Creepy - How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Your Mom & Is It A Bird

Episode Date: March 30, 2023

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Your Mom***Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Is It a Bird?***Written by Olivia White and Narrated by Jimmy Ferrer***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.

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 simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Your Mom. Narrated by Danielle Hewitt.

Hello, my dear friend. Do you remember when we were just girls? We met in elementary school. We became fast friends. Jenna and Marlene, the dynamic duo. Always at each other's sides. the best of pals. We swore, back then, that we'd stay friends forever, that we'd always love each other like besties. We used to dream of being sisters, that one day we'd discover we were

actually twins all along. Oh, wouldn't that be great, we'd say. Do you remember, my dear Marlene, how we'd go to each other's houses to play? I remember how excited we were when our moms let us have our first sleepover. It was at my house. We were seven. My mom brought us up homemade cookies and warm milk. We watched Disney movies on my old, slightly flickery Panasonic. Back then, I didn't have a DVD player, and we'd drive my mom mad by forgetting to rewind the VHS cassettes. Whenever we'd go to your house, I remember thinking your mom was a little sad in those days. She always seemed distant to me. It was your dad who played with us, loud, boisterous, encouraging us to play baseball or catch with him in the garden. Your mom sat inside, looking out, watching.

I didn't understand your mom back then, but I knew she was different to mine. I remember when your dad left. We were ten. You were devastated. You asked me if I thought it was your fault. If your dad didn't love you anymore, I'll say now what I said then. Of course he loved you. I know you don't see him anymore.

He has a new family now, a new wife, a new daughter. But I'm sure he thinks of you from time to time, with love in his heart. Your mom seemed less sad after that. She took us to the mall in the movies. Do you remember? She doted on you. and because I was your best friend, she doted on me too. We each had our moms who loved us.

We had everything we could possibly need in those days. When we were 12, my mom died. The brain aneurysm, if you recall. Sudden and unexpected. My mom wasn't religious, unlike yours, the devout Catholic. We still had the funeral in a church anyway. That always seems strange to me. Still does, to this day. My dad sat there dry-eyed and stoic while I sobbed my little heart out. But in the weeks afterwards, I could see how hard it hit him. He immersed himself

in work. He wasn't around very much after my mom died. Still isn't. I understand. I don't blame him. You were there for me the whole time. You held my hand through the funeral. and through all the nights of grief and torment that came after. And your mom, too. She tried to help. Tried to be more involved. She tried to love me. But I resisted.

Politely but firmly, I resisted. I think she must have thought it was out of a sense of duty to my mom. Like I didn't want to replace her. It wasn't that. I didn't want to replace you. You were your mother's daughter. I wasn't. If she loved me, if she became my surrogate mom, I figured that was less love to give to you, her actual daughter.

When we were 16, you told me you hated your mom. You were going through a phase, as your mom said. You started being interested in boys, rock music, dressing rebellious. What is it, they call it? Emo. It upset your mom. I didn't understand why at first. I thought you looked cool. Pretty.

Less cool when I caught you smoking behind the school that day, though. Not sure why you'd want to let those chemicals into your body. Not sure why you'd want to let those boys into your body either. But it was your body, not mine. And through your own actions, You helped me understand your mom. You know how much it upset her, how much she worried about you. It upset me and worried me, too.

Your mom and I found common ground in that. You're going to be angry at me for this, but I told her about the abortion you had when we were 17. She had to know, Marlene, for your own sake. I know, I promised you I wouldn't, but I also promised your mom I'd look out for you. and that promise came first. It broke her heart.

She was so worried about you. Together, we swore to keep it a secret that she knew. But that's why she tried to become more involved in your life, more vigilant. More of an asshole is the way you saw it. It wasn't that at all. When I told her about the drugs you were doing, the boys you were seeing, she was worried. When she tried to punish you, it was out of love.

You didn't see that. You should have seen that. I didn't say anything at the time. We're besties, remember? But I was very disappointed in you, Marlene. The way you treated your mom? It was bad. She loves you so, so much.

When you went off to college, leaving me behind, You told me you were glad to see the back of that bitch. You cut her off. And that could have killed her, Marlene. If it wasn't for me, keeping her up to date with what's going on with you, I think she'd die from worry. But I did it out of love for you. One night, your mom called me up.

It was after that night you went to that party and posted all those pictures of yourself on Facebook. drunk and half naked, dancing cavorting with boys and girls. I sent those to her, and a few hours later, I got the call. Your mom was drunk. That scared me a bit. I'd never heard her drunk before. We talked and I soothed her.

And do you know what she said to me? She said she wished I was her daughter too. that she loves me, like a daughter. I wanted to tell her I love her back, but I couldn't. I couldn't allow her to feel that way about me when she had you to love. I didn't want to take any of your mom's love for you. Still, I was looking out for you even then, Marlene. I sacrificed so much for you.

But for what? Lately, Marlene, you've really been testing my patience. You've been drifting away from me, too. Snapping at me when I challenge your behavior. Veiled comments like I'm a narque, a sado, a loser, just because I've stayed chased and don't drink or smoke or do drugs. I started to realize that you don't deserve your mom's love, Marlene. You don't deserve to be her daughter.

I do. You remember how I've been sending you a care package every single month since you started college? Two years I've been doing that now. And they really were made with care. Baked cookies, just like my mom used to make. Your favorite soda we can only get back home. A card wishing you well. Other gifts.

Mix tapes. Even a teddy bear one time. I bet you've still been enjoying the packages, haven't you? Even as you treat me poorly. You never once sent me a care package. It's okay. I never asked for one. But maybe it would have been nice.

Just once. I'm glad I kept sending yours regardless. I'm glad I thought ahead. Glad I was able to establish such a routine in your life. Just in case. Are you enjoying the latest batch of cookies I sent? They should have been delivered today. You always tell me,

you eat them the first night they arrive. That should be tonight. Maybe you're eating them right now. I hope you enjoy the extra special ingredient I've added to the batch. I won't tell you which poison it is. It's slow acting. It'll take a few hours according to the internet. But it's an obscure one. I doubt they'll work out what it is before you succumb to it. And even if they do? The antidote isn't that successful. I wonder if you're alone. I wonder if you're sharing the cookies with some boy

lying naked together in your bed. Is he all over you, Marlene? Is he further defiling your body? As already, slowly. Without you even noticing, it begins to shut down. Are his hands on you, Marlene? On that body your mom gave birth to, raised lovingly from the crib. Do you have any shame? You know why I'm doing this, don't you?

I realized, finally, that I deserve a mom's love too. I deserve your mom's love. More than you deserve it, at any rate. And while before I was worried about taking her love from you, now I'm worried about you taking her love from me. I don't like to share, Marlene. You always said so whenever we argued. Sure, we could be sisters, like we always dreamed about as kids. But that just isn't practical, is it? So I'm giving your mom what she deserves. A new daughter, without having to worry about the old one. You let us all down, Marlene. You have no. Nobody to blame but yourself. You want to know the best part, though?

Your mom doesn't know. She has zero idea what I have planned. It's going to be such a surprise. She's going to be so, so happy. I'll be the daughter she's always wanted. I love her. I love your mom. She's my mom now.

And by the time you finish reading this, I'll be an only child. Creepy presents. Is it a bird? Written by Olivia White and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Ever since he was small, Stephen Barker had been a fan of superheroes. He'd grown up around them. From cartoons and comics to the more recent explosion of cinematic superheroesics,

these Cape Crusaders had been a constant in Stephen's life. To say that he was a fan would be putting it mildly. He'd been the type of kid who'd constantly run around wearing Spider-Man or a Batman costume. He begged his mom and dad to buy him an X-Men bedspread. He had DVD box sets, a superhero cartoon series, dating back to as early as the 60s. As a child, Stephen liked the more family-friendly superheroes. The animations, the colorful. comics, the action figures.

As he got older, he still liked all those, profound an appreciation for the darker aspects of the genre, too. The Christopher Nolan Batman trilogy became his go-to favorite film series, although he can never pick which one he preferred. The Marvel Cinematic Universe struck a great balance for him, in all ages' experience was something for everyone. He loved the Netflix series too, and they're grittier take on the heroes. When Deadpool came out, the first R-rated superhero movie.

He saw it in theaters four times. By the time Stephen turned 18, though, he still read the comics. He still watched the cartoons. He still owned the action figures, albeit much more detailed adult collector variants that he'd endlessly played with as a kid. He spent a lot of time on the Internet forums and discussion boards, arguing over the MCU or DC rebirth, or fervently debating the pros and cons of Marvel's numerous character recons. He had a healthy interest in independent books, too, image, dark horror, smaller indie labels.

When he discovered Mark Miller's creator-owned books, and inspired him to start writing his own superhero comic, illustrated by his friend Carl. Their superhero was a wise-cracking, suave playboy with mad martial arts skills, teleportation ability, and the power to seduce any woman who took his fancy. His name was Dash, and he was a mix of Starlord and Hal Jordan, with the smarts of Peter Parker, the fortune of Bruce Wayne, and the success with woman of Tony Stark. One thing Stephen and Carl decided early on was that Dash would get a lot of pussy.

And unlike other comics, especially those from the Big Two, they wouldn't shy away from showing that aspect of his life. However, this meant Stephen and Carl had five-issue run, well, four in an unfinished storyboard, that they weren't doing all that much with, because everyone said the nudity was gratuitous. but neither of them wanted to compromise their artistic vision. So the comic had sort of been on the back burner for nearly a year, but the adventures of Dash were a second fiddle to Stephen anyway. Dash was a fictional representation of the man that Stephen wanted to be.

No, that wasn't quite true. There was another cape that Stephen really, truly admired. A hero he not only wished to be, but knew that, to some degree, he was capable of being. If only he could unlock the inner potential, he knew he had. It all came down to one person. None of Stephen's friends like Superman, not even Carl, and he'd been known to defense entry. They all said Superman was lame, invincible, too sincere, no matter how many times. time Stephen told them to actually read the comics, people were having none of it. But he didn't

care. Stephen loved the man of steel, and it was within Clark Kent, aka Calell, that Stephen's secret lay. There was something Stephen had told no one, not even Carl, his best friend, and not even online buddies with a safety net of anonymity. There's been a girl on the web last year, he'd been intending to talk to about it, but things had gone sour when she'd become a bitch. The truth was, though, for many years, Stephen had known without a doubt that he was the real world's answer to Superman. The only problem was, he had not as yet worked out how to unlock his dormant potential. He wasn't strong yet.

He could accept that. In gym at school, he couldn't even press the starter weights that the jocks used. Ice breath and laser eyes? Well, Stephen didn't believe in those things anyway. Didn't expect them to ever manifest. X-ray vision? It was possible. But no matter how long he spent staring at the wall of the girls' locker room

or trying to see through shell bishop's clothes, there was nothing doing. No. What really gave Steve. Stephen the confidence to believe in his birthright was the power of flight. He could fly, or at least he should be able to fly. The ability was there. He knew it.

He'd known it for as long as he could recall. Since he was a child, Stephen had felt the pull of gravity. He knew without question that his body was capable of rising off the ground and soaring through the air. But as of yet, the secret of doing so remains. tantalizingly out of reach. It was like an itch in Stephen's muscles, a tug at his very being, the remnant of a muscle memory that he knew he had to recover before he could fulfill his potential. When Stephen walked, he felt a lightness in his step.

When he ran, he could almost taste the feeling of lifting off the ground and continuing through the air. As a little kid, he used to don a cape and jump off of things. But after a broken leg at age seven, his parents put a stop to that and even burned his cape in the garden, as if that would dissuade him from his dreams. Now, though, at 18, Stephen felt no closer to achieving flight than he had while flinging himself out the swings at the elementary school. But while he hadn't risen off the ground, The pull felt no less strong either.

Part of him wondered if perhaps he'd sprout wings. It would explain the lightness he felt in his back, the sensation in his shoulders, and the frustrating muscle memory that was almost like phantom pain, only with a promise instead of an ache. In junior year, he'd discovered a special place. There was a rooftop on one of the school buildings, toward the edge of the campus, and the door leading to it was broken. But one day, at a loose end, Stephen had tried the door and realized

that if he pulled the handle upwards as he turned it, the door would unlock. Now, he came up to the roof at least once a week when Film Club had let out. He and Carl always used to hang out after Film Club, but since getting a girlfriend, Carl, had stopped going. In fact, stopped hanging out with Stephen as much in general. At first, the roof had been a great place to simply be alone with his thoughts.

But then it had struck Stephen that here, three stories up, and out of sight of just about anyone who might still be lingering on campus, he was closer to the heavens than normal. As soon as he'd realized as he'd felt it, a sense of liberation, the feeling that flight was almost within his grasp. With every step he took on that rooftop, it felt as he should be able to launch himself up and soar into the clouds. That first night, he'd simply walked about the roof and eventually wept. Yes, in frustration, but also in liberation. Nearly a year later, in the sense of freedom he felt on the roof hadn't lessened any.

That being said, Stephen thought the frustration had grown. It was a Friday, a balmy evening in October. The sun was just beginning to set in the sky, dousing the campus with an orange glow like fire. Hadn't been a film club night. Instead, Stephen had stayed behind after an argument with Carl. Carl was his ride home, and rather than sit in the other boy's car in stony silence, Stephen had opted to hang around, eventually making his way to his hiding spot. The usual feeling of liberation was far from Stephen's mind as he stalked angrily across the roof,

kicking loose pebbles that had somehow found their way up there. God damn, Carl, and goddamn Molly Roth. That was Carl's girlfriend, and she was a total skank. Carl was far too good for her. Molly was one of those musical theater kids, always singing and preening, always trying to be the center of attention, just because she had good grades and a good voice and a good, well, admittedly, great body. Oh, yeah, Molly Roth was hot all right. But the problem, Stephen figured, was that she knew it. She was always smiling at Stephen, always expecting him to be nice to her just because she was nice to him.

It was easy for her to pretend to be nice when she'd stolen his best friend away from him. They hadn't even done it yet, Carl and Molly. Carl had confessed us to Stephen one drive home, after much cajoling. He pretended not to mind, but of course he'd say that. Stephen knew Carl. probably better than anyone. They talked about getting girlfriends and what they'd make their girlfriends do when they did.

Enough for Stephen to know that Molly's refusal to put out must be driving Carl crazy. That would explain why he was so puswip then. To the point that today he'd canceled his and Stephen's long-planned gaming session at Stevens' house, because Molly wanted to take him to the opening night of some museum exhibition. Stephen had been furious, hence the argument, and why he now found himself pacing his roof on a Friday night, instead of getting dubs in about a royal duos. Stephen had never told Carl this, of course, and like his ambitions of flight, he never would, unless it became a reality.

But he fantasized about Molly Roth in his head. Molly was subservent to him in the way Carl was to her. Stephen couldn't imagine dating her. She was far too annoying for that. They weren't those kind of fantasies. But it was nice to think about her naked. He thought about seeing her naked a lot. At times you worried it was becoming a bit of an obsession. Hey, fucking, that's what they call it, isn't it?

He told himself each time. It was fine, though. Normal. He and Carl had talked about their desire to see. Molly Roth naked plenty before she and Carl had hooked up. At first, Stephen had even been pleased when the pair of them got together. She was bound to have sent Carl Nudes. Stephen had been working on persuading Carl to show him the dirty picks he had no doubt

had of Molly in his phone. But Carl was holding out. Either that or she's never sent him any after all. I could believe that. I bet he's never even shown him her tits. Pathetic. Stephen visibly sneered. He wondered if Molly would choose him when he could finally fly.

She'd probably come crawling on her hands and knees, begging for it. He wondered if Carl would choose him again. A lot of his fantasies about Molly involved him flying to her window, catching her changing or even masturbating. Then she'd let him in and take him in her mouth, or between her legs. Maybe he'd even deign to give her a repeat performance after that. Although once he was the world's first real-life superhero, he'd have his pick up the chicks.

Chicks far less annoying and chirpy than Molly. But still, he figured she'd be a good take for at least one spin, if only to see what Carl was missing. Stephen looked out across the campus from his perch on the edge of the roof. Only a few cars remained in the parking lot, mostly those of the staff. Far over by the main building, he saw Shell Bishop walking across the quad, her two short skirt sashaying against her bare legs. Shell was another one like Molly, a prissy bitch who put out for any jock who looked her way, but wouldn't give guys like Stephen the time of day.

He didn't understand it, really. It was a nice guy. Honorable. Hell, he aspired to literally be Superman. The most selfless and heroic guy in comics. What could be more honorable than that? If it wasn't for his inability to remember how to fly, he'd be saving the world on a daily basis already.

The thought counted, right? Plus, it wasn't like he was lacking downstairs. He'd measured, and he was slightly above average action. He'd sent a dick-pick anonymously to Shell Bishop once, intending to surprise her with his identity when she expressed her admiration. But she hadn't even responded, so he just left it, and spent the next week feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious and vulnerable. It was so high up here.

Wave of misery passed over Stephen as he watched Shell turned the corner, out of sight, and averted his gaze to the parking lot. Carl's usual space sat empty. A small pool of oil glistened on the asphalt. Stephen frowned. He hoped Carl's car wasn't on its way out. Stephen still didn't have his license, you know. He had no confidence behind the wheel.

And he relied on Carl for rides everywhere. He started to imagine his friend's car catching fire, hurtling into the storefront of Walmart or something. He imagined himself, swooping down from the sky, snatching Carl from the burning vehicle, flying him to safety. He imagined Molly still in the car, screaming as it crashed into Walmart. Her cries cutting off as the old Ford escort erupted into a ball of flames. I tried to save you both, but it was too late, he'd tell a tearful Carl later. I might be a hero, but I'm just one man.

Then Carl would understand. And maybe the trauma would unlock his own innate powers, too, so Stephen could have a sidekick, a helper in saving the world. He thought about he and Carl hurtling through the air, quipping and laughing on their way to the next world-threatening emergency. Stephen had felt a tremor in his body. Just a little one. But it was there.

Had he? Had he risen off the ground? He tried to concentrate. As usual, he felt the lightness, as if he knew there was a switch in his brain that he could flick. If only he could remember how. Not for the first time, he thought about flinging himself off the roof, force his stupid body to fly.

It would, wouldn't it? He was sure of it. His destiny wouldn't be averted just because he hasn't quite worth it. worked out how to seize it. Hell, maybe jumping was what he had to do. Perhaps the only way he could fly could break the mental lock that held him back would be if he was forced to fly, to survive. Not for the first time.

He put one foot forward and an edge closer to the lip of the roof. He felt his body tensing, quivering, the lightness enveloping him. So close, almost there. Stephen sucked in a breath. He could do it. This would be it. This time. One risk in a brave new world would be his for the taking.

Not for the first time. Stephen recoiled and shrank back from the edge. He let out the breath he'd been holding. His shoulders slumping. Deflated. He couldn't do it. Even though he knew, he knew, he held the power within him, he couldn't take the risk. Maybe it wasn't the right time yet.

Maybe it would all go disastrously wrong. His goat was telling him not to jump. Every time he got close, he was reminded of that scene in the watchman, with the comedian plummeting to his death, his body breaking as it hit the ground below. A promising, seasoned career of heroism ended in a single fall. It'd be worse for him, too. He'd never even begun his birthright. It just wasn't worth the gamble. Ah, Stephen let out a yell of frustration, not caring if anyone below heard him. Everything felt pointless. Everyone had turned their backs on him. Hell, did the world even desert? him as a hero?

What was the point of aspiring to save everyone if no one deserved saving? Maybe he should jump, and not even to fly, but to fall. He could just kill himself, deprive everyone of the hero they'd been knowingly been promised for 18 years. He could just jump. The world wouldn't know what it had lost. But where was the satisfaction in that? He wouldn't be seen as a martyr, Paragon of Justice, who'd removed himself from a corrupt society.

They'd see him as another emo loser kid who couldn't hack it, so he flung his pathetic little self off the roof, dying of suicide at school. That would be suitably pathetic. They wouldn't mourn or lament what they'd lost. They'd literally laugh. Stephen could imagine all the jocks braying and hooters. as they stood around, the meager memorial in the place he died. Imagine Carl standing by, looking sad while Molly told him that Stephen would want him to live

and be happy, then smirking at the faded bloodstain on the sidewalk. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Do you know what? You know what would show them? If I stuck it out. If I got my powers, then just refuse to use them to fucking help. I mean, fuck, with that kind of power, I could punish them.

I could hurt them. I could be a supervillain. A shutter passed through Stephen's body. It was excitement at first, but then it felt electric, a tug, liberating. He'd never considered this option before, but now that he had it felt right. It felt like a light switch had been turned on in his brain. Stephen felt his feet lift off of the floor, but still took a moment or two to process what was happening. By the time he did, the soles of his sneakers were a good inch or two off the roof.

Stephen's breath caught in his throat. Concentrate. Concentrate! He rose a little bit further, trembling and uncertain. Like he was taking his first baby steps, but upwards instead of. forwards. Up, up! He rose another few inches. He willed himself on. It felt alien still, yet somehow natural at the same time. Like this is what he'd been waiting for, expecting all his life. There wasn't quite how he'd imagined it. There was no surge of power, no burst of rebirth, but it was happening.

It was actually fucking happening. He felt himself drop suddenly, like gravity was pulling him down, and his heart lurched in his chest. But the sudden slight drop was followed by a jolt upwards, faster and higher. When he looked down, he was a good four feet above the ground. His legs kicked out slightly, and he felt strain in his thighs. But he was going higher. Another slight dip, and another upwards burst.

Stephen had to admit he'd been expecting even his maiden flight to be a little more graceful than this. But who cared when he was floating six, seven, eight feet off the ground? His legs dangled in the air. He felt one of his shoes began to slip loose. Another upwards pull, and the sneaker came off, tumbling to the ground, hitting the roof with a thud. Maybe his clothes were still affected by gravity. That could pose a problem.

But that, that's what superhero costumes are for. He fought a lurch as his body threatened to drop. No. No. Not superheroes. Supervalent. Heroes higher. Ten feet.

Twelve. Fourteen. This? Actually hurt. There was a burning pain in his neck and shoulders, and a weight in his stomach like he was being dragged downwards by some invisible force. Gravity. It's gravity. I'm still affected by gravity.

Stephen couldn't quite fathom what this meant for his newfound power of flight. Possibly this was normal and he had to just get used to it. Maybe he needed to be in better shape. maybe have to work out all these kinks himself. It wasn't like he had a manual after all. From his aching body, it was clear that real-world powers operated very differently to their comic book counterparts. 16, 18, 20, 25 feet above the roof, and very, very high above the ground in general.

Christ, though, shoulders were wrecked. Now he had pains in his chest, hurt to breathe. It felt like something was gripping him. No. It felt like something had always been gripping him, all his life. And now it was clutching him tighter. It wasn't entirely pleasant. In fact, it was distinctly unpleasant.

But fuck, what did it matter? he was flying. Well, floating now really. 25 feet in the air. It's kind of floating there. Maybe that was enough for one evening. Maybe he should land and try again tomorrow. Like baby steps, right?

Stephen found that he couldn't land, though. He tried to focus on a slow descent, but his body was unmoving. He forced himself not to panic. His legs were swinging in mid-air, as if he was caught on a hook. The other shoe was slipping off now. He tried to will it to stay on his foot, but gravity seized it and plopped it to the ground with a graceless smack. Stephen flailed his feet, his white socks looking dirty and yellowing in the setting sun.

If he couldn't go down, then maybe he could go forwards, or not, nor backwards. Up then? Was higher the only option? He wasn't sure his body could take much more. He didn't want to go up. For the first time in his life, Stephen found himself longing for solid ground beneath his feet. But up was the only direction he hadn't tried, so... No, that wasn't working either.

He was stuck, floating in the void. Stephen tilted his head back to stare at the heavens. Maybe if I look in that direction. An object shimmered in front of his vision. It wasn't there. and then it was. Suddenly, it was. Stephen inhaled sharply in a strangled cry

escaped from his throat. He wasn't flying. Oh, God, he wasn't flying. He wasn't flying at all. He was being dangled in mid-air by something else that was. Its appearance was that of a human skeleton, although far bigger than any person Stephen had ever met.

A leering, grinning skulls. stared down at him. Empty eye sockets regarding him vacantly as a huge tooth-filled mouth fixed him with a wrichtus grin. Its neck protruded from a rib cage. Too many ribs. Far too many. But from the base of that, only a spinal column extended,

tapering into a sharpened point. A huge, huge skeletal wings beat slowly. emerging from the beast's back. The wings had no skin, just huge spindly bones that look like giant hands. But where the wing leather should be, teemed tendrils shadow. The whole creature was engulfed in it.

It looked like a black flame, broiling and churning in place of the thing's flesh. As its wings beat, Stephen felt his body dipping. up and down. His gaze shot to his right shoulder, then his left. The creature held him in long, bony claws, three fingers and a thumb on each. That ended in wicked sharp talons.

Even as Stephen watched, one of these talons tore through the fabric of his shirt, and he let out another cry as a sharp point slowly punctured his skin. He felt blood began to flow so. slowly from the wound. From the way his grip tightened, it was clear to Stephen that the thing was bearing his weight, but only just. He stared back up into the empty obsidian eyes, and in that moment he knew, this thing, this creature, had had its hands on his shoulders all his life.

It had always been there. That was the lightness he felt. The creature trying not to make its presence known, but refusing to relinquish its hold. What are you? Stephen asked through teeth chattering with fear and the newly descended evening cold. A demon? An angel? Are you my protector?

The beast cocked its skeletal head to one side slowly, as if regarding a curious specimen. For a moment, Stephen had the terrible feeling that the creature had only just now remembered that he was even there. As if until he'd addressed it, he'd been an inconsequence. It made him feel tiny and terrified. A rasping, grinding noise began to rumble from the thing's mouth. The creature began to shake and Stephen's body with it. The sound was almost unbearable, like bones being ground to dust, glass being crushed by a roller. It took Stephen a moment to realize that the beast was laughing.

When the creature spoke, its voice was terrible. Like the splitting of continents, the grinding of a tectonic place, the rending of earth. Stephen felt his ears begin to bleed. Is it a book? The thing rasped. Its jaw clacking up and down in a way that might even have been comical, if not for the repugnant, blasphemy of its existence. Is it a poor? Stephen was sure he saw cruelty in those empty eye sockets.

Kind of deep, permeating malice that needed no expression to convey. An evil so dark and so ancient that simply to witness it. was understanding its depravity. No. The creature boomed. It's just a net. With a death flick of its wrist, it tossed Stephen forward. As its claws let him go,

as he tumbled past the edge of the roof and through the air, Stephen finally felt free. He felt released, like it had not been a lightness that held him all these years, but awake. which was finally now lifted. He had no time to appreciate his newfound freedom. Stephen's body hit the asphalt with a sickening crunch,

and a pain like nothing else he'd ever felt exploded through his body with the force of a thousand burning suns. The last thing Stephen Parker ever heard was a voice, raised in alarm, in the last few seconds of his life. Stephen wondered if the voice belonged to Molly. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-Lite licensing, or with written consent from the authors.

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