Creepy - I Joined The Adult's Table For The First Time This Year & Hellthy

Episode Date: March 10, 2022

I joined the adult's table for the first time this year***Written by: likeeyedid and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Content Warning: Suicide***Hellthy***Written by: Scam Likely and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Find 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.

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 simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy Presents. I joined the adults table for the first time this year, written by like I did, and narrated by Megan McDuffie. It's not blood that binds us, but tradition. Customs that we live by, that we cherish and pass on to our children when they grow old enough. Tradition is everything to this family, and as you are a part of it, you have no choice but to value and live by our roles.

That's literally what I've been told on the car ride to each family function we've ever had. I'm not kidding. Either my father or mother will say those exact same words. One time I jokingly said them myself before either of them could, but then my mom repeated them anyway, acting like she didn't hear me. They emphasize the importance of tradition so much because they know I can't stand our holiday evening with the extended family. To be honest, I can't stand those people in general. You see, my extended family is incredibly odd. They always have been, forever will be, and every time I see their peculiar faces,

I notice even more how strange everything about them is, especially now that I'm growing older. My grandma was a horrible woman. My uncles are greedy, rude men. My aunts do nothing but pick you apart. And don't even get me started on my cousins. Loud, annoying, and incredibly disgusting little kids that make one evening together feel like being stuck inside a dreadful school cafeteria for an entire month.

Luckily, I don't see them often. We only ever get together during the holidays in December. So technically, it's not a bad deal, a night spent with the sticky cousins for a year of peace from this family. My Aunt Margaret always hosts. It used to be my grandmother before she passed away a few years ago. As my aunt inherited the house, she also took over the pleasure of being the host for the holidays. Welcome home, my lovelies! Aunt Margaret stood on the porch of the familiar old house as we got out of the car.

Her red hair was blow-dried. She was wearing a violet dress that looked like it should have been left in the 50s, as well as grandma's familiar apron with lemons on it. Mum jumped up the stairs with the kind of energy she never usually has and gave her sister a big hug. Dad followed with the bottle of wine they brought in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. Happy holidays, Margie, he said as he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Everything was exactly the same as always, which means that I was next. Margaret waited for me as I made the last step up the stairs to the porch, and she gave me a hug so tight that I felt this morning's breakfast moving up to my throat. Her lavender perfume wasn't exactly helping the sudden nausea I got. Oh, Mel, how big you've grown! She said through those lipstick-stained teeth. How old are you now? Sixteen?

I nod. Yeah, my birthday was a month ago. It's not like any of them sent a card or bothered to live. call. Still a little too young, I suppose, she whispered, and I felt her hot breath against my ear. As we got into the spacious entry hall, more uncles and aunts appeared to greet us. Kids were running around, playing, and I already felt like being inside a zoo. I got two wet kisses from Aunt Tully and Trudy, the twins, as well as a handshake from each of their respective spouses. Uncle Ted and Uncle Theo, who both smell like ashtrays, gave me hugs and made some

stupid jokes as the entire company made their way to the winter garden where the rest of the adults were having a drink. That's where we usually sit around and do chit-chat before dinner time. I could already feel the headache settle in as well as the fear that Margaret might want my help when a hand grabbed me and pulled me back. Mateo! I exclaimed happily. I was already afraid he somehow got out of coming this year. Mateo was the only cousin that I could actually stand, maybe because he's the only one that is almost my age, less than two years older. Usually, he was the only one that made dinner a little fun for me, but last year my only decent cousin was invited to the adults' table. Well, I had to stay

with the kids. The table arrangement is a pretty big deal to this family. We don't even sit in the same rooms. My cousin looked exactly the same as last year, Alina and you're too taller. From our looks, you'd never guess that we're related. Mateo has dark curly hair, mine is straight, and and blonde. He has blue eyes. Mine are brown. He's pale, and I'm tan. The only thing we have in common is the absurd clothes we have to wear because of the dress code. My mother left the purple satin dress with a bow around the waist on my bed this morning, and with it I had to put on these horrible black patent shoes. Mateo wears a black shirt, and around his neck is the bowtie in the same shade of purple as my dress. Our family color.

Come with me, Mateo whispered, and I followed. We walked all the way through the house to the garden, which is on the opposite side of the building, to the winter garden where the rest of the family was. We sat down on the stairs that led down to the grass, and Matteo pulled out something from his pocket. He grinned as he showed me the joint he apparently rolled this morning. Want to start our own family tradition?

I anxiously looked back at the house. They won't notice, don't worry, he said, and pulled out a lighter. "'So, how have you been the past year?' He asked after we sat there a while. I shrug. Pretty much the same as always. How about you? Yeah, same.

You know, I wanted to call you the other day. Couldn't find your number anywhere, though. When I asked my dad, he just said no. Like I said, our families only ever get together during the holidays. We're never in touch except for that. He said no? I laughed. But Mateo stayed serious.

Weird, right? I also tried to find you online, but without luck. Anyway, do you remember the last time we were here? He said, while biting his nail. Um, yeah, but we didn't really talk then. Remember, I had to stay at the kids' table. Now his eyes opened wide. You didn't eat with us?

Okay, how much of this did you smoke? I laughed again. It's so weird, Mel. I hardly remember last year, and when we got ready to drive down today, I felt so strange about... There you guys are! A shrill voice behind us interrupted him. Aunt Margie, I said, trying to think of an excuse already, but she didn't seem to care what we were doing. The sun's almost down.

Come on, come on, it's dinner time. We got up and she put her two arms around each of us. Mel, honey, I know you're still a little young, but turns out your Uncle Tobias didn't make it, so we have a spare seat at our table. Isn't that marvelous? And so I finally was invited to sit with the adults of the family for dinner. I'd never been inside the dining room before. It was much more spacious than I had imagined. The wooden table in the middle of the room could seat at least ten more people. I didn't understand why I was never allowed to sit with them before. The room was next to the one for children, though we didn't hear a sound from next door.

Around this time, they were probably already being served the food by the kitchen staff. No fancy food. At the kids' table, we always got chicken nuggets, fries, stuff like that. I was curious to see what the adults were eating. I sat down next to my mother, who smiled with her mouth, but not with her eyes. On the opposite side of the table was Mateo, who looked confused, which at that moment I blamed on the weed. I looked at the table in front of me and was surprised to see that there was no food, no cutlery either.

We all had one plate with a little black box on it. I reached for it, but before I knew it was happening, Margaret appeared beside me and slapped my hand. Not yet! When I looked up again, I noticed that all the adults were watching me. I swallowed, suddenly wishing I was in the other room with kids.

The atmosphere in the room was so tense, and I didn't understand why, until Margaret took a seat at the head of the table. Welcome, family. It's not blood that binds us but tradition. Customs that we live by, that we cherish, and pass on to our children when they grow old enough. Tradition is everything to this family, and as you are a part of it, you have no choice but to value and live by our rules. I swallowed. I realize it hasn't been the same since Mother left, she continued. She was the heart of our holiday, after all. But with the obstacles thrown my way, I still try to do my best. And you do it so wonderfully!

Trudy shouted in glee, although something about her speech pattern, sounded forced. Why, thank you, sister. I am glad to see our family grow. She looked at me when she said that. and for some reason a shiver went out my spine. Should we help you serve dinner? I asked, so that the awkward moment would pass by more quickly. Everyone laughed in response. Confused, I looked at Mateo, but his expression was empty.

Now, family, it is time for our tradition. Please open your boxes. Everyone immediately grabbed the box in front of them, so I did the same. I lifted the upper part, only to realize that it was empty. I looked over at moms, and it was empty, too. So were the ones of Dad, Mateo, and pretty much everyone else it appeared. Except for Theo's. He dropped the lid and rested his hands on the table.

Aunt Margaret got up and walked towards my uncle to take out what was lying inside the box. A knife. She smiled at Theo, who turned his hands around, so that his palms were facing upward. With the knife, she cut inside his left hand first, then the right hand. Theo moved his hands up above the plate in front of him so that the blood from the fresh wound would be collected inside of it. I felt incredibly uneasy, close to throwing up. The weirdest part about all of it was the fact that nobody reacted. They stayed still, sitting, watching, and as I looked through the room, I realized that I was doing the same thing.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I tried to move, but my body wouldn't listen. We continued watching as Aunt Margaret dipped her index finger into the blood and started drawing a strange symbol on the forehead of Theo. She whispered words I didn't understand, and when she was done, Theo finally got up from his chair, and the two of them started hugging. For this year, you will be mine. If you prove worthy, we will all meet again during our holiday in the next year. She finally said, the rest of the evening felt even stranger. Aunt Margaret led Theo upstairs where his hands were cleaned and sown.

After they came back, the kitchen staff started serving the food. There was roast, goose, and duck, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans, puddings, cakes, and biscuits, food that you might find if you looked up festive dinner online. The family started laughing and putting food on their plates, but nobody ate. I'm not even sure if any of the food was edible. They were merely acting out at dinner party, and even though I knew something was wrong, even though I felt the fear growing. and growing inside of me. I couldn't do anything, but join. Join the fake dinner and the fake laughter.

It was as if something else was controlling me. This continued until late at night when we finally started saying our goodbyes. We hugged, kissed, shook hands, and then every family got inside their respective cars. Mel, you need to listen very carefully. As soon as we are far enough away, we will forget everything that happened tonight. My mother spoke calmly as my father started pulling out of the driveway.

Mom, what the hell? What was that? Why? I felt my heart racing inside of my chest. All my thoughts felt scrambled. Mill, listen, my father shouted. He was holding the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles got all white. He was trying hard not to shake as he slowly started the gas.

Aunt Margaret was standing on the porch, watching us. The other family members were inside their cars, all in front of us, except for Theo. I saw him through the window. He stood there with an expression of fear and hopelessness in his eyes. This is not our family. We are not related to those people. We come here each year. We don't know why.

We once got tricked into it, and every year since, we get in the car on that particular day, and we arrive at this house, my mother said. I wanted to say something, but decided to stay quiet instead. We forget about everything as soon as we leave, and the next year we drive here again. Whatever we do, they manage to pull us back here. We believe the same is happening to those other people who you think are your aunts and uncles, but we don't know for sure, she continued. "'We have no way out of this.'

"'And now they've decided that you are an adult,' "'my father said. "'He was driving so slowly "'that I could still see Margaret waving "'through the exterior mirror of the car. "'Dad, why are you going so slow?' "'I whispered. "'The sight of her was scaring me even more now.

"'My entire body felt like it was simultaneously frozen "'and on fire. "'As soon as we leave the street, we will forget. "'We just wanted you to know. even if you will forget that we're sorry, and we should have told you sooner. We thought we had another year before they declared you an adult. What's going to happen to Theo? I finally dared to ask.

We might see him again next year, if things go well for him. If she's happy, she'll let him leave, and he will be replaced by another family member. All those years, I remembered our odd family dinners, except I was never a part of the real tradition. I was with the kids who were annoying but not horrifying. All those thoughts were racing through my mind. Mateo knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't communicate it. He couldn't remember everything.

I closed my eyes as we drove down the street and made a turn. I held my breath almost all the way until we were on the freeway. Were you ever chosen? I finally asked. Did one of you ever stay with her? I knew that made little sense, because if my parents were gone for a year, I'm sure I would have remembered. I'm so full. What an incredible dinner. My father suddenly said, I know, right? How does Margie do it?

My mom rubbed her stomach and giggled. Mom? Dad? I whispered. Next year we should contribute. Maybe I could bake something, she continued. They never spoke about it. it again. When speaking of family, they would only repeat that bullshit about tradition. Of course, I'd tried to tell them, but they'd forgotten everything right away and looked at me as if I was losing my mind. But I remember everything. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I technically joined the adults a year early. I know that my parents must know as well, buried somewhere deep

inside of them. I noticed the twitch in their eye when I speak about Margaret or any of the other family members. I've tried so much, though, and convincing them seems next to impossible. I finally gave up and decided to start looking for Mateo instead. So far, I've had no luck, no phone number, and I haven't found any of his social media either. It's gotten so far that I almost started believing my parents, believing that I was imagining things, that I was losing my mind. However, almost before I gave up, I did find something else. I remembered that one person never showed up to dinner. Uncle Tobias.

So again, after a lot of research, I found something about this man who I don't believe is related to us either, and I believe that a part of him knew what he might have been facing that. day. He never showed up because he committed suicide on the day of the family dinner. Creepy presents, healthy, written by Scam Likely and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. On Sundays, Ellie and the ladies wake up at six o'clock, as they always do. They scrape back their highlighted hair into limp ponytails, stuff their bodies into shiny leggings, and lay out kid cereal in bowls on the breakfast bar to go stale.

Then they creep out to their Volkswagen Passats, which they drive past all the other new builds with the sweeping countryside views that they themselves have blighted, into town, to the gym. They gasp all over the treadmill, grunt on the stepping machines. They languish in a pool of sweat in cobra, or gag on clouds of quefe'd air in downward-facing dog in the hot yoga room. All of this is followed by a blast in the communal shower,

where they dart little looks at each other's bodies. I know they do this because afterwards they come to my shop across the road to chatter about what they saw. Incredibly, they tell me that this whole ritual is the one thing they do for themselves all week. And that's probably why they sip slowly, scraping down the sides, making it last. "'This place is amazing,' Ellie gushes to her new friend over the roar of the blenders, and she claps her hands together. She comes here every Sunday, masked with an identical arrangement of makeup, that lifts with the tide of sweat and shower steam,

before settling in layers just south of where I assume she applies it. The result is a strange, uncanny valley look, like someone rubbed her face out and drew it back on again. Despite this, I like her, and she brings lots of people with her. This year, I've watched her go from a little bit dumpy to a super yummy mummy with a tight tummy. And when I make this joke to her,

she does a comic little twirl and counters with a rejoinder of her own, pointing to her visibly less bulky bummy. She's had to buy new leggings. She hasn't looked like this since before the kids ruined her figure, and she couldn't be happier. The new friend is introduced to me as Rebecca from the kids' school. But she doesn't say hello because she's squinting at the menu on the wall, fiddling with the zip on her Fred Perry hooded top nervously,

too short-sighted to read, but too vain, I imagine, to pop her reading glasses on. I'll get whatever you have, she says, predictably exasperated. Green goddess, please, babe. Ellie says, preening under a heavy curtain of waterproof mascara, sliding a 20-pound note towards me on the glass counter. Two of them keep the change. I stamp her loyalty card, drop the change in the tip jar, and get to work, cramming two of the blenders full of bananas and apples, raw almonds, creamy, coconut dairy replacement, and a drizzle of agave, which is sugar, but from a cactus from far away.

Their great huge things are blenders, with motors so powerful, I'm convinced they could power a motorbike or blend a Jack Russell Terrier into a smooth, velvety paste. But I haven't tried either. The fruit is followed by handfuls of kale and spinach, which gives it the green and makes the ladies' coup. And finally, I stir in powder from the glass jar that I keep in the lockable mini-fridge. It has no label. and if we ever have the money for staff, they won't be allowed to touch it. I add a little scoop of that powder to every shake, smoothie, juice, and tea I hand over the glass counter to my customers. I even sprinkled it on my homemade paleo-protein-plus brownie, until people,

complained it was gritty. It's magic stuff. It might be invisible, because even though I add it in full view of the customers, no one has ever asked what it is. If they did, I'd say it was a special organic protein mix, and they wouldn't question me,

because I'm the only juicery Southampton have, and you don't piss off your smoothie maker. It's a half-truth, though, as in the good half is true, the better half. They're organic and mostly protein. The tapeworm proglitids, which are little sacks filled with eggs harvested from grass-fed free-range cows

that spend their lives lolling around in fields of the picturesque goarly farm that supplies me. They've converted a cattle shed into a lab, where they're washed and combined with an organic rice-brand substrate for freshness, and a man with bushy eyebrows hands them over to me in a brown paper bag. He doesn't ask questions either. Every new batch is tested on myself first, licked off the back of my hand, and chased by a suck on a lemon in the manner of a tequila shot because they like an acid environment. So far, they've always worked. I know because I let them grow for a few weeks before ridding them from my belly with billy. I fish the little blighter out of the bottom of the colander and piece him back together in one long line for measuring.

So far, my record is 22 inches, which, incidentally, is one inch smaller than my waistline. Sunday mornings are always good for business. I open early to kick. catch the crush of Ellie-type ladies, the organized types that are back at home to spread dairy-lea on sourdough for the kids by lunchtime. After midday, the crowd and beverages thin considerably. The demand for protein shakes turns to watery mushroom teas, ordered by dower women in thicker track suits, who look guilty as they sip with puckered lips from the cardboard takeaway cups. The bitter liquid is a very mild penance for these types, and I often spot them on my way home,

hunched in the driver's seat in the gloom of a KFC drive-thru, shoveling in popcorn chicken with a wild look in their eyes. Their self-control left some. somewhere at the bar, back at my juicery. Sunday mornings are good, but Friday nights are even better. I hold cleansing parties at ladies' houses, where, on granite kitchen islands, I assemble and fill enormous vats with all manner of fruits and herbs and alkaline water to fill them up.

handfuls of petals plucked surreptitiously by my own hand from displays at B&Q, float on top and add a splash of color and whimsy. I sell canvas enema bags by the dozen. I note the group dynamic while I chop and wash the things for the vat, sense who is the least popular, and then direct them into position for my enema demonstration on the edge of the sofa, while the others watch. Bottom in the air, relax and let gravity do the work. My juice and slush parties, I call them, which never fails to generate a shriek of delighted revulsion so loud that I'm. I often see bleary-eyed children in pajamas

stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen, rubbing their eyes and demanding a sip from the pretty juice that all the grown-ups are having. If I've added the powder by then, it's a firm no. Children need the calories. By the time the demonstrations are over, and after I've sold out of nozzles and bags and blenders, and I'm packing up.

I often spot a pot or two of Hagen-Daws, softening in the sink where they don't think I'll see it. I say nothing, but I listen to the glass jar clinking in the boot of my car as we crawl over the crunchy pea-gravel drive, steely in my resolve that I did, the right thing. Too much choice, thousands of variations of air fresheners, and sliced breads to fill your head and make you fat and angry. I've seen it consume them, so I give them

worms, and the worms give control. Kenny is a personal trainer at the gym. fully booked on Sundays by a never-ending troop of ladies in 20-minute slots, during which they are berated, their limbs and torsos contorted into angles they thought anatomically impossible, while their muscles scream. And they absolutely love it, swooning like schoolgirls, when they inevitably bump into him at the juicery. Kenny comes in every day and gets an extra scoop of protein free from me, no special powder out of respect.

He doesn't need it, not like Ellie. Ellie had a birthday party and booked me for a juice and slush deluxe. Tumoric shots and lettuce cups filled with barbecue satan, vegan panacotta set with agar, and of course plenty of green juice served in glass jars to make it feel like California, all sprinkled liberally with my very special powder. I get a tingle deep inside when I see the ladies scarf them down in their stockinged feet and hand-knitted jumpers, knowing how, how good they'll feel in mere weeks. But that could be the uncurling of my latest experiment inside my intestine. Ellie hugs me hard and thanks me for making this happen at the last minute.

As her husband skulks past and looks right through me, venturing out from the safety of his home office. She whispers that they've been having problems. recently, and that she's been comfort-eating to cope. Her oldest has been in speech therapy for months, and it's not helping. And Gavin didn't get the promotion she wanted. All that seems to help are those chicken wings from marks and sparks that she keeps in a tub in the back of the fridge.

But she wants to get back to where she was. I presume she means physically. I tell her to come pop into the jucery on Sunday if she needs to chat. She smiles gratefully and picks up a plate of lacto-fermented Korean-style pickles and does the rounds. As she turns, I spot a bulge of spray-tanned flesh flopping over the waistband of her black jeans, which wasn't there a few weeks ago. I narrow my eyes. Sunday rolls around, and Ellie sits conspicuously alone,

stirs the dregs in the bottom of her cup, and waits until Kenny slurps the last of his green god down. One more scoop of protein than in the goddess. Burps goodbye, and makes a dash through the icy January drips, for his Mazda. She leans forward over the counter, uncharacteristically bashful, patting her stomach and shaking her head. I start to count my takings. She tries to distract herself by gazing at the enormous displays of piled, lurid fruit.

Of course, it's horribly unseasonal, but no one wants a bramly apple or slow-plum smoothie. Trust me, I know. What's wrong? I ask. She says something softly about her tummy hurting, rubbing the area just above where the pubic hair starts. I offer her a squashy seat at the glass bar, and she sinks into it gratefully. It's been like this for months, she says. At first she thought it was stress from the new job she has, the name of which I don't remember, but I recall thinking it sounded made up.

But it just kept going downhill. She tried everything, apple cider vinegar, and all manner of gingered and minted and timed teas. But it just gets worse. I tell Ellie I do tongue mapping. She doesn't know what that is, but she gets excited, turns from a green to a pink with pleasure, when I explain it's an ancient Chinese diagnostic technique. The tongue is a clear window into the health of the body. I tell her to step into the level.

light from my Himalayan pink sea salt lamp and open her mouth. The first thing I notice is a chia seed wedged between her teeth. I ignore that and tell her to open wider. She does as she's told, and the tongue unfurls like an excited Labrador retriever. I lean in so closely that I lean in so closely that I I can feel the damp heat coming off it and squint. It's a pristine, deep pink, free from cracks, film, and fur. I do notice something untoward, though.

A white speck at the very back lurking in the darkness behind the uvula. The speck gets bigger, comes clear. closer, and as its head lifts off its fleshy bed, it shines pearly in the light. It has no mouth or eyes, but the long white rope quivers at the blast of recycled air, and I swear I hear it gasp like a newborn over the din of the top 40s. from my speakers, there to ease the transition from gym to juicery. It's out so far now that I worry it might fall off her tongue, and onto the glass counter, and make a mess, and we'd have to acknowledge it.

It edges further towards me, proffers its cheek for a kiss. Then, as quickly as it came, slithers back into the darkness, disappears. I tell Ellie to put it back. I know exactly what the problem is. I concoct a very special smoothie and load it with my special powder that I tell her vaguely is probiotics. The cup is so full, the liquid bubbles through the perforated cross on the top and drips over the sides as I put it towards her, leaving a greenest skid mark on my beautiful glass counter. She smiles, takes the top off, and gulps it down gratefully. I tell her this one's on the house, and that I hope she feels better soon.

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