black box request from a watcher.

Send pictures of the girl, $50. I confessed my eyes lingered on it for longer than I expected. I felt hesitation. It was just pictures, I told myself. That was harmless, right? I declined it. Forced to face a penalty for then. next day. I felt a sick twist in my gut as I lay down, staring at the ceiling. In the morning,

Mia prepared his breakfast, and we both tried to make Nikki comfortable. She wanted to watch cartoons, but the watchers had other plans. They began requesting I put on sports clips and weather reports, and I complied, holding the child in my arms to keep her at ease. When it came time for Nikki to have a diaper change. I could tell Mia was uneasy about handling that task here in the house. What happens? she asked, if we turn the cameras off. I told her that I wasn't sure that was even an option. It was never discussed in the contract.

She insisted that I needed to find out. I said that I would. But I didn't. I was too obsessed with the feed. The request. I needed to see what the audience wanted next. Mia told me that I needed to delete the app entirely. We don't need the extra, she claimed.

We're doing just fine with the monthly amount. Can't you tell it's driving a wedge between us? I said that I would. She took Nikki to the park and I sat on the couch. My palms sweaty as I considered what I was giving up. The requests and comments were overflown. as I struggled to make a decision. Suddenly, a black box filled the screen with an offer for $3,000.

I wish I could have controlled myself. But I admit, I never clicked on her request so fast. The task was so simple, but also somewhat disturbing. The user was requesting for me to slash the tires of my wife's car when she returned. I double-checked to make sure that didn't go against any agreement. Tony had claimed that they couldn't make any tasks hurt me or my family, but Tony's gone now, for reasons unknown. What if one user found a loophole?

What if my friend was dead because he took things too far? I saw the penalty would be an entire week without funds, and realized my regret that I would have no choice. Mia would have to understand, I told myself as I waited for her to return. But when she found out what I was doing, she was furious. Suddenly she began to ransack our house, tossing furniture and tearing up paintings. I want to find those damn cameras! She yelled at me.

She insisted I let her log on to request that we cancel the service. When I refused, she tried to grab the phone from me. In my haste, I pushed her back, and she tumbled and fell, nearly stepping on with her. where Nikki was resting. Are you okay? My wife looked at me with contempt and bitterness. She swatted my hands away as she stood and cradled Nikki close to her. Moments later, she was calling her mother.

What are you doing? You're leaving? She told me nothing I said or did would stop her, and I was about to try and make a valid argument when my phone popped up with a new task. The watchers wanted me to stop her from making. the call. I felt compelled to agree. I pushed my wife against the wall and forcefully took the phone from her, demanding that she listened to me. You can't just walk out when things are hard?

This is our life now! I shouted in her face. Another notification caught my eye. In that brief moment of distraction, she slapped me across my face. The notification insisted that I should lock her in our bedroom. This is for your own good. We need the views. I told her as I twisted her wrist and pulled her towards a bedroom. Mia bit me. The baby began to cry.

You're a madman, a slave to these people. You've never even met them and yet you do their bidding. She told me. But the risk of not complying was too dangerous. I couldn't go back to our old life. We've come so far. her, I insisted. She told me that our life together was over.

I snapped in that moment. She was walking out and I could tell she had no intention of coming back. I tried one last time to grab her at the risk and she punched me in my jaw. Cussing me out as she walked down the street. I watched from the porch, calling for her to return and frustrated she couldn't see what her future was becoming. The requests were coming. coming to me like a floodgate being open. We never had so many views.

The audience wanted me to try something more dangerous. Break glass on the carpet, $19. Turn off all lights, $13. Walk backwards, barefoot to the bedroom, $10. Simply the tasks were innocent, but combined, I did as I was asked to. The cameras watched as I moaned in Winston pain, walking across. across shards of glass. Blood droplets littered our floor. I laid in bed, hardly able to move. Outside my window, a thunderstorm was brewing. I thought about Mia walking in the rain. Where would

she be headed? Was she even safe? Then I heard a faint buzz and a crackle of thunder. Moments later the power went out and I sat up. Instinct took over and I checked the app. All systems down, please await instructions. A minute later, someone knocked on my door. Carefully, I walked down in the dark to the front porch, my bloody feet staining my perfect floor. Mia was there, holding Nikki tight as they both were soaked to the bone. The baby began to cry as she stepped into the house and saw what I'd done.

She insisted I'd give her my phone. Said she wasn't staying here, but she couldn't walk. any further. She reached for it. I took a step back, and she stumbled on something in the darkness. My wife fell forward into the broken glass. In the chaos, I heard Nikki Whale as the shards gashed them both. I froze, looking down at them. She was shouting for me to call 911. Thunder crackled again, and I looked at my phone. Instead, staring at the app. No one was watching.

I was alone. I stood there in the door as my wife bled, and the infant were meant to care for cried. As the power surged back on, her feeble cries were outweighed by my urge to check for a new task. The cameras were at last back online, but no requests came. Viewers were in the thousand,

I was given alerts that they were contacting authorities. I stood frozen near my wife's bloody body until police arrived. They took me aside, letting their forensic team handle the rest. The police officer questioned me about my inaction. My wife and goddaughter might have died in front of me, and I stood paralyzed. Why had I done nothing? My response was mechanical. Simple.

No one was watching. For your bonus episode, creepy presents, Deacon Jim, written by Joshua Bryant, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. Horses kill many cowboys every year, even this far into the 21st century. Some kill him by accident. Maybe the horse puts its feet wrong and falls on the man. breaking his back or neck. Maybe the cowboy comes out of the saddle somehow and gets his spur caught up and the horse spooks

and drags the life out of him. But there are other incidents where the horse is fully aware of what the consequences of its actions will be. Perhaps it sounds ludicrous to a layman or even a romantic equestrian. But I've grown up around horses. I've worked with them. I've seen wrecks that would make

those inexperienced men is shrivel in fear. Yes, I have seen horses kill men. A few by accident. One, on purpose. I've heard it said that the why is more important than the what, so out of deference to that, I'll start with the first domino struck. It was at my mother's funeral that this particular story begins. I was 17. I had not seen my mother since she and my father had divorced a decade earlier. When I walked into that funeral parlor for the viewing, I was consumed with a nagging resentment that I had been cultivated since puberty. This harsh emotion was directed solely at my mother.

You see, my father had told me she had never tried to contact me. He said it was because she had never wanted me in the first place. So when I had read in a letter from my grandma Bobby Sue that my mom, mother had died, I had resolved to go to the funeral and make an appearance out of rebellious spite. I had arrived by plane the day before, and my grandma picked me up. I'd spent the night at her little two-bedroom trailer. I also hadn't seen her in over a decade and had hardly any memory of her. I had expected to despise her as well, but what I found her to be was somewhat less bitter and far more sweet.

She was small and gentle. Hardly more than a skeleton, but her grip when she embraced me had been warm and comforting. She made me a good dinner and chat with me into the night before we went to bed. The next morning, I awoke early, as was my custom, having spent years getting up at first light. I looked around the small room with its quaint flowered wallpaper and the pervasive scent of tobacco smoke in the air. I was nervous. maybe even a little guilty. I was still a child, despite my protestations to the opposite, and I was frightened in a place that I was unfamiliar with.

I had never been so far from the ranch, never been so far from the Aquarius Mountains or the oak brush, or the mesquite, or the smell of leather and horse. I had been prepared for hostility, even yearned for it, but I was unnerved by the fact that my grandma had been pleasant and loving. and the thought of seeing my dead mother unnerved me more still. I got out of the twin bed and got dressed. I decided to dress nicely in a black silk shirt with roses embroidered across the front,

a pair of black denim jeans, my black Stetson, and my brand-new pair of ostrich-tied cowboy boots. I did want my mother's family thinking that I was anything less than what I was. I walked out of the bedroom and brushed my teeth, and hair before going to the kitchen where my grandma was fixing breakfast. She looked over her shoulder right at me and grinned so big, flashing her gums at me with a twinkle in her roomy eyes. Well, Zarelde, she said.

You got the best of both your mama and daddy, didn't you? I felt heat rise up in my cheeks. I took my hat off and held it in front of myself, trying to think of some way to respond. Nothing came to me, so. I walked to the fold-out table and sat down. We ate and left soon after. We drove down spring-dampened roads that glittered in the morning sun,

and we did so in silence. As we passed by intersections and railway crossings, drawing closer to our destination, I could feel a deepening sadness from my grandma. She suddenly looked, dangerously close to death herself. As for me, I could feel my anger growing. And my fear. We arrived at the funeral parlor and entered.

There weren't that many people. Beforehand, I imagined it would be crowded with alien faces, dour, and cruel. But everyone there. And it couldn't have been over half a dozen. They were all most definite. human. I felt a chewing shame curbing my anger. I had to fight to keep from second-guessing myself, but I couldn't help it. Grandma Bobby Sue shook a few hands and patted a few backs. Her voice

breaking but tears, never finding her cheeks. I followed her close as she introduced me to relatives. I have never known existed. They smiled and shook my hand, but I'll be damned if I can recall any of their names or even what their faces look like. My focus was on the mahogany casket surrounded by flowers on the far end of the hall. I was trembling. Soon, everybody formed a line. Grandma took a place at the head of the casket, telling me to only take a look when I felt good and ready.

There was no need to rush things. I went to the very end of the line. I felt like I was under freezing water. My breakfast wiggled around in my stomach. I clenched my fists tight, trying to stoke my anger at the person that had abandoned me, the person that lay cold like wax in the box at the other side of the line. My heart was fluttering, like it was trying to jackhammer its way through my ribs. And then I was there, before the open casket.

Pale blooms surrounding the red wood. Red wood and sconesing a pale form dressed in blue. I stared at the makeup powdered face and held my cold hands to my throat. She was my mother, and sepia-toned memories gushed through the crevices of my mind. Anger no longer had a place inside. That was my mommy in there, and all I could think of was the time she held my hand and told me how much she loved me. me. I slowly crumbled to my knees, sobbing. Grandma Bobby Sue put her arms around my shoulders and held me close to her chest. I buried my tear-ridden face in her black cotton dress. So many

questions surged through me yet I never found the words to construct them into anything that could satisfy the amount of agony I was suffering. I hated my mother, but couldn't bring myself to want that. I wanted her to love me. And now it was too late for that. No, sweetie. I suddenly felt my grandma's voice in my ear. She always loved you. I uttered a few words of argument. She shushed me gently before continuing. You never knew, and that ain't your fault. It's your daddy's. Again, I tried to argue, but it was useless. When you get home to him, you take a look in the top drawer of his dresser. You take what's hidden in there, and you put this in its stead. Your mother made it for him before she passed. She was pressing a small wicker horse into my hands. It was lashed, tightly

together with the hair the same color as my mother's. I took it with a strange feeling of purpose, Then I looked into my grandmother's eyes. They were no longer roomy and gray. They were dark and clear and infinitely deep. I controlled my sobs and held the wicker horse closely. I rocked back on my heels and looked deep into her face. I forgot where we were and why. All I saw was a face so knowing and so mysterious

that it frightened me. the rest of the day, the burial, the wake, all of it, seeped by in a blur. I recall the pain and the wicker horse, but not much else. Then, as if suddenly waking, I was in the small room in my grandmother's trailer, looking at a lifeless ceiling fan. I was still dressed in the outfit that I had chosen so pridefully, all the way down to the boots that still needed to be broken in. Physical discomfort it was plain, but I didn't move. I felt just like a dried fruit peel, curled and blackened on a dirty floor. On the nightstand beside the bed, the wooden horse stared at me.

There were no eyes on the twigs of its head, but it still stared. I met its gaze and thought about my grandma's words. I wondered what they could mean. What secret could my father be hiding? I flew back the next day. My grandma walked me to the security check, and there we said our goodbyes. She did not mention the horse, nor my father's dresser. Her eyes had returned to normalcy.

Yet I knew that had to be nothing more than a veil. She papped me gently on the back when we embraced, and though she was still a vague stranger to me more than a relative, I felt a tremendous trust and respect for the woman. I left her and boarded my plane. I returned home. Home, in this case, meant oven-hot air and eight-foot-tall, Akatillo, and long dirt roads.

It meant the sight of pronghorn, galloping across wide-open spaces, gouged by a royo, jagged ridges and mountains wavering in the distance. home meant the ranch an hour from any timid town locked behind barbed wire and private property signs home meant my father we drove down the road together he was straight-backed and smiling wrinkles adorned in his face in all the ways that spelled comfort for me yet a hollow pit had formed in my stomach I wandered at the possibility of betrayal for the first time in my 17 years. The road made my bones rattle. So, how are you, sweetie? He asked.

I watched him for a moment through the corners of my eyes. My lips trembled. I wanted to ask him what he was hiding. I wanted to love him without this newfound doubt clouding my perception. I have no idea, I answered at last. When we got to the camp he worked at, it was already well past midnight. I didn't feel tired. The wicker horse poking into my stomach kept me awake.

We entered the house and shared a small, cold supper. Then we went to our separate bedrooms. But I had no intention or desire to go to sleep. I slipped into my bedroom, didn't turn on any light, merely removed my boots and sat cross-legged on my cold bed. I listened to the movement of the night outside my window, and I waited two and a half hours to make sure my father was in as deep asleep as possible. On socked feet, I moved through the house to my father's room.

The floors were smooth and gave no sound beneath my soft tread. I opened my father's door. No squeak of old hinges, no settling of old wood, just pure, unbothered silence. I saw his sleeping form in the silvered moonlight filtering through the sheer drapes. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tightened my grip upon the wicker horse. I tiptoed to his dresser and very, very carefully, open the top drawer. It held his socks and neatly folded underwear. For a moment, I considered closing it,

returning to the living room and disposing of the wicker horse. But my grandma's words echoed again in my mind, and I plunged my free hand below my father's clothes. My fingers grew rigid. I had touched what felt like a stack of paper. I took hold of the stout. back, becoming certain they were envelopes as I did so, and I pulled them free from where they had lain hidden. Without thought, I stuffed the wicker horse in the now vacant spot, shut the drawer,

and left the room far more quickly than I had entered. I couldn't stay in the house with my newfound plunder, so I quietly went out the front door and into the Cricket-tune night. Still without shoes, I moved only from stone to stone on the path that led to the saddlehouse. I had grown up in the desert and learned to become ever mindful of scorpions and snakes. I opened the rickety door to the saddlehouse, and the smell of decayed wood, fresh iodine and old leather greeted me like family. I found the flashlight my father kept on the shelf over the saddle rack and turned its beam on. I illuminated the stack of envelopes in my hands.

They were all letters addressed to me, and the sender was my mother. I didn't hesitate to rip open the latest one and began reading its contents. I devoured every word with an insatiable excitement that was only obstructed by tears. It is needless to repeat what the letter said, especially given the private nature of such things.

Suffice it to say that every single letter ended with a very simple farewell, I will cherish you always. Your mother, I wish I could say that the feeling of parental love encompassed me entirely, that in the moment of joyous discovery my baser emotions were forgotten. But that would be a blatant lie, all of the hatred I had spent years feeding and grooming into vile contempt for my mother was now completely redirected at my father. It was then that I first heard it. A low screaming laugh from beyond the horse corrals. It sounded eerily human, but I knew it had been a horse. It made my skin tingle with fear. Next came a banging at the panel gate. just like a hoof was pawing at the metal.

I stood and walked out of the saddle house, turning the flashlight toward the source of the noise. The Wrangell horse was standing nearby. His ears prickled and his eyes questioned in the interloper. There was a horse down by the gate, pawing, asking to be let in. I strangled my mother's letters to my chest and walked down the hard red dirt,

until I was face to face with the creature, with only the gate between us. He was a big paint stud, 15 hands high at the least, raw-boned and corded with muscle. He had no brand, nor shoes, nor any indication that he was owned. He had one glass eye that glistened pale

and frigid under the shot of my flashlight. He snorted and I flinched. He seemed to smile. mile. I took a step back and suddenly the paint horse's demeanor changed. It grunted ferociously and renewed pawing at the gate with increased violence. It laid its ears back and flung its head in my direction, commanded me to let it in. My hand reflexively reached to cover my throat and I felt the edges of all my mother's letters pressed against my skin. The paint breathed out heavily. bathing my face in its hot air.

Hot air that smelled like blood. So I let the horse in. I recall running back to the house and crawling under my blankets, bearing my head in the pillow. I must have fallen asleep at some point, but I can't remember just when. I didn't dream,

and it didn't even feel like I rested. It felt only like a soft transition of suffocating darkness into glaring sunlight. It was not the light, however, that brought me back from slumber. It was, instead, the sound of my father stringing together the most vulgar insults imaginable into one sentence. He was outside in the horse corral, and inwardly, I knew what he was doing. He was working with that paint horse. I got up. Quick, organized my letters in my desk drawer and got dressed. I was dressed and ready within five minutes,

never mind breakfast or coffee or preparation. The humid spring air flowed into me as I stepped outside and made my way to the round corral where my father had the paint horse. My heart sank. I didn't have any idea how to feel. That is, until I saw my father. I looked through the poles of the round pen and watched the big horse wheeling about. Ducking loop after loop my father threw at it.

A great billowing of dust was leaping from the paint's unshot feet, and my father was already perspiring profusely. He was angry, and I felt at that moment if anybody didn't have a right to be angry. It was him. What you got there, Pops? I asked. leaning against the top rail.

He glanced over at me and threw another loop. It missed. Some damn stud I found waiting by the saddle house this morning. He answered between breaths. Wild son of a bitch. No brand, though. So I figured I'd throw a saddle on him and see what could be done.

I nodded. As I did, the paint stopped cavortin in my father finally caught him. But it wasn't the fight we thought it would be. The paint walked right up the rope to stand over my father. My father's face twitched, but his perturbation was quickly hidden behind a cocksure smile. Well, there you go, big fella, my father said. Zarelda May, could you bring me my saddle? I obeyed, perhaps more eagerly than usual. I need to knew when my father got in the middle of that horse. It was going to be something else.

I carried my father's saddle out to him as well as a bosal-hackamore for the paint's head. The entire time, the horse had been staring at my father. Uncomfortably close. Nostrils flared and bloody red. I think I'll call him outlaw for now, my father said. I raised my eyebrows and set a saddle down next to him. Outlaw, why not Deacon Jim? I replied. He looked at me sideways,

as if trying to understand the undercurrent of anger in my words. Deacon Jim? He repeated. Like Jim Miller? Yeah, the killer Jim Miller. I said. looking at the glass-eyed paint. The man that blew the back of Pat Garrett's head off,

my father chuckled. Yeah, I guess that fits. Without any more preamble, my father put the hacklemore on Deacon Jim's head and then threw the pad and saddle on his back. Deacon Jim did not turn a hair. He merely watched my father with a calculation that I found disturbing.

My father cinched up the huge animal, keeping a wary eye trained on hind feet in case Deegan Jim, tried to cow kick him. I observed that my father's hands were trembling. I took a step back, willing to help if necessary, quick to get out of the way if not. My father cheeked the paint around and began slowly putting his foot into the stirrup. The paint sprang away from him with explosive energy. My father cursed. I smirked. He tried again with the same result. After several minutes of this,

despising my father's growing fury, I decided to intervene. I took hold of Deacon Jim's headstall and yanked his head in close. He immediately calmed. My father made some offhand comment that I ignored and stepped up to the horse's shoulder again.

I cup Deacon Jim's glass eye, preventing him from seeing. My father, meanwhile, placed his toe in the stirrup and shot into the saddle. And then I stepped away, fully aware that things were about to unwind. Sure enough, once he was loose, Deacon Jim kicked his ass. The paint hit first on his front legs, kicking his back one's Out so high they went over my father's head. Again and again he did this, slamming his hooves onto the sun-baked soil.

He twisted hard, sucking his high and quarters around, trying to unbalance my father's grip on the saddle. But my father had always been a bronch rider. I climbed out of the round pan and let the conflict of submission ensue. Minutes passed. Deacon Jim attempted everything I'd ever seen any rodeo bronch do and other things I had until then thought impossible.

Yet, my father was there for all of it, sitting with his legs far forward, thighs deep in the swells, just as if he had been born for this particular encounter. The sun rose higher. It was a clear day, no clouds to keep the harsh rays from cutting through hair and clothing, to bead the flesh beneath it with salty sweat. Deacon Jim was lathered from head to heel, bleeding from where my father had dug spurs across the horse's shoulders. The paint had begun to grunt and squeal with each jump. The exertion was taking its toll. My father, too, was red-faced and tight-lipped, eyes unblinking with an expression of utter concentration. Disappointment was beginning to creep into my mind.

It seemed that Deacon Jim was going to lose this bout, and my mother and her lost love for me would go unavanched. But, just like his namesake, Deacon Jim wasn't above playing dirty. And when horses play dirty, people get crippled or killed. The glass-eyed paint suddenly reared up, but he didn't stop it merely standing on its high legs. No. He went higher and higher, until there was nothing left to do but fall backwards. Backwards, meaning right on top of my father. My father didn't scream or shout. And I don't think he was even fully aware of what was happening until it was too late. There was only the sound of the heavy animal slapping the hard ground.

Deacon Jim rolled onto his side and got up. up. My father was no longer in the saddle. He lay where the horse had landed on him. His arms raised as if to receive something, his eyes wide and white as goose eggs. My stomach churned, and I leaped into the round pen screaming. Daddy! Get up! I never reached him. I heard a deep, tortured laugh booming from infernal lungs, and suddenly Deacon Jim was standing over my father. I froze, meeting the horse's eyes. He smiled, his huge yellow teeth dripping white froth. My father uttered a small pained groan. It was the last sound he ever made. Deacon Jim began pounding at my helpless father with all four feet.

kicking and pawing and jumping up and down. I heard bones break like kindling, muscles ripped like wet paper, and my father's face was lost in a shower of dust and blood. I fell to my knees and shrieked. Eventually, the monstrous horse stopped, laughed once more, and trotted towards the corral fence.

I watched the gate swing open in front of him, and he just walked away. My father's saddle still on his back. I never saw that horrid creature again. My eyes fell on the wretched pulp that had been my daddy. And I never saw that horrid creature ever again. All my anger was gone, just as it had been after seeing my mother in her coffin. Quite suddenly, I found myself an orphan. utterly alone in this world.

I sat on the ground, a few feet from the man who had raised me. I couldn't even cry. I did eventually get up and drive an hour to our nearest neighbor for help. Whatever help could mean in a situation like that. After it was all set and done, I buried my father, and I grew up. yet still there are so many things that allude my understanding

I don't know why he had hidden my mother's letters from me I don't know why she would curse into such a bloody fate over the years I've made a million theories but all they do is bring infection to a never-healing wound I keep working cattle and breaking horses doing what my father taught me but not a day goes by that I am not haunted. I don't think I'll ever escape any of it.

There is only one thing I am sure of. Both of my parents hated each other more than they loved me. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-Lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.