Creepy - House of Dolls

Episode Date: July 19, 2021

They're just toys...right?***Written by: Objective-Tell-6047***Bonus episode: "Anthony Willis" written by Daisy Dreamer and narrated by Michelle Kane***Check out Jon on the horror story telling panel here: www.eventbrite.com/e/161057909543/?discount=CREEPY Use the code "CREEPY" at checkout for a free pass.***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents House of Dolls Written by a Baxter Objective Tell 6047, and produced by Steve Blizzin. I was recently diagnosed with automatonophobia. That is a fear of human-looking figures such as mannequins, wax figures, statues. You get it.

The things that look human, but are not quite human. Specifically, I have a fear of dolls. I don't mean like the Barbie lineup produced by toy companies, although they give you. me a slight discomfort. I mean, old, creepy, porcelain dolls. My phobia has become severe enough that I could never allow any kind of dolls in the house or let my daughter play with them. I'd buy her any toys she'd want, even if it's more meant for boys.

But I'd never buy her dolls. Then, suddenly, one got delivered to my house for my daughter's birthday. I found it sitting on the living room couch, staring at me. like it had done that night all those years ago. My therapist has suggested I should write down what happened to me so I can start my recovery. I'm writing this down, not knowing if it's still sitting in the same spot or if it's moving and watching me. The story begins with an old woman who lived in my hometown years ago.

She was, as my mom would politely describe her, eccentric. What made her that way was that she was always seen carrying an old antique doll everywhere she went. Sometimes she'd be seen carrying it over her shoulder. Other times she'd push it around in an old rusty baby carriage. She'd be seen her own town and in her house with the doll, not caring about the stairs or the things people say. Sometimes she would be seen talking to her doll, as if she thought it could talk back. One person described how they had her.

heard her yelling at her tiny, voiceless companion from her house, as if it had broken some rule. No one believed she had a husband or children or any living family left to care for her, which explains why it took a couple weeks before someone found her dad in her house. A kind neighbor came to her property, offering to cut her on camp lawn and help with much-needed house repairs, Getting no reply after knocking, he opened the unlocked door and found her lifeless in the middle of the floor. I heard she'd been found with a look of absolute horror on her face and her hand clutching her chest. The coroner decided she'd suffered a heart attack, but with no one else with her, she couldn't be taken to the hospital. Her house just outside of town was left empty after she'd been moved to the morgue.

No one knew what happened to her doll that she carried with her. One day my friend and I were riding her bikes home from school and decided to check out the old woman's house. It was on the long way back from school. As far as anyone knew, she never willed the property to anyone and the bank didn't own it either. So there it sat, with no one claiming it. But really, who would want it? The structure was a two-story Bavarian-style house that sat on a large lawn that had grown so out of control that it was rather reminiscent of a small forest with its own ecosystem of plants and wildlife.

The house looked like it had been painted white at one point, but weathering in stains that stripped it of its brightness. Vines and moss had taken a foothold on the front wooden porch. All the windows facing us were cracked and even broken. A section of the pointed roof was stirring to collapse. With nature seemed to reclaim some lost land. The one thing that seemed out of place was the baby carriage the old woman used. It sat in the front yard, rusted from disuse, leaves gathering in the inside, and tears in the covering. My friend and I looked at the house from the sidewalk.

It towered over us as it blocked the afternoon sun from its old pointed rooftop. I knew there was no one inside, but I had an aching feeling that the house itself was watching us. My friend was recounting to me some rumors that spread about the house after the old woman died. They say or ghost still wanders the house, still talking to the doll, he told me. He also told me how he heard the doll still sit somewhere in the house. I, meanwhile, kept looking at the house, and a movement caught my mouth. eyes. A curtain on the second floor window showed sleigh movement, but looked like someone had parted it. I told my friend about it, and he just made fun of me for seeing things.

I bet you couldn't spend all night in that place, he accused me with a sneer. I could too if I wanted to, I protested. I was trying to be brave to my friend for some reason. Sure thing, pussy, he said to me. You know the back to the future movies when Michael J. Fox got triggered when someone called him a chicken? Well, for me being called a pussy was worse. I took him up on his dare, on the condition that I take pictures of the inside so he knew I wouldn't just run away. Later that night, I waited for my parents to fall asleep before sneaking out of the house. I quietly exited my room and down the hall to the back door, as was more silent and farther away from my parents' room.

I grabbed my bike and rode out of my neighborhood and eventually outside the town before I reached the old house. It seemed more menacing after dark. The old house was illuminated by the light of the moon. I placed my bike on the sidewalk and made my way to the old structure, observing the window on the second floor. The curtains remained still. I took my first pick of the house. I made my way through the large grass and finally made it to the front porch. My foot leaned down the first step, causing a large creek that echoed through the yard.

I pressed forward to the front door. It had an old-fashioned knocker in the middle. It had the shape of an eagle. Its wings open in flight. It may have been bronze, but time it rusted it to a little. a dirty brown with chipping paint. I reached for the door handle, and surprisingly, it turned. Weird, I thought.

They probably would have locked this door. However, since no one would take this place, why would it be locked? I opened the door to see a darkened entryware. My phone had a flashlight app, so I reached for it immediately to turn it on. The entryway led to a long, dark hallway with an, open room at the end of it. The floor was covered in dust and trash. My flashlight had exposed some rats and insects hiding in the filth. The part of the floor that wasn't covered in trash showed a flower patterned carpet. Its collar had long since faded. To my left of the entry away

was an ascending staircase. To my right, there was a smaller room that I think was the parlor. The room was empty aside from some closed windows and furniture that was covered. The floor wasn't as littered in here as it was in the hallway, so I could see another old flower-pattern carpet. The exposed wood was old and splintered. I snapped a few picks on my phone. I walked out of the parlor and back in the entryway. I stood over the middle of the floor. This was supposedly the spa where the old woman was found.

The silence of a lifeless house had surrounded me. I pressed forward down the dark hallway. there were several paintings on the walls. They looked like portraits. The old lady featured frequently in them. After a few steps, I found myself stepping on something hard yet flexible, as it squished under my shoe. Then, I heard a faint but very unmistakable high voice say one word below me. Mama?

Either the word or voice caused me to freeze in place. I looked below me to see the source of the noise. I found a lonely baby doll laying atop the litter. It had synthetic blonde hair and a dirty pinkish dress. I picked it up to inspect it. It was about the size of my phone. It had dirt and filth covering its face and clothing, its pink dress losing color.

The face had suffered the most damage. There was a large tear in its plastic face. the scar showing the hollow inside of the head. I squeezed it again and it gave out another, Mama, the voice box still operating, but very faint and muffled. I placed the doll back on the floor

after taking another pick of it. Further down the hall, I went. The room at the end turned out to be a large kitchen dining room mix. The stovetop was covered in a layer of dust and grease from never being washed. The table was covered in a white cloth with 30 dishes on top of it. I found another doll sitting in a chair at the end of the table. This one was wearing an old sailor's uniform.

It looked more male than the first one I saw in the hallway. I walked to the sink to find pots and pans flooding it. There was a layer of filthy stagnant water underneath them from the amount of food matter and mold accumulating at the bottom. The pots and pans were never washed, food matter and grease being caked into them. The sink smelled terrible, like as bad as it looked. I took another picture of the room before leaving. Outside the kitchen, I found a closed wooden door.

I opened it to find an old, very unclean bathroom. The tub and sink, both of which were supposed to be white, had yellow stain and mold in the receptacles. The worst thing, however, was a toilet, which looked like the stuff of nightmares. Dried fecal matter covered the inside as it was drained of all water. To this day, I can't use anybody else's bathroom without thinking about this mess. I quickly shut the door while trying to keep myself vomiting from the sight and stench of that bathroom.

I stood outside and waited for the feeling. of nausea to pass. Then, I heard a sound. The house itself was dead quiet until now with nobody else but me here, but I could make out the sound of something creaking upstairs in a room above me. I know old houses make noises like creaky floorboards, draughty spaces, and maybe rats in the walls. This, though, sounded deliberate, like there was a rhythm to it.

It went back and forth. I walked back down the hallway toward the staircase, shining my light up to the darkened second floor. The creaking sounded much louder from where I was standing. It was coming from up there. I should have left at that moment and forgot the whole thing. But instead, I pressed forward trying to be brave myself. The carpeted stairs made a muffled creaking sound as I climbed up. Total darkness greeted me as I went up further.

Not just darkness, but a pitch-black void with no discernible shapes. I reached the top of the stairs and turned my light onto the second-floor hallway. This one was a lot shorter than the main hall downstairs. There were three rooms, with the first two being closed. The one to my right was slightly open, and I could hear the creaking coming from in there. I began to tense, and my eyes widened. My heart was thundering in my chest, and I was beginning to think that someone was here. Maybe it was some homeless person or junk you had no other place to go.

That didn't seem possible because it looked like there were no signs of anybody living here. I started to have the idea that the old woman's ghost was in the room waiting for me. I apprehensively approached the open tour. I got close enough to peer through the crack in the doorway. I peered through the crack to see the source of the noise, and my heart felt like lurching out of my chest from what I saw. I could make out the part of the room through the slight opening. I could see the window with the moon shining outside and an object moving back and forth across my sight as it sat in front of the window. It looked like an old rocking chair moving on its own, the back facing.

me. I opened the door to get a better view and make sure my eyes weren't fooling me. Sure enough, there was a rocking chair that still looked in good condition with the smooth wood and paint that didn't peel. As the door opened fully, the rocking chair suddenly stopped, giving some slight swaying as its momentum came to a grinding halt. When it stopped, so did the creaking. I paused. debating whether I should approach the old chair. It looked like no one was sitting in it. How could a rocking chair move on its own?

I walked for the chair, bracing for whatever might be sitting in it. Didn't find a homeless person, a junkie, or a ghost. But it definitely wasn't empty. Another doll. This one was a porcelain doll about the size of a five-year-old. It had painted brown hair and painted freckles and dirt cut. covering its face, which was illuminated by the moon. It was dressed in a small suit that had tears in it.

I wanted to take a picture of it. I reached from my phone, but when I turned the camera on, the image kept getting fuzzy no matter how hard I adjusted it. Finally, I went in to inspect it. It was the creepiest thing I'd ever seen. Its pale blue eyes, though motionless, seemed to have followed my face. The doll was utterly motionless. I thought there was no way that it could have moved the chair on its own.

I poked it to feel what it was made of. The torso was stuffed with cotton or feathers. The porcelain head was the only thing that had any weight to it. Still, not enough to move the rocking chair the way it moved. I decided to check out the rest of the room, trying to put that creepy-ass doll out of my mind. This looked like a playroom. There were games all around, more toys than I'd ever seen, and books filling a whole shelf. It looked like the room hadn't been used in years.

To the far side was an old dresser with a mirror attached to it. The wood was painted a dark blue, but may as well have been black for the minimal amount of light in here. The mirror was covered in a thick layer of dust, like it had snow all over the dark. the glass. I took my hand to wipe the surface to the dust. The room was a lot clearer in the mirror now. Then my eyes turned back to the rocking chair, and I froze. Fear coursing like an electric charge through my nervous system.

My body became covered in goose pimples and my hair standing straight up. There's no way it should have moved. There's no reason for it to move its head to face me. That's exactly what it did. Its head turned to my direction to look in the mirror. Its reflection was looking back at me. I quickly turned around. The doll now directly facing me.

The face seemed to have changed into a glare, as if it considered me an intruder in its world. Then I saw it moving again. The rocking was slighted first and silent. Then as the momentum picked up, the creaking came back as the legs rocked across the rickety floor. This was the part where I decided to get the fuck out of there. I looked at the open door to see how far it was. Only a few feet, but it may as well have been a whole mile. I moved my eyes back to the doll, making sure it didn't do anything else.

As I got closer to the door, I got farther over the doll's sight. Maybe I could leave without it moving. or at least I thought I could until the chair, creating a loud screech that reverberated through the room. The doll looked directly at me again. I hurried out of the room and slammed the door behind me, shoving my body weight against the door to keep a barricaded. My heart pounded as adrenaline and fear circulated in my blood, but covered my forehead as my body heated up. I felt like I had to run, but fear wouldn't let me. I was trying to recuperate when I heard the jingling.

wring of rusted metal coming from my side. The door knob, the door, is unsuccessful at opening, but that's what was trying to do to get me. It continued for a few seconds before it stopped completely. I took the chance to get the hell out of there. I ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on the final step as I ran to the door. It was blocked by an entryway while it blocked my way out.

This doll had a clown face with a hobo outfit. Fear it kept me from moving or kicking the doll aside to run out. My panic spiked again as I heard the door from upstairs open and the sound of tiny footsteps running down the stairs. I had to hide. Where? I frantically searched the darkened room for anywhere to hide. I found one door straight ahead as I peered to the darkness. I bolted for it and slammed the door behind me pressing my head to the wood.

Sweet silence. I resolved to calm down, then find a way out. I turned my back to the door and turned down my light to see the room I was in. True terror filled my being as I tried to scream, but it ended up being caught in my throat. Shelves and shelves of them, various sizes, designs, and colors. This was a whole storage room full of them. They were in all various states of disrepair, somewhere missing eyes, limbs, or heads, Others were covered in dirt and filth.

The biggest one was another clown doll in orange clothes and blue hair with black eyes in front of me. I checked each of them until movement caught my eye. One of them turned its head toward me. Then another. Then one with no eyes started looking at me. Then they were all looking at me. Looking at me. I ran out of the room to find some escape.

I didn't remember seeing any other door. going outside while exploring, so that left only the front tour, which had the clown doll sitting in front of it. With no other way, I ran to my only exit, picked up the doll and threw it so hard I heard a break in the pieces as I bolted out of the entryway and into the front yard. I got to my bike in no time then rode off. I swear I heard multiple footsteps behind me. I rode so fast I felt like I was flying.

Never once slowing down to catch my breath. I didn't stop until I reached the stop. the stoplight on my block, and then decided to brave one look behind me. Nothing. I wasn't followed by anything. I still rode back to the safety of my house and locked myself in my room all night, always peering through my curtain. Daylight didn't come fast enough.

I never spoke to my friend after that night, and I did not want to be around dolls for any length of time. I also avoided that house completely until the day that old shithole got demolished. Hopefully, so was everything inside it. Even with that, I still had a sense of paranoia that one of those dolls would find me and show up at my doorstep. It turned out. One of them did. It was my daughter's eighth birthday.

A package came with her name on it but no return address. It did have a plain card on it, with only two words. her. Happy birthday. She opened it up to reveal the same doll from the room upstairs all those years ago. Its appearance cleaner than before, looking brand new in fact. Seeing that damn thing sent me into an anxiety attack so bad I locked myself for two days in our bedroom. My wife, who used to find my fear dolls amusing, now show genuine concern for me. She told our daughter to keep the doll in her room.

I never saw it do anything after that, making me think that I probably hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe. If it weren't for one thing. I installed a nanny cam in our daughter's bedroom, and I keep as close an eye on it as I can. It'll usually be facing the wall. But whenever I turn my gaze away,

Even for a split second, its head turns toward the camera, looking at me through the other side of the lens. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents Anthony Willis, written by Daisy Dreamer and narrated by Michelle Kane. Anthony Willis is sitting in my chair today, a young man who is somehow skinny and fat. at the same time and has greasy unwashed hair. It crosses my mind that maybe I should have the chair cleaned when he leaves. This is his first time and he is still young, fresh, and stupid. Hopefully, when he leaves my chair, he will be knowledgeable and maybe, just maybe, have gained a little understanding. So how old is your child? Oh, um, two months? Interesting. Most new parents count the age of a newborn through weeks and days. Makes sense when every week is a new milestone, and most of them don't need a second to think about how long the child has been in their lives when it's only been for such a short time. Do you have a wife? Yes, she's 21. Wow. That's the most defining thing he can think of about her, her age, not how long they've been married, or how long.

or even her name? Now that I think about it, he didn't mention his kid's name either, or even if they're a boy or a girl. Of course, I already know it's a girl because I read his file before he came in. How are they? Now he's fidgeting in his chair. Interesting. Um, good? They're pretty good. Pretty good? So descriptive. And he actually broke eye contact with me to say that. This guy is a horrible liar. Thank God. He'll be so easy to break. Yes, but we're not here to talk about them, are we? He brings his eyes back to me and sets up when he realizes that the small talk is over and it's time to get down to business. We're here to talk about you. So how are they in relation to you?

I must have caught him off guard. He's uncomfortable. He's actually stretching his arms out and placing his hands behind his head in a subconscious attempt to take up more space. Typically, in a human male, this means they are either intimidated or trying to impress someone they are attracted to. Something tells me it's not the latter. After a few seconds of painful silence, I decided to him out. Let's just start with your wife. Would you say you have a good relationship with her? I'm leaning forward, eyebrows furrowed, hands together on the table. It seems like the more attention I pay to him, the more awkward he becomes. It's delicious. Yeah, well, it's okay. God, this guy doesn't want to talk. That's fine, because I've dealt with a lot worse. I've had a

lot of baddies come through this room and sit in my chair. So far, I've broken them all. Do you ever have arguments or disagreements? Now I've got him. People who are on the brink of divorce or murder will more times than not tell me that their marriage is okay. I think that people have a very hard time revealing things like that to strangers. We've been conditioned, after all, to slap a band-aid on a bullet hole and the smile on our face during hardship, especially marital strife. Well, yeah, we do. We argue. What do you argue about?

Um, he's looking away from me again. I think this time he's trying to hide the emotion in his eyes. Lord forbid a man would just show any emotion. He gives a tiny chuckle that looks like it took a lot of effort to get out. Everything, really? Everything. Now that doesn't sound okay. That sounds miserable.

Yeah, miserable. It can be, actually. Ever since she got pregnant. He's still not looking at me. In fact, he is trying so hard to avoid eye contact, he has his face pointed almost completely away from me. That painting of a plant on the wall must be extremely, compelling because many of the people who have sat in that chair have spent quite a bit of time

staring at it. Funny, because I always thought it was just a dumb painting of a plant. How have things changed between you two since she got pregnant? More fighting. A lot more fighting. Now he has gotten to the point where instead of spreading out, he's starting to take up less space. He's gripping his thighs and sitting upright. What do you fight about? Try to be specific. He's moving his hands up and down his thighs now. God, he just can't stop fissioning, can't he?

Just stuff like, I don't even know. It's always something. Every time I walk in the door, there's something wrong, but like I've done something wrong. I just can't do anything right. Do you help with the baby? man, I try to. So now he's calling me man?

Looks like I'm already breaking down walls. But it's like, what am I supposed to do? I'm not going to be able to make it stop crying. Oh, interesting, very interesting. So now the baby's an it. And she's breastfeeding, so it's not like I can help with that. And she never just wants to let it cry. She thinks it's our job just to jump up every time it makes a sense.

and find out what's wrong. I'm just like, won't she get spoiled like that? The more upset that he gets, the more fragmented and confusing his sentences are. But we've had one advancement. He referred to his baby daughter as she instead of it. So would you say you have different parenting ideals than your wife does? Oh, yeah. He's looking me in the eye now and nodding furiously. Sometimes I'll get mad and I'll be like, so what? Let the damn kid cry for a bit. And then she'll just lose it. Lose it?

Oh, yeah. Now he's mimicking my behavior by leaning forward and using hand motions. Suddenly, I'm his best friend. Tells me I'm a bad dad. Tells me she hates me. I hate it when she says that. Because you love her? Because it fucking pisses me off.

His reaction is almost explosive, but I've dealt with worse, so I don't react. Because you love her? Yeah, I guess. He mumbles. What about your daughter? Do you love her? Of course I do. I mean, she drives me pat shit, but she's still my kid.

I just don't think she should be treated like the Queen of England, you know? Oh yeah, I know. I know all about you, Anthony Willis. And I know exactly how you feel about your wife and daughter. Does your wife call you names or put you down when you fight? Yeah. Lazy bastard. Fat ass.

Dumbass. Deadbeat. Like she thinks it's my fault. I can't get a job in this shithole economy. I'm not applying myself. How long has it been since you held a job, Anthony? I already know the answer to the job. this, but I ask anyways, just because I want to see him squirm. It's been like a while, maybe a few months.

Suddenly he's not looking at me anymore, and he's leaning back in his seat, like he thinks if he gets far enough away, the question won't hit him, or maybe that I won't hear him. But I don't have to hear him, because I know why he's really sitting in my chair. So, does your wife work? No, of course not. She can't work because of the baby, right? She quit her job, like a couple months before the baby was born. Isn't that a load of shit? She just gets to proper feet up all day while everyone rushes around like she just gave birth to baby Jesus. And then they all scream at me to get a job, like it's just that easy. If neither of you work, then how do you support yourselves? Of course, I know the answer to this. as well. But it's very important that he says these things out loud. It's the only way I'm going to lead him to the

truth. Our parents, you know, and they've got a little money, I guess. We sleep in the spare bedroom. Sometimes. Sometimes I just sleep on the couch, because I don't feel like fucking dealing with it. Sometimes I just want to get a full night's sleep without that kid waking me up, you know? Yes, Anthony, I know. I know all too well. She insists on having that baby sleep in the bed. I don't see why she can't just put the crib in the bathroom or the living room, and then just let the baby cry for a little bit,

even just for a few hours if it means we'll get some sleep, you know? But no, no, no, no, no, no. I need a full night's sleep sometimes, you know. How about your wife? Does she ever get a full night's sleep? What she needed for? What does she do all day? She's always either sleeping, watching TV, or just completely glued to that baby. But then she complains at me that I should be doing dishes and making dinner, even though I literally spend hours every day on the internet searching for jobs.

But as soon as I try to take a break, you can guarantee she's going to come in and start screaming at me. I think it's funny how a few moments ago he wasn't even speaking in full sentences to me, and now he's spewing paragraphs. He's not uncomfortable anymore. He's still fidgeting, though. He keeps his eyes on me, but his hands are traveling all over his body, like he's covered in ants. Guilty conscience, Anthony? Living with your in-laws must be stressful for you as well. I'm trying to hit all the pressure points. How worked up can I get him? And what can I get him to confess? Man, you don't even know.

I know, Anthony. I know all about it. But I want you to tell me anyways. Her dad? The dude fucking hates me. Like, hates my guts. He is constantly telling her leave me. And he really wants to kick me out. Or kill me probably. And then her mom is just a big. Just a straight-up bitch. She doesn't like cussing, doesn't like drinking, or smoking, or anything except her grandbaby. She treats that baby like it came from God. But me, the man who made the baby? She treats like shit.

Go figure. Do you fight with her parents? Yes and no. Like they won't say anything to my face. They just say it to her. and then we end up fighting because of it. Do you get angry? My voice is so low now, it's almost a whisper.

I'm leaning forward, preparing for the pups. Who wouldn't? How angry? Well, sometimes. His voice is getting lower as well. I just like, I just, I hear that baby. That damn baby's screaming. And I swear to God, I want to kill her.

He's holding his hands in front of himself now, with his fingers clenched. The tendons in his hands are sticking out, and I can see veins underneath his transparently pale skin clearly. So what do you do when you're angry? I've already got him. He'll answer any question I ask him. But I still want to lead him into his own realization. Also, I'm not done toying with him yet.

I throw things. break things. Her mom doesn't lie for me to get drunk, so sometimes I just throw empty bottles and break them when they're not home. I slam the doors. I punched the walls. I kicked the walls. I punched a hole in our bedroom door one time. I can't help it. It's really hard, you know, being a man, but being treated like a little kid. I just want a little fucking freedom. How does your wife react when you go into her? rage. Oh, you know, all scared and shit. Like she actually thinks I'm going to hurt her. She gets all freaked out. One time she told me that if I laid a hand on her, her dad would shoot me. Dude,

at this point, that fat old man can go ahead and do it. It would be a fucking blessing right now. And what about the baby? Have you ever hurt her? God, no, of course not. I've screamed at her before, told her to shut up. But all parents get frustrated. It's actually supposed to be normal to get frustrated sometimes. But I get treated like I'm a monster or something. Sometimes when she's crying so fucking loud,

it's like I can't take it anymore and I have to punch something. Like the wall or the door? Yeah, like that, you know? Or what about the lamp? Do you sometimes smash the lamps? Sometimes, yeah. It's like I just want some fucking sleep.

And sex. It's really hard to admit, especially for a man. But, you know, we haven't fucked since before she gave birth. She doesn't understand, because for her it's not a big deal. She doesn't even take one single second to think about how that affects me,

especially since I can't really jerk it more than maybe once a day since we have absolutely no privacy. I have to hide in the bathroom like I'm a kid again. It's humiliating. By this point, I'm feeling borderline rage, but I've learned how to hide it very well. My face remains practically expressionless,

although underneath I'm tensing up for the kill. Think about the last time you argued with your wife. What was it about? Well, at first it was. was because I wanted her to actually show me that she loved me, you know? Like, put the baby down for two goddamn seconds and pay attention to me for once. Oh, she didn't like that. Of course she didn't like that. How dare I imply that I'm a human being with needs, right? By needs, you mean sex. Not exactly. I'm just a physical person, you know? Love languages and shit. Well, I'm physical.

I'd like to be touched, you know? Initiate a kiss or something every now and then. If it leads to sex, it does. But it doesn't have to. But at the very least, she could try. She would always complain that if she tried, it would hurt. But like how the fuck is she going to know if it hurts, if she doesn't try? Once you get this guy talking, he could go on forever. I could get him to spill his entire life story to me right now, I wanted. But I don't. I just want one thing, and I'm getting closer and closer. What happened next? I don't remember too well, to be honest. Now he's acting like I'm his good buddy. He leans back in the chair and stretches. Talking shit about his wife seems to be making him more confident. Men like him love to talk shit. And when they actually meet someone who will sit there and listen to it without kicking their ass, they eat it up. The hardest part of my job is pretending like I'm not disgusted by men like him. You left the house, didn't you? You were quite

angry. Man, angry doesn't even cut it. I was pissed. I think I did leave. Maybe I went to a bar or something. I must have gotten real shit-faced because I can't remember anything. Can't or won't? I have to speak slowly and enunciate each syllable to keep from screaming. What does that mean? Let me help you out. You didn't go to a bar. You went to a gas station. You bought a lot of beer. You drank a lot of beer. All by yourself in a gas station parking lot. Then what happened? Oh, uh, I went home. His poor, stupid brain is going into overdrive now. I think for the first time, he's actually starting to question where he is, and maybe who the hell I am. But there's no time for that, and he wouldn't understand

yet anyways. I have to keep him on track. We're nearing the breaking point. Yes, you went home. Now focus on remembering. I'm leaning so far over the desk now. I'm practically laying on it. My eyes are stuck on his so hard he doesn't dare look away. I have to keep him focused. Our parents were still gone. I was really happy about that. I couldn't stop thinking about how lucky I was. But then I got really mad. Why were you mad? Um, because the fucking door was locked and I didn't have a key. And I was pounding on the door and yelling, and she wouldn't come open it. She was purposefully not letting me into my own house.

It's not your house, Anthony. But that's not important right now. He's making progress. So how did you get in? Oh, easy. He looks down at his bloodied right hand. I broke the window on the door. and just reached through and unlocked it.

It was really simple. And I was so drunk, it didn't even really hurt. And your wife? She was inside? Yeah, I think so. He was still looking at his hand like he just couldn't comprehend. I can't let him finish the puzzle yet. He needs to put the pieces together in order.

Anthony, your wife, what was she doing? What did she do when she saw you? She started fucking screaming, loud, telling me to stay the fuck away from her. Oh, yeah. Then she tells me, guess what? Her parents are at the police station. They're trying to get me put in jail, over a tiny punch, like not even half force. And what did you say?

I told her that if I was going to jail, she was going to the hospital. So she fucking runs like a little bitch into her parents' room and locks the door. I can hear the dumb bitch through the door. She's on the phone saying, oh, God, he's going to kill me. Oh, God, help me. I'm mad. And so I start kicking the door. I'm really only trying to scare her, but then the door breaks.

And the next thing I know, there's a gun pointed out my face. She's pointing a gun at me. But has the nerve to call the cops on me? I wasn't even afraid, though. I mean, I knew she wouldn't do it, you know? There's no way she has that much courage. So I just start walking forward, and she's walking backwards and crying. And saying, please don't make me shoot you.

So you know what I did? I walked right up to her. I took the gun, and I held it to my chest. And I just said, if you're going to do it, fucking do it. And you know what she did? She threw the fucking thing on the ground. And then she's just crying, saying, please don't hurt me. That bitch was going to shoot me. Can you believe it?

He's no longer on the line between crying and laughing. He's playing a hopscotch with it. But she didn't shoot you. She couldn't do it. The game is over. Anthony Willis will be leaving my chair and taking his filthy, greasy hair with him. He won't be leaving a better man. It's simply too late for him. But maybe I can rid the world of his stench once and for all.

Maybe I can properly finish the job he left half done. No, no, she couldn't. She was too sweet, too kind, too baby, too scared. Hell, I don't know. But she made a fucking mistake. I saw some bright lights. Yep. She had called the fucking cops on me.

She had denied me sex like I was fucking unworthy, locked me out of my own house, pulled a gun on me, and then called the cops. And of course, who are the cops gonna believe? Not me for sure. They always take the chick's side.

Always. Probably because I think she's gonna bone him, you know? No, Anthony. I don't fucking know. A shoulder to cry on becomes a dick to ride on, as they say. What did you do to your wife, Anthony? Well, I thought, you know what? Maybe I should show her what it's like to have a gun shoved in her face.

So I grabbed it off the floor and I pointed it at her. And then I... I don't know. I was so drunk. Yes, you do remember. you remember exactly what you did. I remember she screamed or something. The cops were banging on the door.

It scared me. Say what you did. Say it. I realize that I'm no longer sitting and I can't calm myself down enough to sit back down. I'm going to break him. He looks at me with tear-filled eyes, a pathetic and ugly look for him.

I was just so scared. No, Anthony. She was scared. I think there was some kind of accident like she fell. His vainy, bloody hands are on his face now. They weigh down his skin and make his eyes look saggy and inhuman. No accident. What did you do?

I think I. I think I... He's rocking now. The truth is fighting him hard. It's fighting to come out and be free, and I think that very soon he will be defeated by it. I... I think I shot her. I think... I think I shot her.

Shot who? Who was she? I'm walking across the floor now, and then standing over him. I want to hit him, but I know. it would be pointless, so I fight him the only way I know how. My, my wife. Her. No, Anthony, her name.

What was her name? Oh, God. Oh, God. What's happening? Where am I? Who are these people? He tries to rise from my chair, only to find that he's bound, but not by chains. Why can I leave? Why can't I stand up?

This is my last question, Anthony. Just answer it, and I will answer all of yours. I'll tell you everything. What was her name? He curls up his knees and hides his face in them like a tired child. I can't say it. You have to say it. Or you won't ever leave this room.

You won't ever leave this room. You won't ever leave this chair. Please don't make me. Please. He's openly sobbing now, and I can't help but remember how he felt toward his sobbing, pleading wife. You cannot leave unless you say it. There's no other way.

This is a toughest stretch, but I know that I've already won. All I have to do is keep pushing. He is so close to breaking. His wailing stops, and he is calm for a few seconds. He breathes deeply a few times, and I allow him this reprieve. Then he looks up at me with bloodshot eyes, and I know there's no need to prod him more. The truth is bubbling its way up to the top. The silence is thick and heavy and suffocating, which I know will make it all the more relieving when it's broken.

Priscilla. My wife's name is Priscilla. The words come out flat and emotionless. I wonder if this is the same way he looked when he pulled the trigger. Her name was Priscilla, I correct him. Standing up, I walk away and sit back down in my chair, cross the table from him. It's time to answer some questions. Your name is Anthony Willis. You died when you were 23. This is the house that you killed Priscilla and yourself and ten years ago. These are the people that live here now. You can see them, but they can't see you, or hear you. They have a message for you. The young couple sitting on the other side of the room are watching with wide eyes. I know that they can't see or hear him. but the goosebumps on their arms and panic in their faces tell me that they can sense him. One of them is gripping the other's arm so hard I can see pale fingerprints in their arm. Anthony is sitting in the chair and finally looks like what he is. Dead. His eyes are flat and detached, his mouth hanging slightly open. They want you to know that this is their house now and you are not welcome here.

You never were welcome here. It's time for you to stop breaking their lamps, kicking holes in their walls, and terrorizing their children. That's why I'm here, to give you this message and to enforce it. He doesn't respond for a few seconds, but I'm willing to wait. I have learned that death is a very hard thing to accept, even for those who deserved it. I'm not surprised when he finally starts to fight against his invisible bonds. He is trying so hard just to stand, but I know that his chains are unbreakable. Much stronger people than him have fought and lost.

The chains are made powerful by personal items of his. His obituary, a picture of him and his dead wife at their high school prom, and a picture of his dead wife and their baby daughter. The couple who now own the house are becoming more frightened as he struggles. His presence must be stronger now with all the energy he is exerting. If he keeps this up, they may be able to see his physical presence. No, this is my house. You're not going to take that away from me.

You can't make me leave. He is fighting full force now, which is actually stronger than I would have thought when I first met him. No, Anthony, you are going to love. leave. I pull a lighter out of my pocket, click it, and produce a small flame. Anthony seems to go even paler when he sees it. When I burn these items, you will be released from this world. To go wherever it is, you will go. Wait! His voice is high-pitched and panicky. Where will I go? Oh, that's for you to find out, Anthony. I'm still alive, so I don't know. I bring the flame toward the pictures in front of me, but he cries out again, and I allow him,

his last words. Am I going to hell? He asks quietly and looks pleadingly at me. I don't know, Anthony. Why don't you send me a postcard? I light the pictures. I know the couple in the room with me can hear the screaming because they both jump and grow a shade paler. One of them actually screams out loud and acts like they are going to bolt for the door.

to my surprise they find enough courage to stay. I know that I was terrified as well the first time that I heard a wailing death screams of an unwilling spirit being forcefully ripped from this world. But now I find a small amount of pleasure in it. The world could always use less Anthony Willis's. Of course, it's the more horrible people who seem to cling to life the hardest. It might be because they are so terrified of what awaits them on the other side. or maybe it's just because they want to inflict as much pain as possible. Either way, it's not my job to know.

It's just my job to get rid of them. Not a job I chose, but the job that was chosen for me. The last remnants of Anthony Willis are fading out of this world in long tendrils of smoke that continue to spark in an otherworldly manner. The young couple are holding each other and hiding their faces from the gruesome size, that I have grown so desensitized to. Eventually, the smoke starts to clear, but a musky, sulfurous smell

is still lingering in the hazy room. Yes, I'll definitely be having that chair cleaned. The next few moments are silent, except for the haunting echoes of Anthony's passing. The couple finally looked towards me. One's face is tear-street, and they are trembling. The other steps forward and addresses me, me while never letting go of the other's hand.

Is, is it gone? They ask in a whisper that is barely more than a breath. Yes, he's gone. He won't be back, either. Of course, if I were you, I would still keep my eye out for any other occurrences. While uncommon, this was a traumatic death involving more than one person, so I would keep an eye out for the wife, just in case. The wife? The one he killed?

Their question reminds me that they could only actually hear my side of the conversation. Yes, it's unlikely that she's still here, and even if she is, I don't think she would actually cause you any problems. But if there are problems, please don't hesitate to reach me again. Okay, thank you. And, um, the payment? They asked tentatively. I never ask for payment at front, because in my experience, any medium who asks for payment up front, is a fraud. My assistant will get with you about that. Is there anywhere you can stay for the night,

possibly tomorrow night as well? My mother's house. That's where the children are right now. Why? Is it not safe yet? They seem so awkward talking about this. They always do. I find that many people, when actually confronted with the supernatural, would rather brush it under the rug and erase it from their minds. can't blame them honestly. It's not the kind of thing you can just bring up at the company picnic in casual conversation. And retelling the story around a campfire at night just seems to make light of the situation. His presence is gone, but there is a remaining mist and bad odor that will likely persist until at least tomorrow evening, possibly the next morning even. Some people have

found this smell to be overbearing and some have had negative side effects due to it. And nothing too serious, headaches, nausea, lightheadedness, moodiness. Finding another place to sleep for the next two nights would be safer. I think that's a great idea. I'll call your mother now. The one who has been crying seems eager to leave this place and return when the memories are less fresh and easier to reconstruct into something tangible. They leave the room quickly, and as soon as the door is opened, the pressure in the dark and

messy room is lightened. I don't know what to say. I don't understand this at all. But thank God for people like you. What would have happened if we hadn't called you? I mean, could it have gotten worse? Well, if you had waited too long, I wouldn't have even been able to help. I'm sorry for your family's misfortune, and I hope you are able to move past this quickly.

The children may take a little time, of course. The younger they are, the better they seem to remember for some reason. Even the baby? Especially the baby. She will probably remember this years and years from now, even after you have long forgotten. I'm sorry, I don't want to be rude, but I have a flight to catch, so I can't stay for much longer. No, no, of course. Go ahead.

Thanks again. I am led to the door, and I feel a familiar world. rush of fresh air and sunshine and life in general. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments. share-alike licensing or with written consent from the authors.

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