Creepy - I administered lethal injections for the state. This is the man who made me quit.

Episode Date: April 1, 2021

As if the job weren't hard enough...***Written by Max Voynich narrated by JV Hampton-VanSant***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***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.

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

Creepy presents. I administered lethal injections for the state. This is the man who made me quit. Written by Max Boynich and narrated by J.V. Hampton-V. Van Sant. It's the same. Every time. First is sodium. an anesthetic, ultra-short action barbiturate. Some will tell you that it's this that kills them, that it's this that puts them under, and that they've got no idea what happens next. I beg to differ.

Men still whimper after the anesthetic. You can still hear their shallow sobs, half-mumbled prayers. I think this step is more for us than anything. To give us the illusion, we're doing a good thing. To give the impression that all of this, the dim lighting, the smell of bleach and vomit, the doctors smoking as they wait by the body bag, is humane. Then, saline solution, to flush the line. This is important.

Any contamination, and the chemicals could react. You'd risk fumbling the execution, which can lead to an appeal or the subject walking away. Always remember to flush the line. Second is pancurium bromide, a paralyzing agent. This stops breathing, paralyzing the diaphragm and lungs. You can hear this one, like someone's holding their body in a vice. Their breaths get more strained, raspier. You can hear the spittle drying in their throat on their chin.

No more prayers. Saline solution flush the line again. Always remember to flush the line. Third, and last, is potassium chloride, a toxic agent. Sure, they wouldn't have a great chance of living anyway, but this is what really kills them. It induces cardiac arrest, their body seizes, shakes,

strains against the leather and plastic holding them in place. Wait a minute or two? They're declared dead. I'd been a state executioner for a while now, coming on five years. It's decent pay, sure, and as there aren't many of us who are willing to do it, who are willing to get up close and personal, you'll often find that you've got a choice of where you want to live. If a state has the death penalty, chances are there'll be work for you there. for me it's always come from a deep personal sense of justice i was robbed of the chance at a normal life when i was just a boy

the media fetishized it calling it the perfect crime and tv was flooded with men and women who would say things like whilst of course i cannot condone the murders nor would i ever want to there is a strange and perverse genius to them, a sense that the truly intelligent mind is behind this. Ugh, I had grown up hearing that. Called onto talk shows when my voice had barely broken, asked to comment on the deranged genius behind the death of my family, the symbolism of the way he'd flayed their skin, asked if I had any clue what the words on the wall meant. I didn't, if you're curious. In my mind, there was no genius behind it, nothing symbolic. It was what it was. A man had broken into my home whilst I wasn't there, killed and dismembered

those I held dear, pinning their skin to the wall like taxidermied models or butterflies in glass cases. There had been things that it seemed strange, sure, the fact that in this series of murders, he'd always write what the police were about to do before they did it, on the walls, sometimes in blood, sometimes in black ink. 1529. Officer Norton enters building. 1530, Norton exclaims, holy shit. 1531, Norton wretches. 1534, calls for backup.

Sometimes there'd be little clips of speech, and first responders would swear that they were exactly what they'd said. I chalked this up to suggestible minds, to people not knowing what the fuck they're meant to think, to think when they see a family of five cut apart in their living room. They'd want to misremember to align their narrative with something bigger. They never caught him.

They tried, but every single time he was one step ahead. They'd arrive at hotel rooms a day too late, decipher clues hours after the deadline. There were parts, too. they didn't mention. Darker things. Insane ramblings, pages from notebooks with these

strange drawings, figures reaching out past the page, rambling interior monologues. It comes and it comes, and there is nothing we can do. We are stuck. It comes, we are stuck.

Move back to move forward. It comes. There is nothing we can do. do. I am alone. We are alone. Nothing we can do. The cycle continues. The cycle marches on, unchanged, always nothing we can do. There were vague connections between the families targeted. It wasn't just mine, although they were the first. I'd known the victim's families, memories that refused to show themselves no matter how much I tried. I remembered big get-togethers, the adults laughing and drunk, attending church together,

services spoken in tongues, candles in glyphs, and songs in Latin. Once I heard they'd finally caught him, I transferred straight away. More than a decade of waiting. and there was a chance I'd be the one to put the injection in. Two, in my own way, have justice for what was done to me, and those I loved that night. There were concerns, of course, and those who knew of my history tried to talk me out of it.

But I was owed favors. Everyone in our field is owed favors. Turn a blind eye here, sign there. you'd be surprised what we let happen. I remember how he looked, how all these years I'd imagined him as a monster, hideous, slavering, desperate. I watched for a while through the one-way glass.

He seemed familiar, the slope of his nose, the way he let his mouth come to rest. Even though I know their mirrors, I swear to God he saw me too, and smiled, broad, exposing yellow teeth. Maybe I'd pictured him all these years so intensely every night in my dreams and every morning when I sealed myself for work, but I couldn't see his face. Part of me was just not able to see it.

He had this strange air about him, this sense of calm that only he disturbed. as if nothing around him could affect him because whatever had a hold over him was inside. His eyes were dark. He'd occasionally look around the room, close his eyes for a second, say something before opening them again. Like he was checking for something. They usually have to wear hoods. But I'd made a special request to keep his off.

so I could see his eyes roll back and turn white. Who was going to tell? He'd be zipped in a cheap body bag in 15 minutes, and everyone here had other shit to be getting on with. I left my hood outside as well, entered. I had it all prepared. What I'd say when I saw him, the cool, detached way I'd deliver it?

As if this didn't mean the world to me, as if his crimes were nothing. And I'd arisen above them. But as soon as I entered, they caught in my throat. The guards on either side of him waited. He licked his lips. Jack. I wanted to speak, to reply, but I was powerless, a boy again.

nervous and sobbing, held by arms I didn't know, not allowed into my own house, but ask questions. No, I don't know if my mother and father had debts. No, I don't know who my next of kin is. No, I don't know why someone might want to hurt them. Asking to see my parents over and over again because I was so scared and I needed them. and every time being told I couldn't. And I wasn't sure why, but I knew that the panic rising in my stomach wasn't good. Couldn't be good.

He continued speaking. You look old. Older. I told him I was here to administer his lethal injection. That in less than ten minutes, he would be dead. He rolled his eyes. Was he enjoying this? I tried to be professional.

If I couldn't speak, I could at least do my job, could at least kill him. I fumbled the needle for a moment, and it fell onto the floor. I had never, in all my years fumbled before. Never. It was a point of pride for me. Steady hands. My heart stopped for a moment, but the casing was still on. I could breathe.

As I came up, I met his eye again. You always do that. The beat. He continued. Every time. As if he knew what I was going to do before I did. it. As if, I thought for a brief moment, he'd done this before. He started speaking as I pushed the anesthetic in, and I thought for a moment it was a prayer. But when I began to pick up the words,

in the sterile silence of that room, I realized he was speaking to me. It was like he'd have moments of lucidity, then lapse into madness again. Good luck, Jack, he was saying, it's up to you now, and it's over for me, and I'm so glad. I am free, and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Jack. It's you now, no choice. You'll know when you know. And it's you now, Jack. It's always you. It's always us. His words were cut short. He bit his tongue. The bromide had entered his bloodstream. His lungs and diaphragms stopped working. I could hear the last of the air leak out of his mouth, his throat. He jerked back. And with his last breath, his head,

lulled back, as if relaxing. And I swear to God, he smiled. I went home feeling strange, unfulfilled. I'd thought this would be it, that after this, my life would somehow be fixed. That days would seem brighter and evenings longer and less lonely, but there was. nothing. The trailer park I lived in stunk just as bad, roaches still scattered when I turned on the light, and I was still empty. Maybe, I thought, it was because of the way he'd acted, as if he'd wanted to be caught, as if this was some game. Maybe. be it was what he said, somehow implicating me in all of this. I could still hear his monologue rambling and repetitive, but somehow so urgent, so desperate. I knew it was true, that he hadn't just

wanted to be caught. He wanted to die. Mark called, a friend from the prison. He knew the execution was today, was checking in. Rough day, huh? Sure, yeah. Heard it was a weird one for you, Jack. I sighed. He'd probably heard about the weird monologue, about the repetition,

about the fact he knew my name. Yeah, it was. He knew my name. kept rambling in these weird whispers and said it was me now and he was free and I paused took a breath it was fucked man it was fucked mark seemed confused I didn't know about that my heart skipped a beat why had he called, if not that? The guy said it must have been a hard execution for you.

Why is that? You don't know? Jack, they said the guy looked just like you. 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,

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