Creepy - Grip & Dear Angeline

Episode Date: March 13, 2025

Grip***Written by: Tabitha Soper and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Dear Angeline***Written by: JT Johnson and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Support the show at: patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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. Grip.

Written by Tabitha Sopper. And narrated by need to fort. When he was a boy, he dreamed the men would come into their house again. He would hear the glass of the window shattering, as if the pieces would sprinkle down around his head, liter his pillow and tumbled down to his cheeks. He'd wake with his heart fluttering in his chest, cheeks wet with what he worried was blood, brushing away at his skin and hair, while he kicked and choked back the rumble of a scream.

He felt their footsteps all around him, massive dark boots on the old hard wood. He heard them in his room, down the hall, in his mother's bedroom and his sisters. It was as though there were hundreds of them, infiltrating his home and his family. Guns loaded and raised at their heads, willing to kill for whatever they could loot from a rented house. Elliot didn't even know it then, but they didn't even own the furniture in the living spaces. The men were raising barrels to the heads of children that owned only the clothes that could fit in a backpack, better than they fit on their bodies. As he grew, the dreams didn't stop, but they did change.

He was never so sure that the men were wearing boots. It would only make sense if they wore sneakers, though they might have squealed on the floors. He wasn't sure what they wore either, but he always imagined it was all black, and sometimes his dreams donned them in tactical gear, protection from a gun his mother didn't have yet. He didn't know how many there were in the house that night, didn't even really know if they were all men, and he didn't know what they took either. He was too young then. In too many years it passed of a silent agreement that Elliot and his family would not discuss the incident again. Elliot was happy to oblige, allowing the memory to settle into his mind as a morphing nightmare, a nightmare that didn't always remain where it belonged. slinking through the creases in his brain. Instead, he feared it sometimes leaked from his ears and

bled into his bedroom, and sometimes it drifted even farther. A school counselor told him that this was an anxious thought. She said that these words, born of his fears and some long academic phrases he didn't care to remember, she said that his own fears were taking on a physical form, making him think those noises outside of his bedroom window were more than what they were. He lived in the woods, in an old creaking historical house. There was always an excuse, and he knew she was right. He knew it deep down, not always deep down either. There were many more moments of clarity than anything else.

When the lights were on, when he was roaming the hallways of the school, driving with friends or working on his car, there would never be men outside his window, never. But every time the floorboards creaked when his lights were turned off, and his eyes were only just beginning to grow heavy, his heart would launch into his throat. He didn't tell the counselor every incident. He couldn't.

Protective services had already been around a few times throughout his childhood. Most recently, when his sister had skipped school for a few weeks straight, out drinking and smoking with older kids. Any one of the things he'd kept from the counselor would have been a final straw, the penultimate event that would send Elliot and his sister, Ava, to a foster home for good. Their father might have taken Elliot,

but even if he did agree to take in Ava, she wouldn't go with him, and Elliot couldn't leave her. And if their father tried to force her, it would get messy. Ava would do anything not to live with their father, even if it meant living with strangers. Elliot didn't really blame Ava for all of her misbehaving either.

Their mother, resigned to playing the permanent good guy, would enlist Elliot to scold her when the school would call or the police would knock on their door. She'd catch Ava sneaking out and wake Elliot to retrieve her and lay out a punishment. He was usually angrier about being woken up than at Ava for actually sneaking out. He'd done it too, probably inadvertently, even taught her how to do it herself. Her bedroom window had always been the easiest to open from the outside.

He used to use it when he knew his mother was staying up late. He'd gone that way so many times that the rose bush beneath her window had been stomped out and hadn't bloomed a rose in years. It was just a bundle of thorns now. Elliot's mother had called him, months ago, in a panic. She was breathless, frantic, her voice shrill on the phone. He'd been at his friend Danny's house and left the couch to take the call, but he barely remembered the steps he took.

He knew he'd gotten into his car and taken off, peeling out of Danny's driveway and speeding the whole way home, his engine screaming as he did. It sounded like his exhaust might explode, the shrill whistle of the pipe echoing through the street. His mother was sure someone was trying to break in, absolutely sure of it. She could hear them by the windows, just like before, just like Elliot had heard almost every night for all those years.

It was finally real. He skidded into the driveway so hard he was later surprised he hadn't gone straight through the front door, throwing his rusty Civic and Park at the same time that he turned the key. He unlocked the front door and left it open. pushing past his mother as she cried, holding a tear-filled Ava at her waist. She yelled after him, telling him to do something, to help them. But that's what he was trying to do, so he didn't bother even glancing at her as he made his way through the house and back, after he'd jammed his hand between his mother's

mattress and retrieved the gun. A 22 pistol he'd learned to fire with his father when he was small, when his father was still around. Elliot walked straight out the front door, slamming it behind him, and raised the gun to the air. The only light in the dark, wooded yard was coming from the yellow lights filtered through the house's windows in a distant street light. He'd screamed something into the dark. He didn't know what it was. He liked to think it was something like, show yourself, but he just wasn't sure anymore. He heard the rustling, and God, it sounded like footsteps. It was a person, and they were creeping along the edge of his house, he swore it,

and they were waiting for him to be gone, for him to leave his family alone at night, so they could smash the windows again, litter his sister's hair with shards of glass, and put a gun to her head, to his mother's head, to steal whatever they could find from yet another rented house. Something moved beside him. He spun and shot, felt the dirt flutter off the ground. He yelled incoherent nonsense, his hand shaking, and dropped the gun on the ground. The front door flew open and his mother's phone flashlight lit the yard. The circle of white light shook and struggled to find its subject. Elliot watched an alarmed rabbit skittering back into the woods. He'd slumped the ground, cradled the gun, and cried.

He didn't tell the counselor about that. He told his father, though, on one of the few occasions that he'd call, though he left out that he dropped the gun or cried. He told the story like it was a joke. Sprinkling in what he hoped sounded like laughter between sentences, made himself sound like the valiant protector of his family that he had to be since his father left, and yet he was trying to make the very same man proud. Elliot could hear his father frowning through the phone. His father suggested that Elliot tell his mother to lock the gun away. He said it belonged in a safe and that although he wanted Elliot and even Ava to feel comfortable protecting themselves with firearms, they should be kept safely in the house, not left out for easy access.

He didn't mention calling the police. He knew Elliot would fight with his bare hands before he'd call another person to defend his family. That's what he'd instilled in his son, but protecting his mother and sister was his responsibility, and allowing anyone else to take over that responsibility, was the same as failing them completely, but Elliot didn't fear guns. Guns didn't shoot people.

Guns didn't pull triggers or press themselves to children's temples. He'd grown up surrounded by them with his father being in the military. Guns were tools of protection, and just like any other tool or weapon, they could wind up in the wrong hands. The same way a moron with,

any other tool could ruin a car for good. It wasn't the tools Elliot feared. it was the wrong hands. He didn't fear the boogeyman, ghosts, or any fictitious monsters, even as a child. He feared the wrong hands, and he feared being the wrong hands. He feared that his hands would betray him, betray his family, feared he'd be the coward that couldn't use the tool properly when he really needed to. His mother didn't lock the gun away.

He didn't even tell her that his father had suggested it. Locking it up would only slow his response time, giving an advantage to an intruder. No, the gun wasn't going anywhere. But the longer the dreams went on, and the longer it slumbered beneath his mother's mattress, the more it felt too far from him. He could feel the ache of every extra second that it would take him to race down the hallway to his mother's room, open the bedroom door and get his hand between the mattress to grab the gun. If his mother was sleeping on that side of the bed, would he even be able to lift it?

Yes, he knew he could, but that added extra time, too. Precious seconds he might not have. He heard the sounds outside his window when he wasn't dreaming. He didn't care what the counselor said. He couldn't possibly be asleep. He knew the difference. He knew what it felt like to be a little. awake. He heard fingernails, scratching down his window, picking at the paint peeling on the side of the

house. He heard footsteps waiting through the grass when it was tall and when he hadn't moat it. He heard heavy footsteps, dragging on the asphalt of the street. He heard glass breaking. He heard cars slowing at the driveway. He heard footsteps in the hall, even knocking on his bedroom door. He'd bought a knife when the gun was still too far And his baseball bat had become immature He'd hear the sounds And the reassurances from the school counselor would play in his head But he's dreaming even if he's awake

And his brain is tricking him He'd squeeze his eyes shut Until it felt like his own eyelids Might shove his eyes back into a skull And sometimes the sounds would falter and disappear Sometimes they didn't Sometimes they continued until he'd find a way to convince himself. It wasn't what he thought it was, that it was only tree branches or animals.

Sometimes they continued until he'd fall asleep, heart still hammering. Other times, there was no room for convincing and no chance of sleeping. He'd get out of bed, knife in hand, and scour the house, checking every room, every dark corner. He'd even circle the house sometimes, blade clasped in both hands and poised to strike should he come across the intruder. He'd swipe his arms through the bushes, often returning with tiny cuts along his forearms from sharp twigs and thorns. A handful of times, his searching still didn't convince him, so he'd wait on the front steps of the house, turning the knife over in his hands and wait quietly, until he felt that he must be the only one hour. there. More than once, he'd gone inside and come back not long after, unconvinced.

The knife, he decided after many restless nights, would only ever be so effective. He would continue to sleep beside the blade, which had, once he turned 18, become an even more lethal switchblade, but he hated the distance being held between him and the gun in his mother's mattress. The gun was quicker, the bullet was less personal. He could stab someone if he needed to. He knew that he'd create a disconnect in his mind when it came to anyone threatening him or his family. But speed needed to be on his side, and he wasn't sure that the switchblade could provide it. When his mother was at work and his sister was in school, he started counting the seconds that it would take him to get out of bed, cross the house to his mother's room, and retrieve the gun. On his first try, he hit 30,

seconds. He was happy with that result, but only for a moment. He'd counted from being wide awake, sitting in bed with his shoes and clothes on, ready and prepared to run. It wasn't a fair count. He normally slept in his boxers, and in the winter he'd have to dress, otherwise the cold might stiffen his muscles and make it harder for him to pull the trigger quickly enough. He'd have to start wearing clothes to bed, but he'd have to keep shoes beside his bed. shoes that didn't need tying, but that he could run in. He tested his timing with different obstacles. When no one was home, he'd nap and set an alarm to wake himself up

and check his timing with the groginess of sleep. He tried what would happen if he forgot his shoes, tried what would happen if the gun wasn't loaded for some reason, tried stubbing his toe, even tried climbing out of a living room window. His best time was 25 seconds. That was with no obstacles. shoes on and fully dressed, his mother's bedroom door closed, the gun loaded. That time did not include the rush to and out the front door, which added about 10 to 15 seconds.

His worst time was a minute and a half, with the wrong shoes leading to dress himself, gun unloaded, and half asleep, not including the rush to the door. Elliot was not pleased with that result, not in the slightest. He thought about it for a while. Really, the whole time he practiced his timing, he'd been thinking about a better place he could keep the gun, even before he'd started testing himself. He'd considered it.

It felt wrong, taking it from his mother. He was sure she'd bought it for her protection, probably to make herself feel safe after the first rental had been broken into, but she'd never used it since, probably never even touched it since putting it in its hiding place, Elliot had certainly handled the firearm more than his mother ever had, and he was the one she called every time something had felt to miss.

Even if she was scared or actually unsafe, it would be Elliot that she would call. Elliot that she would expect to not just handle the gun, but retrieve it. She'd never so much as handed it to him. If she would expect Elliot to be the sole handler of the firearm, then it might as well belong to him. He might as well hide it himself. Elliot hid the gun himself the day after he heard his mother click the lock to her bedroom.

He didn't know how long it might take him to break the door down and he couldn't test it. He chewed on it all night, whether or not he could bust it down in a way that he could replace the door without anyone noticing. But the house was a rental, and even worse, it was a historical home. The landlord would probably kick them out if he ever found out, even find them, and Elliot knew that wasn't an option for them. When his mother left for work with Ava the next morning, he went into her room and took the gun back to his own. He stuffed it in the tight space between his mattress and the headboard, right by the head. He slept that night with his fingers gently resting above the grip of the pistol. The sounds returned the very next night, but one night of

good sleep felt great for once. He heard noises outside in the nights that followed. Scratching sounds, wind that mimicked voices, or voices that mimicked wind. He'd stayed lying in bed for a while, Comforter pressed to his lips, considering whether or not to venture outside. And when he finally decided to, he had to choose between the switchblade beneath his pillow and the gun nestled between the mattress and headboard. He was fairly certain no one was outside, sure he was listening to the wind and some branches on the siding.

He only needed the knife, really, just as something to protect himself should he need to, something that would make him feel better about going outside in the dark. He probably wouldn't even use it. He never had. He should bring the knife. The gun should be brought out only for very real situations. He brought the gun every time. His sleep actually started to improve after a while,

though he took another loss when his mother called him at work because she thought the oil guy was looting from his garage. He'd rushed home and confronted the guy, knuckles hot yellow at his side, but the interaction had been civil, and the man had left when Elliot told him to. Elliot had gone back to work, still shaking, cracking every bone he could,

aching to put his foot through a wall, to feel his knuckles sink into the side of that guy's head. But once that incident began to dull in his mind, he started sleeping through nearly entire nights for a while, usually only hearing a sound or two per night, checking the rentals perimeter only once or twice a week. Even then, he could tell that those times were false alarms, that the sounds were either in his head or exaggerated by his anxieties. Tonight, though, tonight was the first time and a long time that he was absolutely certain that someone was outside. He'd woke into the sound of car doors slamming.

He'd heard that before, and it hadn't always been real, so he stayed in bed for moments longer, holding his breath to listen for the sounds over the pounding blood in his ears. He heard laughter, maybe, then something clinking, something dragging on the asphalt, something dragging through the dirt and grass of the yard. Footsteps, quick and then slow, uneven and jagged in the distance. He shot up in bed, the pistol snugly in his palm, and forced his shoes on just like he'd rehearsed. He hadn't accounted for how clammy his hands would feel, how his head would sweat, but his body feel frozen to the touch. He didn't expect to be quivering. He was out of the house before he could even realize what he was doing. He knew he'd

moved quickly, but he wasn't sure how quietly. He wasn't sure if he'd woken anyone else up, but the house didn't seem to stir. No lights erupted in the darkness. The only sound in movement seemed to come from outside. He moved the locks on the front door and pushed it open, the thick wood of the door slamming on the wrought iron fencing around the landing. Elliot was blinded blinded by the yellowing headlights that beamed towards him, pulling out of his gravel driveway with a serenading crunch. He launched himself forward and shouted at the car, an old F-150 as its tires rolled tossing up rocks.

Elliot rushed towards it as the vehicle swayed and braked, shifting gears and raised the gun in front of him, pointing for what he hoped would be the tires in relation to the headlights. Elliot's finger shook against the trigger as he pulled in slightly, just enough to feel the metal give in, shivering at his touch. He caressed it. The metal was warm, and Elliot realized he was focusing on the feel of the gun in his hands, the way the grip felt in his palm more than he intended to, and the car was peeling away, swerving on the asphalt as it dragged gravel with it. He lurched forward but stopped himself, lowering the gun,

and felt his heart hammering everywhere in his body, from the bottoms of his feet to his palms. He felt the familiar pang in his chest, watching the car disappear down the road hidden by trees. His nose and throat were hot, his hands shaking. He felt bile, rising in his throat, and needles all over his skin. He wanted to slam his hand, gun in all,

straight through the side of his house, split his knuckles, maybe follow with his head. Then he heard another sound, footsteps and a familiar scraping of wooden plastic, a window being forced open. He turned and pressed forward, raising the gun again with his arms stuck out straight. He held his eyes open as wide as he could until they burned and the darkness was swirling before him. The outlines of the house, the brush and the trees were all morphed, and twitching in the black. And when he blinked, he felt hot tears run down his cheeks. He heard the sound again, the harsh, creaking push of an opening window, a twig snapping, and spun to find it, gun extended in his hands. Something moved against the blackness, something solid, something

against the house, right where he thought there might be a window. He moved quickly and shot, the surprise and ache in his sleep-ridden muscle sending his all. arms searing backwards. The shot was too loud, but he thought he heard it hit the side of the house. He squeezed the trigger again, biting down into his tongue, squeezing the grip and holding his arms steadier. Jesus, Elliot! He heard the voice as his finger touched the end of the trigger. He moved his arms at the last minute, but the bullet had already flown straight. He dropped the gun while it was above his head and heard it crumple to the grass. felt his foot, push it to the side as he fell to his shins with it. A light came on inside,

the yellow of the window, a fire in his eyes, burning beside the spatter of red that coated the panelling of the house. He watched his mother rush forward from the other side of the pain. He was sure she was screaming, but he couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears, the rush of the blood pumping in his face. He could have sworn he could hear Ava's too. Her blood, as it flooded the grass, fed the bushes and crisp thorn brush beneath her window. Creepy presents, Dear Angeline, written by J.T. Johnson and narrated by Michelle Kane. I can hear my children playing as I move quietly around my baby's room, silently admiring the light that pours in through the circle window that sits quite prettily

over the built-in window seat. The small room, adorned with faded wallpaper, peppered with circus animals and clowns and other darling things, had been a pleasant surprise to find when we had moved into the farmhouse. I smiled to myself as I tuck away those small dresses and clothes, every so often allowing myself to get lost in the poorly hidden clowns and elephants and acrobats that see. seemed to dance merrily behind the thin wash of white paint. The farmhouse was old. I knew this

when we bought it, though I was no stranger to having to work to clean up a place. It was perfect. It was a way for us to get out of the city, away from the smells and the noise. It even had the loveliest patch of woods in the back. Already my three children have attempted to explore it like grand adventurers. The baby cooes gently in her crib, and I walk over to her, smiling and humming at her as I rub her hair, admiring the perfect little thing that she is. It is as I look up that I see something strange,

just barely visible beneath the faded cushion of the window seat. Odd, I murmured, walking over to it, checking once to ensure my little had indeed gone back to sleep. I knelt down on my knees, ignoring the plumes of pale dust that danced up around my legs as I leaned into the floor, delighted and perplexed to see a stack of old brown letters wedged in the small gap of the seat. It took some effort to pull them out. I'm amazed not a single one had torn as I stood, easing myself down onto the soft window seat, casting one small glance out to the yard where I can see my husband and my older children. I smile, allowing myself to marvel in the luck that has become my life. I sigh, leaning into the wall as I hold up the stack, admiring the feminine curve of lettering stretched over the front letter.

To Mrs. Angeline Hale from Vesta Heartbrook. I trace my finger over the name Vesta, an odd shiver racking through me, causing me to shift slightly with uneaseless. my brow tensing with concern as I ensure once more the babe still slumbers. Her soft breaths and resting face give me a bit of peace as I try to ignore the strange sensation in my stomach, laughing a little to myself as I carefully untied the pale string that have once held them all together. They are old, the paper thin and crisp as if they could simply crumble at any moment. The light fragrance of the air.

of perfume tickling my nose, giving me at least one inkling of Vesta. She enjoyed the smell of lavender. An eruption of giggles from my children outside pulled my eyes from the letters. I watched for a moment as they ran in clay, the sun shining down on them in delicious strips of gold. The trees swaying lazily, my eyes catching the gentle spiraling of flowers and leaves from the thick branches that created that lovely patch of woodland. Vesta, my mind reminded me, and I turned from the beautiful scenery outside to look once more at the stranger I had now stumbled upon in the form of a few old letters. I opened them carefully, being sure not to tear or rip the old paper, my body relaxed in the little nursery room. I felt content, at ease even, as if all the worries and woe

of uprooting our family from the city and coming here had at last melted away, allowing me to simply be here. What do we have to say, Vesta Heartbreak? I settled in deeper, allowing the sound of the breeze and the laughter to play in my ears as I began to read. Dearest sister, at last Edmund has sent for me, and I am to be reunited with him once more. I cannot explain how hard these months have been, though I know him going off to build our home for our future family is more than worth the time we've endured apart. I arrived yesterday, sister,

and let me tell you how excited I am to be here in this home my sweet Edmund has built for us. He said it took time to find the help and the tools, such explaining why we had been apart for so long. However, once I was at last brought here, I cannot be more happy than such a place exists. Angeline, this home is exquisite. The first floor has the kitchen,

a parlor for reading or gathering with friends, as well as a small bedroom. The second floor is my favorite by far. Several rooms can be found along with just the most perfect little room at the front. Edmund does not know it, but this I think will be perfect for our nursery. Edmund wishes for me to accompany him on a stroll. I will write soon, dear sister.

All the best, Vesta. I smiled, the elegant swirls and loops, making for a rather pretty letter. My heart swelling as I sit in the very room, she herself had planned to turn into a special place for her unborn babe. I trace my fingertips over the elegant, scrawl, carefully tucking it back into its envelope before opening the next. I assume some time must have passed between the letters. The scrawl not quite as careful, yet beautiful all the same. My eyes falling upon the words as laughter continued to ripple in my ears.

Dearest Angeline, how is life in the city? I find myself missing the lovely bustle of carriages and chatter, the constant movement of dresses and men in their best fashion. Do not think I am complaining of my new home. Of course, I am most bewitched by the many trails that weave through our woods, as well as the farm animals we have steadily collected. Dear sister, can you believe I have learned to milk a cow? Yes, me, of all people. I am sad to say that something must be getting to them. Edmund is working dutifully hard to better ensure our pins and fences are strong and sturdy. However, I am sad to say we lost quite a few of our chickens and even a pig or two. Edmund is most displeased as they were meant to be food for us over the winter.

Alas, I suppose we shall manage. I am sad to write that I have lost yet another precious child, Angeline. I cannot say how many tears I have cried. Edmund continues to be the most kind and comforting. Though I do wish you would come, if only for a week, to help bring comfort to me. You never wrote back, so I must assume my previous letter was lost in the post, perhaps. I pray this letter does find you, and that you will write back. You would have been an auntie thrice now, though all three of us.

I lost quite early, I am sad to say. Edmund was kind and sweet, and said we should lay them each to rest in the woods. And so we did. I hope the sweet little souls have found peace. Though I am sad to say, I do not know such peace at the moment. Please, Angeline, write back. I so miss you and wish to know of your life in the city. Love and best wishes. Vesta. I blinked, my chest tight, as I felt my lips part into a soundless sigh, that familiar ache of loss, radiating through my own womb as I look around me through burning eyes. Though I did not know her, I felt as if I could hear Vesta in my mind, quietly talking to me as she wrote. Her words intended for a sister, I can only guess, was far, far away. With a bit of hesitation, I placed the leg. her back into its envelope before opening the next.

The words were scrawled in long, loping form, some bits smudged with old water damage, the corners of this stationary frayed and torn in some parts. Dearest Angeline, perhaps the post here is rubbish, or perhaps you hate me, which is what Edmund seems to think. He has consoled me,

as I have been quite distraught, Though I know in my heart, you simply have not gotten my letters. Angelene, I am so lost here. This place was once so lovely, but now feels like a terrible cage. The farm animals are all gone, not sold or butchered to become meals, but dead. Something terrible killed them all. Headman was away when I found the cow. Oh, Angeline, to describe the carnage would be.

impossible. Do be assured there was little remaining of the poor creature, even less so of the smaller animals. Edmund was wild with rage. To be truthful, he gave me quite the fright with the anger that seemed to explode from him. I have suffered three more losses, sister, and I fear perhaps there is something broken within me. For why else would my body continue to purge my children. I wish not to recollect the blood and the pain. Edmund has become less comforting and dutiful. He simply collects the mess of these terrible losses, depositing it all in the woods. I fear he places the blame on me for our losses. Perhaps it is. Perhaps there is something wrong with me, Dear sister, I inquired about visiting you soon, Angelene.

I asked Edmund if we could arrange for me to have a carriage come and bring me back. He was reluctant in telling me that the roads to our home are quite rough and fear no suitable carriage could come. Perhaps that is so, though I have a strange curiousness that Edmund wishes for me to leave not at all. I have not left this place since my arrival. I have come to despise our daily strolls through the woods he so adores. Angelene, I fear I am catching the same hysteria our poor ante had.

I have begun to see things, dear sister, though I have said no such things to Edmund. I am vexed by apparitions, quick shadows that chase the corners of my eyes. The woods have become something of a nightmare for me, sister, though I cannot properly say why. It is as if the trees whisper to me, the ground as well. I sound mad, quite mad, but I am most certain. This parcel of land my husband has built our home on is filled with the most impious of spirits. I should not speak of it, I know. However, I pray you can help me and give me comfort, Angeline.

Please write back. Forever yours. Vesta. My word, I whispered, surprised to find my heart pounding in my chest as I stood, my body uneasy as I checked on my darling, who still slumbered heavily in her crib of blankets. I smiled, gently touching one of her many curls as I returned to the window, watching as her older siblings had now settled into the yard, their sun-kissed faces red and grinning.

I could not find John. deciding he must have ventured farther than I could see from my place at the little window. I turned, my eyes returning to the letter waiting where I had been sitting. My mouth pressed into a tight line. That poor woman, I murmured, carefully returning the letter to its place, staring at the remaining letters still to be read. My eyes lingered on the shadowed corners of the room, my brain quietly painting the image of a woman, her skin pale, her eyes wide and lost,

as she looks up from her paper and pen, as if somehow seeing me even across these spans of time. A coldness trembled in my spine, my mouth dry as I imagined the way she might look out to me, the way her hands might have been stained red, the smell of sickness and loss haunting my nose. It felt wrong to stop here, my teeth digging into my lip as I returned to my seat, a sudden burning obligation to finish hearing the words of this poor woman I had only met through long ago letters. The paper felt cold in my hand, the scrawling penmanship of Vesta no longer on the smooth stationary as the others had been, but on a much thinner kind, my grip easing and fear of tearing it.

Angeline, I do not know why I write to you. You never write back. Edmund continues to receive letters and parcels, so I am left only to assume you no longer wish to write to me. What have I done, sister? I will inform you,

as I am sure you must read these, that I have lost five more. I have begged Edmund to no longer attempt to place a child within me as I am surely cursed. He refuses and continues to try and grow our family. I continue to loose them, such as the way of madness, I suppose. This room which had once been envisioned as a nursery has become my crit. I am alive and I breathe, but I sit here and die. Each day a piece of me continues to wither. Edmund has found a new friend, though I do not know his name. He is a peculiar man, Angeline. He simply strolled out of the woods one day. His attire

quite outdated, though I am sure my own fashion has become quite distasteful, as I no longer leave. And so you can only imagine the state of my dresses have become rather cumbersome. This man comes daily, Angeline. When he calls on Edmund, they are gone for hours, simply just wandering through the woods. To do what? I am not privy. I only know they sometimes do not return until nearly dark. I catch myself, hoping for something to happen to Edmund, for whatever beast that devoured our farm animals would get him. I can almost imagine it perfectly. Angelene, the carnage that would unfold, the blood, the ruin of my husband. In proper thoughts, I am aware, though the despair and pain has changed me, and I cannot help

but notice Edmund is no longer, the kind and caring man I married. I've come to call this stranger the derby man, for that is the sort of hat he wears every time he comes to with my Edmund. He is thin and tall and rather ghastly, I will say. I wish not for him to see me, so I often hide beneath the window, until I think they are gone. Though one day, Angeline, when I emerged from my hiding to look out the window once more, I was given quite the fright to see him still standing in the yard. His thin face turned up towards me, his eyes looking at where I stood. I do not like that man. I fear Edmund will only become more of a stranger to me, the more he walks with this peculiar man from the wood. Alas, sister, I must go. Edmund does not

like it when I write to you anymore. He has announced it is a waste of our dwindling funds. I will beg the postman to take my letter. I even stole a stamp from Edmund's study. please, Angelene, write back, if only once, to say goodbye, Vesta. The letter fills too cold in my grip, my fingers unfurling as it slips back into the stack of letters on my lap. A sense of ease warms me at the bubble of laughter beyond the small window, my eyes quickly landing on my children, still playing in the grass and flowers. A shiver scratching. at my neck, raising the hair there as I feel unseen eyes of Vesta, still hidden deep in the dark

corners of the small room. I could imagine her there, her fingers twitching as she motioned for me to continue. The last three letters beckoned me, filled with reluctance and a grim sort of worry, I opened the next letter, no longer sitting but swaying nervously at the window. My eyes hungry to take in the words of this stranger. To my sister, Angeline, I continue to suffer the loss of children. It has been months since my last letter. I have lost count of how many times I've wept in a puddle of blood.

It is unnatural, I would think, to suffer so. I am sick with disgust at how Edmund collects my losses, Like a child picking candy, he gathers the mess, eagerly carrying it to the dreadful wood. I watch from my window, and as sure as the sun will rise, the derby man is there, walking with Edmund and his bucket of gore as he deposits it in the woods. I no longer leave the room. Edmund comes to me now when he wishes to have relations with me, though I have come to be quite unkempt and ghastly.

He speaks of finding a more suitable woman to replace me. He spat at me that I have failed him as a wife, and so he must go find another. I do not fight or argue. I simply sit in my filth and wait for him to leave once more. Perhaps he will find another woman. And perhaps when she is here, he will allow me to leave at last.

I wish deeply to return to my life and my family in the city. I wish to be anywhere but here, Angeline. The derby man talks to me now, Angelene, though I think it might be my madness creating such a notion. I never leave the room, and yet I think I can hear him speak to me from the window. Even as I write this, I laugh with madness. Because how could such a thing be? He whispers to me, Angeline.

He weaves magnetic words of a way to be with my beloveds, that all I must do is simply go to them to leap from the window like a bird and take flight to my nest of eager children awaiting their mother. I could cry. I know it is not a thing that can be, and so I sit in this room and ignore his life. lovely voice, beckoning me to open the window and go to the woods.

Edmund is returning. I must go. I release a breath frozen in my lungs, thrusting the letter back with the others as I rubbed the goose flesh now pebbled across my arms. My teeth clenched with revulsion at the words scrawled on the water-stained parchment. The Turby Man, I whispered, standing beside the crib, trying my best. not to awaken my slumbering baby as I feel a chill sweep through me. A soft noise whispers around the room, like the hushed rustle of fabric, like a dress even,

dragging across the floor. I nod numbly. She would do that, I knew. Vesta, this poor, crazy woman who had locked herself away in this very room. I could see her. her stained hands and sunken eyes, her bewildered face watching me as she paced back and forth, back and forth. Nonsense, there is no such dress here, there is no noise. I tell myself, though I cannot help but peer at the shadows with even more concentration,

as if to look hard enough would reveal the crumpled and hidden figure of the woman I could feel watching me. A burst of noise outside makes my bones jar painfully in my skin. A scream locked in the back of my throat as an eruption of laughter follows. They are fine, I laugh nervously. You're just getting spooked by some old woman's letters. I wipe at the sweat forming on my brow. Though I am not hot, I cannot help the nervous speeds of perspiration covering my neck and face. Enough of this, I say as if,

such false bravery will make me so. Walking to the little window seat and gathering the letters in my hand, unsure of what to do with them. The two unopened letters felt heavy with mystery in my hands. It almost felt wrong to stop now. My legs shaking as I looked wearily around the room. Someone else must have painted the circus. I thought with a small frown, my fingers working the envelope open subconsciously. My eyes fell to the letter, now held open and waiting in my trembling hands. A strange sense of danger permeated around me as I took in the sharp and crooked scrawl that no longer matched the once elegant writing of Vesta. I glanced once more to ensure my baby was indeed still asleep before allowing Vesta to fill my mind once more. My chest tight as I stood in the

warm glow of the sunshine, wishing it could warm the coldness now settling into my bones. Angeline, I can hear them, dear his sister, the small cries of my lost beloved's. I thought the derby man was a spinner of tails, yet I hear them at last. How long have they been calling for me? How long have I neglected my darlings? How their cries burn my ears. other small screams shrill out to me like otherworldly things. Edmund has announced he intends to secure a new wife.

It was foolish to think he'd ever release me from this place, sister. Even now as I write, he continues to nail shut the door that traps me in this little room. Alas, it does not matter. The derby man whispers to me. My darlings call to me. I think I will go to them. It isn't far of a jump, Angeline. There is no amount of space or land I would not cross to be reunited with my loves once more.

Vesta. As if being moved by another's will, my hands open the final letter. My jaw clenched so tight it gives a deep ache in my teeth, my chest heaving as a strange, desperate sensation thrums within me. Dearest Angeline I am sad to write to inform you of the passing of your dearest sister, Vesta. It is with the utmost grief that I invite you to our lovely home, though I wish she were here to greet you

as she had so often hoped and wished for. The doctor is certain it was madness brought on by the loss of our child. I am quite sure I agree. It was Vesta's dying wish to see you, And I think perhaps we shall find comfort in each other's arms in this trying time, for I know you loved her as much as I had. She was laid to rest on our land. Upon your arrival I will take you to her resting place within our woods.

She did so love to walk in there. Perhaps it is because she felt close to her child. I cannot say. I eagerly await your reply, as well as to see you once more. yours dearly, Edmund. My, my, I breathe. Unlike the other letters, this one had clearly been through the post, and perhaps even received by the sister of Vesta.

Though how it came to be back here with the other letters was a mystery to me. I felt my face crease with grief. To have such a story end with this letter felt grim, much too grim, for what I had hoped would somehow end happier. A stale draft moved across me, smelling of wet leaves and mud, my stomach twisting as I felt every muscle within me tighten. My eyes fell to the corner of the room,

where even the sunshine seemed too weak to reach. I felt my breath catch there. Looking at me from those dark shadows was the palest face, gaunt and painted with death. A woman with hollow eyes and a wide gaping mouth watched me. I stumbled back, a gasp lashing out of me as I thumped against the crib, drawing a startled cry from my baby.

As quickly as it appeared, I watched the phantom face fade, as if nothing more than a passing daydream. My hands shook. My heart a wild drumbeat as I tried to purge the vision from my mind. To forget the terrible phase that had last revealed us. to me. A trick. I whispered as I swept my daughter into my arms. A trick of the light. I hush her against my shoulder as she nozzles my neck and shoulder. My arms shaking as I turn away from the window, from the letters, and the place where that ghostly woman had been. My spine rigid as I made

my way to the stairs. Though I was a woman of sense, I could not help but feel the sense of danger pulsating around me as my little babe cried against me. No ghosts, no ghosts. I repeated as I walked down the stairs, only faintly aware of the soft, almost inaudible sound of fabric wrestling above me, as if they had intended to follow me, but stopped. Come now, hungry girl, I cooed into the soft curls of my daughter's head, walking to the sunlit living room, inhaling deeply the the smell of wildflowers and jasmine. All is well, my sweet Ella. I drop onto the rocking chair with a sigh, watching through the large window my children play about the yard. My eyes move then to the figure emerging from the woods, my husband's broad smile making my heart

flutter before my eyes moved to the figure walking beside him, a tall, wiry man with a pale, unkind face. And top his head, a derby hat. 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.

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