Creepy - How Do I Keep My Husband From Seeing Another Woman & Misgiving

Episode Date: December 29, 2022

How do I keep my husband from seeing another woman***Written by: Jamie Polizzi and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Misgiving***Written by: N.M. Brown and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content Warning: Miscarriage***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea 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.

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

Creepy presents. How do I keep my husband from seeing another woman? Written by Jamie Polisi and narrated by Megan McGuffey. Let's call her Jane because I don't know her real name. And neither does Andy. He's been obsessed with her from the moment he laid eyes on her when we found her body in the wall. It's not healthy at all. You might be thinking, oh sure, blame it all on the other woman.

Your husband is a grown-ass man and is just as much at fault as she. Typically, I'd agree with you. Typically, I'd say that I didn't want to be in a relationship with someone that isn't interested in me anyways, but I believe that something is very different with our current situation. I think my husband is in danger. She left him a note this morning, written on the back of a torn piece, of the old wallpaper that plasters the walls of much of the house. I was with him when he found it among his supplies. He held it to his chest dreamily, refused to let me see it. If that wasn't bad

enough, I eventually found where it came from. A patch of wallpaper was missing from the wall in the kitchen, ten feet from the ground. I couldn't help but picture her scaling up the wall unnaturally. In my imagination and nightmares that I've had more of recently, by the way, she comes and goes into the attic and crawls along the walls, always faceless, nameless. Andy is an artist, and I do freelance graphic design, so it was easy enough for us to pack up and move out here. He mainly paints landscapes, but will include people when it feels right. He confided in me that he felt he was losing any talent he may ever have had. Maybe he didn't have any in the first place.

Maybe he wasn't even an artist at all. He'd just gotten lucky that a few of his pieces were extremely popular since some recent ones had been received with mediocre feedback. I thought his work was incredible, and I told him so. I told him that's how it is sometimes, and I felt the same with my work on occasion. But make something you're happy with, not everything will be perfect. Though it remained unspoken, we both thought he needed a change of scenery. When he did eventually and nervously ask me what I thought of moving out to the country, I quickly agreed. I was born in the Midwest, and still at times found life in the city to be overwhelming,

not to mention expensive, considering our inconsistent paychecks. We found this little farmhouse, miles and miles from the closest town of under 500 people. I think it had been owned by the city or bank because we bought it sight unseen, other than one picture of the exterior on the website we found it on. I mean, we figured it needed work, but we could afford it, so that was a major selling point. But we've made a terrible mistake that may take our lives, or at least his. It turns out that we own this house on paper only. The true owner is whatever we share this space with.

As we first stepped out of the car and traversed the dusty driveway up to the house, they couldn't help but notice the items littering the yard, make disjointed snapshots of the lives of prior residence, disintegrating women's shoes and stained clothes, half buried in the dirt, a sunbleached jewelry box with deep and messy rips through the wood, a heart-shaped wedding frame with a squelching black liquid in place of a photograph. Of course, none of this had been in the picture of the house when we saw it online. As for the house itself, as soon as we opened the door,

I knew something was off about the place. The windows didn't seem to let in enough light, despite there not being a cloud in the sky. I've since noticed that there's some sort of darkness in this house, that even the brightest of days and cleanest of window panes cannot permeate. The walls were cracked and bulged in odd places where plaster looked to have been hastily and amateurly applied. The smell like that of long-forgotten food permeated the air. Even after airing out the place, I still catch the occasional scent lingering throughout the

house, in the air itself and absorbed by the hardwood floor and cabinets. But Andy swears he doesn't smell it. There's an air of sense. sadness and longing here that never seems to go away. There's also this odd-smelling, greasy-looking residue staining the area around the entrance to the attic that drips onto the floor. I don't know where it comes from, but no matter how often we try to clean it, there's always more of it. Typically, I like open floor plans, but for a reason I can't explain, a high ceilings and few walls here feel threatening, as if any opening in this space is an invitation for something else to fill it. Sometimes I felt the presence of that something in the form

of a choking heaviness in the room. Other times as anger. No, anger isn't strong enough. It feels like pure hatred. As we moved in our last box and locked the front door behind us, my chest tightened as I had a panicked thought. There's nowhere to hide. I still get that feeling sometimes. What I have yet to figure out is what exactly I'm trying to hide from in our own house. Is it her? I wish I could describe it better, the feeling I get in this place. The weirdest thing is that Andy loves it here. He's been painting again, nearly constantly. What worries me is that from the moment he met her, and since his visits to her in the attic, his art has become much darker. Before we moved here, he used to paint by the beach, but because it was hours away, he didn't get to go

often. He'd instead paint from memory, or he'd paint us together based on our old vacation pictures. Even during our first few weeks here, he painted the landscape with the light-handed and airy style he was known for. After we met her, he still painted landscapes, but much darker. He'd painted the farmland you can see from outside our window, but the tall stalks of Amaranth that he'd once painted as they swayed in the wind like ocean waves on the grain became a scorched and blackened field. The sky was a shade of red-orange, but in the way that indicated a long burning fire in the night, not a serene sunset. Instead of people, he painted long things with strange bodies and heads that rose above the blackened stalks, twisted and curving in ways that no neck ever should.

I'd gone into town a few times, but the people there were not friendly at all, not at all like I remembered people in the place I'd grown up. Although, to be fair, they were typically friendly until they found out where we lived. They weren't even rude. More so, the way they treated us reminded me of how my parents treated an injured bird I'd found as a child. They told me not to name it, not to get too attached, because they knew the poor thing wasn't going to make it and didn't want me to get my heart broken. As bad as things are during the day, the nights are always worse. not only is each night an ordeal inside the house, but outside as well. I don't go out if it means I'd be coming or going after the sun sets.

One glance at the fuzzy nighttime footage of the thing that spends the daylight hours under the rusted Ford Bronco in the yard was enough to make me regret us ever installing that video doorbell. The house was creepy when we moved in, yes, but it all went downhill after we tried to renovate the place. It started with removing the haphazard. patches of plaster on the walls, so we could replace them with actual drywall, since those were the biggest eyesore. That's when we met Jane. As we had cut through the first lumpy and malformed portion, a long swath of white blonde, braided human hair tied up in a green ribbon spilled out. I had screamed, and Andy gasped, and jumped back. The hair was stained and sticky,

parts of the head it was attached to you, just barely visible in the shadows beyond the opening. We didn't need to cut into the wall further to know that we'd found something terrible. Andy went to grab his phone to call the police, and I had to leave the room and buried my face in my hands. When Andy went back in, he called me over, his voice shaking. She was gone. Only a few strands of pale hair tinged red at the roots snows. on the jagged drywall remained to assure us that she'd ever been there at all. That was the last time we've tried to change anything about this house, but things are still going

downhill fast. Although I haven't seen her again, I can feel she's still here. Worse, he has become utterly obsessed with her. One night, I woke up hearing creaking footsteps from the attic and panicked. I turned over to wake up Andy, but he wasn't there. I looked for him everywhere, and eventually found footprints in that liquid leading up to the attic. I listened closely and could hear his voice. He was having a one-sided conversation and laughing. I had started to climb up the old wooden rungs myself until I felt something up there, hovering right by the pitch-black entrance,

almost as if it was daring me to come to it in the darkness. He goes up there almost every night now. When he does sleep in our bed, I swear I've worn. woken to him hovering mere inches from my face. The look he gives me when he does this. Well, I'd never seen such a look on his face before we moved here. And maybe it's coincidental, but it looks like he's aged a decade, or even two, in the past few months.

He doesn't leave the house at all, and barely eats. On top of that, his paintings are getting worse. They aren't even coherent anymore, just dark paint smeared across the canvas. with no apparent method to his madness. He's also become quiet and withdrawn. He still talks, just not to me. I hear his voice echoing from the attic at night, and sometimes when he thinks I can't hear,

I'll catch him talking to the walls themselves during the day. I know he's talking to her, because he uses the same loving tone that he used to use with me. Some of my things have disappeared, too. The other day I found some jewelry Andy had given me years ago, glinting in the sun, carelessly tossed outside, as if its very presence in the house was deeply offensive. Yesterday, he painted over what had been his favorite painting of us on vacation that we'd had above the fireplace since we moved in.

Muddy reds and black had been smeared madly across the once beautiful landscape, covering us on the tall red winds and incoherent smears. He then hung it back up. As if that was perfectly normal and without as much as a comment, although he did have an odd smile on his face. I don't know what she is or what's gotten into him, but I'm worried about him. Each day he seems to get worse, and I've noticed he's started wearing a tattered and stained green ribbon tied around his wrist. How do I get him to stop seeing her? Creepy Presents

Misgiving Written by N.M. and narrated by Michelle Kane. So I found this Santa Claus card last night. It blew right into my ankle as I was walking around the downtown area of my city. The colors were faded, but not enough to where I couldn't make out the letters and numbers. The background was the color of cardboard with bright crimson texts. I think I'll be able to remember it until the day I die.

Those are all the visuals I'll give you. The last thing I need is for someone to go out searching for this fucking thing. Well, I thought nothing of it at first. If we had a dime for every time we utter that sentence, right? However, as these things sometimes do, it began to nag at me over time. It chewed at the corners of my subconscious, like a rat trapped in a plaster cage. I can remember the home I lived in as a child. My parents tried their hardest, but we could always hear rats in the walls.

Little chitters and squeaks throughout the bustle of the day and the silence of the night. Well, that's what it felt like to me, little squeaked whispers of who could answer if I called that number. It's a wonder my husband didn't notice. Hey, babe. My husband Bobby greeted me that evening. Did we get any Christmas cards today? No, thanks, I'm not hungry. Can't seem to find my appetite this week.

What? He replied incredulously. I asked you if we got any Christmas cards in the mail today. Just advertisements for death? I responded distractedly. He gave me a strange look. Life insurance junk mail? Besides, why would we be getting cards already?

I added. Finally, I... After one too many times of Bobby catching me zoning out in blank thought, I told him about the card. I cringed in anticipation of his response, waiting for him to tell me to spend my time focusing on more important things. Like dusting for the laundry. How I have expected him to scold me for picking up items off the street as a parent with a child. That's not what happened, though. Quite the opposite. His eyes lit up in wild excitement over puffed out cheeks as he drew in a hit of the joint we were smoking.

Don't judge, medical marijuana is a wondrous thing. But anyway, he insisted almost at once that we call the number. Come on, Maggie, he pleaded. What's the harm? It's probably disconnected anyway. It's too early for calls with Santa. We just hit no first. for fuck's sake. Besides, we've had such a rough year. My face fell at his last sentence,

though I tried desperately not to show it. I replied a bit more sternly than I had intended. Why don't you call then, huh, Hotshot? I razzed him. He threw his hands up and mocked a feed as a smile blossomed across his lips. Oh no, Missy, you aren't going to get me, he declared. My face crunched up in Confucian as I struggled to figure out what he meant. Luckily for us, seven years of marriage has taught him to read me like a picture book. He continued, It would be just my luck that this is some kind of sex thing. I call and Amanda Hot Trot answers the line and boom.

It will be Couch City for me until Christmas is long past. He half-joked. So I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. only to shut him up. It began to ring, much to my dismay. A huge chunk of me desperately hoped the number was no longer in service. Muffled jingle bells played over the line as a pre-recorded greeting rang out. Oh, ho! Merry Christmas! Thank you for calling Santa's workshop. Our system is not set up to accommodate speakerphones to avoid the prying ears of boys and girls. We hope you understand. Press one to leave your wish list information, or press two to check your naughty

or nice status. I looked at my husband incredulously as he gestured me to keep going. I reluctantly hovered my thumb over the speaker button before pressing it firmly, along with the number two. I figured, what the hell, right? I was surprised to hear a live voice come through the phone, one that sounded frantic and afraid. Megan Richmond? She didn't give me a chance to respond. Call back when Bobby's out of the house. It's imperative.

Wait, what? Who the hell is this? I demanded. Is this some kind of joke? Somebody's sick idea of a holiday prank? Thanksgiving just passed. The line disconnected. Crazy as I thought it was,

I was very much flirting with the idea of following the one. woman's instructions. I mean, she knew my husband's name. However, when he asked me what I'd heard, I lied, saying it was indeed a sick sex thing. I've always liked playing with fire, I guess, no matter how many times I got burned. I had the next day off as fate would have it while Bobby worked. I want to say that maybe if he'd called in sick that day, things would have been different, but I don't think that's true in my soul. Santa, I know what's on the top shelf of that left cupboard, pushed far in the back to keep out of mine's eye.

Me. My protein shake mix? While I acknowledge there's truth in your statement, I hardly see what that has to do with the naughty or nice list. I haven't finished. Why don't you be a good girl for Santa and dump the contents of that container out into the trash. But make sure you hold a calendar under it first.

If you look at the pebbles within, you'll know what I mean. My mind reeled at the cryptic words. Pebbles within? I thought rightly. Fucking ridiculous. But, seeing as I didn't have anything better to do, I decided to humor the mysterious voice. Dirt-smudged slippers shuffled across the tile floor as I made my way to the kitchen.

The protein powder haunted me with every step, as well as waves of tormented recollections. I wasn't ready to look at the protein powder. The significance it held to a happier time was still too much to bear. Tears pricked the corner of my eyes, like country nettles as I gingerly opened the cupboard door, and I squeezed them shut in defiance to no avail. The veil shrouding the events of the past eight months hit me like a tidal wave of regret. The protein powder was something Bobby had bought to help with my nutrients. My morning sickness was so bad and the only thing I craved was chocolate milkshakes.

It wasn't the healthiest option. Bobby used to joke about their amniotic fluid being a full-service Baskin-Robbins. So he got me the powder as a compromise. It took a while to get used to, but it wasn't so bad after the initial bitter and chalky taste. You noticed I said morning sickness, and it wasn't an error. I should have a six-week-old baby at this point. But if you haven't gathered by now, I don't. Spontaneous abortion, they called it.

Ain't that a bitch? Spontaneous is appropriate, sure. But the word abortion implies it was something I'd done by choice. And that wasn't what happened here. Bobby and I had been ecstatic to find out we were pregnant. It was a surprise, not something we had planned or even talked about much, but we were thrilled nonetheless. The powder tumbled into the silver colander,

resulting in a pig-pin cloud of dust to assail my senses. It smelled much like it had tasted, and the connection made my stomach turn. This all made no sense to me. Once the canister had been emptied of its contents, the colander soon followed suit. My eyes widened in shock to see specks of green granules settled into the bottom

of the cylindrical container, just as predicted. My husband came into view the moment I turned my head to call his name. Bobby? What is this? I quavered through trembling lips. What in God's name? He exclaimed angrily.

It's bullshit is what it is, Meg. I'm calling their company right fucking now. His expression became irate with impatience and I could recognize the voice on the receiving end. as an automated recording. You know, he seed, jamming a number into the phone that corresponded to the appropriate option given. This happened to my aunt once. She found shards of glass and my cousin's baby food

and got free Gerber for a year. As if that would have helped anything. I won't take you through the rest of the conversation. Let's just say they offered us something more than a year-long supply of protein powder. The company threw out dollars, signs when they found out I'd been pregnant at the time of ingestion but wasn't anymore. We mailed them a sample of what we'd found with some four-by-six glossy print photos for further

proof, and they sent us a check. The amount was more than fair, so I didn't even think of contacting a lawyer. My husband's eyes widened with shock when he saw the amount they gave us. It's going to be such a Merry Christmas, he exclaimed. What a miracle! Though I was thankful for the financial blessing, I'd hardly call what we had been through a miracle. My face must have reflected as much because Bobby gripped my hand in his. The look on his face was compassionate but stern,

meaning he had something important to say. Hey, honey, I know what you're thinking. but I promise you this had nothing to do with the baby. I know you think I've blocked it, but I haven't. I've thought a lot about this, and he hesitated before continuing. You were so sick for the entire pregnancy. That powder was the only thing you could eat. I mixed it in with everything, cottage cheese, ice cream, yogurt, peanut butter,

as much as I hated to, you name it. Something was wrong far before you began eating it, sweetheart. This money really is a miracle. His words caused a seed that my subconscious planted to begin to sprout. A miracle, he said. Well, I would never have known if I hadn't called that damn number, I realized. Bobby called out the next day. A choice any man in his situation would have been tempted with.

Shit, I had to talk him out of quitting altogether more than once. This new bundle of Benjamin's wasn't enough to live on by any means. But it was more than enough to get us far ahead. My husband and I both keeping our jobs would help us stay there. But anyway, I was distracted for almost the entire day, just itching for a chance to be alone and see what other messages the number held for me. So you bet your biscuits my fingers were bids. Busy dialing the moment my husband's car was out of view as he drove off to work the following day.

It rang longer than it had the two previous times I had called, and I was surprised by how much that worried me. These phone calls had so far brought nothing but good things. I had come to think of them as holiday premonitions from a modern-day fortune cookie service. A sigh of relief escaped me as the automated service came on the line. I jammed down the number two without even listening to all the options. Santa. Oh, hello there. I knew we'd be hearing from you soon.

I ignored the remark. This whole thing was cryptic as fuck, inside and out. To try and make sense of every little detail would only waste valuable time. Santa. Of course I was. Santa Claus wouldn't steer you wrong on Christmas. Now would he? But it's not Christmas, I stammered.

It's the beginning of December. Santa. A woman named Bonnie Hinman has her sight set on your husband, my dear. And we can't have that, can we? Good boys and girls honor their commitments. Get rid of the problem. What do you mean? Get rid of her. We're not a mafioso, for Christ's sake.

Santa. Tis-tis-tis, now, Megan. do you think the Lord has anything to do with this? My imagination ran wild with every devious possibility I could create. Bobby had been working more than usual. My seasonal depression, mixed with the time change, had me more exhausted than expected in the evenings, meaning I hadn't been waiting up for him like I usually would.

Why would he beg me to quit, though, if he was using it as a reason to fuck around? The life insurance policy that I initially thought was garbage flashed into the recesses of my recollection. A grimace infected my lips as I remember tearing it up before throwing it away. The stroke of midnight found me tiptoeing into our living room to log into my husband's laptop. I'd gone through his phone earlier. It didn't feel good, trust me, and I found nothing. Maybe his email address would hold a clue to this Vaughney woman and what exactly.

she wanted with my husband. As luck would have it, I was on the right track, though one shouldn't use the word luck when describing anything occurring in my particular situation. One single email stood out from the others with the email address V. Hinman at Redacted. Bobby, I covered your ass, now you cover mine. I can still ruin your family. The pieces you haven't ruined yourself with one phone call. I want my money, and don't give me any of that woman's scorn bullshit either. Intrusive thoughts swarmed my brain like a freshly disturbed ants nest as I decorated the inside of the house for Christmas. In the end, I could only come up with one logical explanation, albeit far-fetched. Vani and Bobby must have been fucking. I intertwined twinkling lights above the mantle, shuddering at how

their bodies must also have at one point been intertwined. Things must have become too real for her when I became pregnant, and she threatened to break it off. So in turn, Bobby must have poisoned my protein shakes to rid himself of the latest issue between him and his whore. Maybe it wasn't enough for her when I lost the baby. Perhaps it was too late by then. He must have given her quite the sob story to borrow that settlement money. How could he do this to me, to us? What's more, I had felt like absolute shit this entire week. Initially, I'd passed it off as nervous anxiety due to the odd situation.

But what if he wanted more than the baby out of the way this time? What if now? He tried to poison me. He had been on me quite a bit about eating. I had just about driven myself mad. when Bobby walked in the door unexpectedly, a smile perched on his traitorous, lying face. He held something in his right hand, and I balked at what it was. Out of all the things, all the goddamn things in the entire world he could have come home with,

it had to be this. It seemed almost poetic. As much as I wanted to act instinctively, I knew this had to be done very carefully. I stood in silence as he held out his peace offering. I've braved the storm for you, Maggie, and got you a mixer. I risked life, limb, and airway just for you. He joked.

The new coler's flavor of the day was the Reese's chunk chocolate with peanut butter swirling candies inside. I smile gratefully before gripping the milkshake in both hands. I took a small, gratifying sip to appease him, if nothing else. God knows I wasn't in the mood for sweets after all this shit I'd endured. It was time. I put up some mistletoe, babe, I exclaimed, strolling over to the center of our living room. I morphed my lips into a pucker and stood on tiptoe in anticipation. Our lips met, and what was at first a simple kiss, quickly evolved into something

much more carnal. I opened my mouth wide, smearing my ice cream-coated tongue over his as many times as possible between breaths. His eyes shot open as realization dawned on his dick-brained mind. He raised his arms to pull away, but I'd had a tight grip on his twisted undershirt. With a force of strength I didn't know I had. I slammed his head against the wall, hard enough to make it bleed. I wasted no time forcing his mouth open as he slid to the linoleum floor. I squeezed the cup over his face. I squeezed the cup over his face until the contents smothered the inside of his mouth, nose, and eyes. The skin pulled tot over his face as it began to bloat, the distortion making him quickly unrecognizable. He raised his hands futilely

to claw at my face, becoming more desperate for breath with each passing second. Why? He gasped. I know about you, Vani, the powder, everything. Well, now you can be together after she's dead. I sobbed. He shook his head violently in defiance, but it was too late for any words to emerge. I knew we didn't even have an EpiPen.

I'd always told him to be more responsible, especially with his health. He was deathly allergic, you see. My fingers fumbled to dial 911 on my phone. I sobbed in hysterics, screaming that there had been a terrible accident, and my husband needed medical attention right away, feigning concern as best I could. Every time I struggled for the much-needed tears the situation called for, I just, I just thought of her baby and the memories they never got to make. I waited with bated breath for police and medical attendance to arrive.

And I did something that I, ashamedly, hadn't done in a long, long time. I squeezed my eyes shut as my hands came together in desperate prayer. I prayed to God, Jesus, Santa Claus, and any. anyone who would listen. The Santa hotline had done so well at turning my misfortunes into miracles, and I just needed one last teeny little one. My phone rang, and I had a myriad of mixed emotions as I realized who it must have been, almost telepathically. Santa was calling, and he had one more message for me. Hello, I stammered.

Santa. Oh, Megan. He said solemnly. You were wrong, my dear child. Your husband was embezzling money and sharing clientless from work, my darling. My breath was robbed from my lungs as I dropped to my knees in terror. Santa. I told you, Vani was the one to want.

watch out for, he paused. Now I fear it's too late. She's coming for you, and it's too late. The line disconnected. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube, all stories. told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons

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