Creepy - I Clean Crime Scenes, Part 3

Episode Date: May 27, 2020

It's a job...***Written by dopabeane and narrated by Nate Dufort***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Music 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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Creepy Presents Eye Clean Crime Scenes and Horder Houses for a Living. Written by Dopabeen and narrated by Nate Dufort. Part 3 Second Update. My boss and I explored the suicide house. Last night I had strange nightmares, elegant men with decayed faces and beautiful women and jewel-encrusted bull headdresses, towering horn shadows and spidery monstrosities with

wet rotten flesh swinging from their bones. By 4 a.m., I was trapped in that dreamy, high-alert state of paranoia peculiar to exhaustion. Sleep wasn't a possibility, and it's not like I was eager to welcome more nightmares anyway. So I got ready for work, suited up, and drove to the suicide house, just as the sun rose. I ripped up the last of the downstairs carpet and hauled it outside,

struggling to ignore a sense of feverish, almost overpowering excitement. Terrified as I was, I couldn't wait to re-enter the portal. The anticipation was almost painful. The only thing keeping me from hurtling in there was my own cowardice. Kurt still hadn't arrived by the time I finished the carpet, so, mindful of the squatter issue

from yesterday, I checked the upstairs bedrooms. One was normal, as expected, heart lurching. I'd tentatively opened the second room and froze. Tangle of vine straped the walls and clotted the bed. A cool, earthy scent permeated the air, reminding me of wet. wet woods after a winter rainstorm, morning light filtered through the leaf-covered window, infusing the room with an eerie green radiance. In the corners and under the bed, clusters of half-open blossoms glowed faintly in the dim.

I stepped inside, jumping when something crunched underfoot. A vine had snapped. I kneeled down to have a look. The dark stem was burst with leaves. furled blossoms and long wicked thorns, silvery drops of resin seeped from the broken stalk, carefully avoiding the thorns lest I tear my suit, I strode to the window.

Greenery coated everything, masking all but the faintest hints of furniture. Unbidden, I thought of where the wild things are, that brought to mind the furry sprout-covered coat I'd seen yesterday. I found it by the bed, covered in a mound of greenery. I gingerly tore vines away, grimacing as clumps of filth, caked fur, came up too. Pretty soon, the coat was in tatters. The vines had wormed through and separated to the point of ruin, and before long, I found myself holding patches of fur and tanned brittle hide.

I pulled up the last few pieces, working at first few pieces, working at first. free of the stems and thorns when something shifted. It rolled under the vines, rustling the leaves and flowers as it went. I reached for it. I was so short, my fingertips barely grazed the hard-rounded surface. With a careful, calculated strain, I hooked it with my thumb and pulled it out for inspection. It was a skull, brown and uncomfortably soft, with a massive snout and no eye sockets. Disgust and panics subsumed me. Before I could think, I tossed it into the corner and stood. It took all my willpower to leave the room slowly.

The only thing keeping me in check was the certainty that the thorns would shred my suit if I wasn't careful. Fighting off a shutter I finally exited, deciding to check the taxidermy room. I pushed the door open, half expecting a pile of thorny plants to tumble out. The window here faced away from the sun, leaving everything shrouded in shadow. Even in the darkness, something felt terribly wrong. I studied the room for several tense moments before it hit me. The taxidermy animals.

Yesterday and the day before, they'd been neatly arranged against the north side of the room. Now they stood around the portal, facing the door. The five-eyed humanoid with a wide mouth took pride of place, positioned directly before the painting. The long-haired figure had returned to the frame. It rested on its haunches, poised like a sprinter about to take off. I slammed the door and ran downstairs, struggling not to hyperventilate. Salt crunched unpleasantly under my feet.

The way the house trapped the thick Serpy morning light reminded me of my nightmares, all shades of orange and gold and red. I ran outside, the door clattered loudly behind me. Across the street, a blonde neighbor lady stopped and stared. I avoided eye contact and pretended to busy myself with the equipment in the van. My hand shook as I struggled to calm myself. It was 7.30. Kurt would be here any minute.

He'd sort shit out, one way or the other. Just a few more minutes and, excuse me? I whirled around. The neighbor woman reared back nervously. I'm sorry to bother you. I just got back into town. Her gaze drifted curiously over my shoulder, then snapped back to me when she noticed me watching.

I was wondering, with a suit and whatnot, is everything okay? I shrugged and gave the party line. I'm with a cleaning company, ma'am. I don't know anything about the situation. Oh? Her tone turned mildly aggressive. It's just that I spoke with my name.

neighbor about a week ago. I just thought he would have mentioned a cleaning company. She looked to my hazmat suit up and down with a tight, meaningful smile, especially a serious one like yours. A week. Kurt said the document had been dead for almost a month before anyone found her. But this lady had spoken to her a week ago? And what was this about a male neighbor? Ma'am, I'm sorry. I'm just an employee. I can show you my credentials, give you my boss, his number, but she backed off immediately. No, no, it's fine. No worries. Just a little concerned. We're tight-knit here. I waited until she crossed the street, then called Kurt. He didn't answer. Maybe he was driving, and he only lived 15, maybe 20 minutes away. He'd arrive any second.

Half an hour passed before I gave up and went to his house. When I got there, both his vehicles were in the driveway. He didn't answer the door, so I tried the knob. Locked, of course. Kurt? Fighting a surge of panic, I felt around for a spare key. I found one tucked into a crack in the doorframe. Took a minute to pry it out, but it fit the lock just fine. Kurt, it's me.

He sat naked and cross-legged in the living room floor. Right in the middle of the light streaming through the window. He looked up at me. Sunlight threw his features into sharp relief. and turned the beads of sweat on his face to diamonds. Stay there, he whispered, and shut up. I looked him over, whore building in my chest, my gorge rose, holes. A hideous tropophobic nightmare spreading from his biceps to fingertips, hundreds of them.

Small and dark and round like termite burrows, all rimmed in red, welted flesh. They don't like the sun, he whispered. I think it kills them. My stomach heaved. Kill what? Have a look. Bruzy bags puffed out under his eyes, making him look 20 years older and terribly sick. Keep your suit on.

I knelt beside him and forced myself to look. Sunlight bounced off the bottom of the holes, revealing soft, glistening white flesh. At first I thought they were deep boils. Then I noticed they were quivering. Finally, I saw the eyes, tiny and fish-like, flitting wildly to and fro. I emitted a low whine that made me want to shoot myself. Don't! His voice broke.

Look, some are already dead. He rolled one of his wrists, and sure enough, a few of the holes had bubbled over with jelly, two of those goldfish eyes were suspended in the murk, glinting like tiny coins. I tried to call 911, but Kurt threatened to attack and infect me. Thing is, he's four times my size. He'd have no trouble hurting me in the short interval between the phone call and the ambulance's arrival. I'm pretty tough, but the thought of those holes, those quivering jellyworms burrowing in my skin, no, I'd let him die before letting him pass those to me.

He asked me to sit with him, and I obliged. Every once in a while I'd hear a small pop. Then he'd gasp as a geyser of translucent ecore bubbled out of the holes. After a while, that viscous gel covered his arms, shining with an iridescence that made my stomach churn. I swam in the gunk, slowly dripping onto the carpet. You caught them inside the painting? I finally asked.

He released a shaky breath. In those woods there was something like a weird giant skeleton. I tripped and went down under the ribs into a patch of thistles looked like, poked a few holes in my gloves. It punctured your gloves and you came back through? What was I supposed to fucking stay in there? I heard another low, wet pop. Kurt hissed as a tiny volcano of pale gel oozed over his left wrist,

obscuring several holes. They made me sick and panicky, but I could barely look away. Well, there are plants in one of the bedrooms now. I explained everything as quickly as I could, from the flower vines and soft eyeless skull to the ominous rearrangement of the taxidermy animals. He tried to interrupt, but I kept going. What do you know about the lady who lived there?

Nothing, he answered calmly. But for just an instant, his face flickered. Really? Because the lady from across the woman. a street came over and told me her neighbor is very much alive. I stood up. He followed suit, grimacing only slightly. Where are you going?

To the office. My throat was painfully dry, going to find her brother's information. Without thinking, I bolted for the door. He caught me easily, hand tight as a visor on my elbow. Jelly and glittering eyes smeared my suit. You're not going to tell anyone anything. Then tell me what's going on. Okay. He dragged me back to the living room and threw me on the sofa. That house is mine.

A thousand horrifying conclusions ran through my head. But the lady who lived there was my wife. So, this is more or less what he said. Kurt's wife Evie had been missing a lot longer than four weeks. Their relationship was fraught and they'd separated, though not divorced six years ago. He checked in periodically always hoping for the possibility of reconciliation, but that never happened. The last time we spoke to her was over a year ago. She'd sounded terrified. Kurt didn't think much of it, as Evie was prone to hysteria and not mentally or emotionally well.

After that, she stopped taking his calls. About four months ago, she knocked on his front door, but it couldn't have been her. Evie was 56 years old. the girl on the porch would have been a dead ringer, except she was 30 years too young. She was giggly and excited and uttered endless strings of gibberish. When he freaked out, she shoved him into a wall with enough force to knock him out. When he came to, she was gone.

And, as he shortly found out, so was Evie's house. Now, a house was always on the property, but It was never the right house. Every day, Kurt saw a different structure and different occupant. He saw everything from tacky, tudor-style condos to low-slung sprawlers to wood-coutages, and once a turreted blue monstrosity. But finally, just a couple weeks ago, the house reverted to the neat little two-story he'd bought for her after their separation.

He broke in and immediately reared back, gagging from the overpowering stench. He found her sprawled on the living room, liquefying corpse slowly bonding into the carpet. When he checked the house afterward, even going so far as to use a ladder to peer into the upstairs windows, he found nothing strange, certainly no taxidermy monstrosities or transdimensional portals. The house hasn't changed since, but the weird specimens and awful painting appeared recently. He's afraid this means the house. house is about to disappear again. Fine, just fucking dandy.

Why the goddamn hell did you involve me? I snarled. I couldn't go in there after seeing her like that, he answered quietly. I sensed deception here, maybe an omission, maybe an outright lie. I couldn't tell and didn't have the presence of mine to pin him down on it. Instead, I angrily blurted, why did you tell me she worked for the circus? She did. The house is the circus.

So I don't know if you know this. but circus has a definition other than the clowns and elephants variety. A circus is a sort of open public space where several avenues converge. Circuses had been the crux of his last phone conversation with Evie. She sobbed that she was tired of the circus, that the circus wanted too much, that she no longer knew what to do with the circus. So what's the goal here? I made my voice deliberately callous.

You own the house. Why don't you just burn it all down? Because he cut off hissing. Series of unwholesome pops filled the room. Fluid erupted from a dozen holes in his arms. He grimaced. Because that girl, whatever she was, wasn't my wife. She was too young.

I think Evie might be alive. In the painting, through the portal, he corrected. He spread his arms. A rain of jelly pattered to the floor. I didn't want to involve you, but I can't do it. This alone. Sure you can. I thought bitterly, but I didn't say it because, you know what?

I can't get the idea of this circus out of my head. An untold number of avenues from different dimensions and realities converging on a single unremarkable spot in the West Coast's grossest mid-sized city. And that bitterly cold, beautiful world full of luminescent moonflowers and trees draped in breathtakingly intricate nets of moss. and the labyrinth, of course, that dark labyrinth with a black pyramid at its center. I'll never have a chance like this again. Never in my life.

Okay, I said. What do you want me to do? Lay in the yard for a while, in the sun, just in case these things are on your suit. Then go home. I'll call you in the infestation's dead. I did as he said, lingering in his yard. until sunset. I checked on him one more time, still stretched on his living room carpet, squeezing fluid from those sickening holes, and went home. I've been waiting for him to call

ever since. I hope his infestation's done. I know I have a lot of other things to worry about, but I can't stop thinking about those holes in curts skin. It's great that sunlight kills them. But I'm scared of what will happen in the dark. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, or email us at Creepypod at Gmail at gmail.com. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikiya.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license.

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