Creepy - I Never Should Have Come to the Office Christmas Party

Episode Date: December 13, 2021

Ho ho ho...***Written by Kyle Harrison***Bonus episode: "Madness, Mutilation, Death. Choose One." Written by sarcasonomicon 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***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***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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A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legend 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 and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents. I never should have come to the office Christmas party.

Written by Kyle Harrison. That was there to flirt with Haley Charters. A new temp from accounting that had flown in from Seattle only a few weeks back, and she didn't even show. To be honest, the moment I realized that I felt like trying to find a fire exit and leave. The entire thing just struck me as unusually dull and dry. Only about 13 people were in attendance, probably all here to snatch a few free finger foods before attending a real Christmas party with real friends.

the music in the room was slow and boring as though whoever created the event was just trying to throw something at the last minute. Given the way management handles all the other debacles around here, I wasn't going to put a pass to them to have screwed this up too. Still, it felt rude to just duck and run, especially since a few co-workers had already spotted me and made small talk. I figured the least that could do would be stick around for their gift exchange and then make an exit with all open presents. This year's theme was apparently secret Santa. And just in case you aren't familiar with the concept, I'll explain how it works. First, there's a sign-up sheet where people put their names down to say that they're interested in giving someone else a present.

The key here is that the other party doesn't know who the gift is coming from until they receive it. And then the same process occurs over and over until everyone gets a random person assigned to them. The gimmick was probably designed with more commercialism in mind. But the sentiment of trying to bond with people that are basically strangers is a good one, I guess. Not that anyone here would ever really try to do that. I can tell from the not-interested bland expressions of all my coworkers that the only thing they were thinking about was how long they were stuck here. Bill, a manager for marketing,

used a fork against a wine glass to get everyone's attention as I eyed the buffet. Even the food they served was cheap. An example of how little the higher-ups thought of us even during the holidays. He asked to get everyone's attention and I set my plate down. realizing he was probably going to give a very long and boring speech about how great we all were and such. I didn't want to look like I was stuffing my face, even though I wished I was. Then he began to rant about all the amazing growth our company had despite setbacks, including new employees and a new branch opening up.

Stuff that honestly none of us cared about. It felt like it was going to last forever. her. But thankfully, an older woman from research spoke up and complained that she had to get home to her kids, so he wrapped up the speech rather quickly. I have no idea if that was true or not, but I was certainly thankful she'd pulled that out of her hat, so to speak. Bill quickly sat down and the organizer of the event, a middle-aged woman named Dorothy, told everyone it was time to exchange gifts. I hadn't really paid much attention to the stack of presents across the room, but now that she was telling all of us, I realized.

it actually seemed like there were quite a few large wrapped items there. I couldn't even imagine actually spending a lot of money on any of these people. And besides, I was sure that the rules had specified not to spend over $10 in order to make gifts around the same equal value. Someone hadn't been listening. I speculated for a moment whether that meant that two of the people in the room were having a scandalous affair, even as gifts began to be opened. Then, as everyone finished getting their items, I noticed there was one small,

box still left on the table. Someone must not have shown up, I realized. I reached for it, pretending that I belonged there too, and then shuffled to the back edge of the room, slowly unwrapping the bow. I had to admit that even though I thought the whole thing was silly, I was impressed with how whoever had been the secret Santa had gone all out for the presentation. As I took the top off, though, I felt like I was a balloon having the air squeezed out of me. There was only a small, gram letter inside. To Philip from your secret Santa. Philip worked over in shipping and receiving, and as I opened the letter, I wondered if maybe

all he had gotten was a dinky gift card to some second hand shop. Instead, I was surprised to see it was a handwritten note. What it had to say made me feel uncomfortable. Better watch out, you read. You've been placed on the naughty list this year. What did that mean? I paused and looked up towards the others in the room, realizing that the others had strange notes, everyone looking at one another in confusion. I heard a few people muttering under their breath something was wrong as the last person started opening their package.

The next thing I knew I was on the floor. What happened must have been an explosion of some kind. I remember seeing a flash come out of the box and a loud boom that rocked the entire room. Everyone flew back and I felt my body hit the wall as the shaking stopped and fire alarms douse. the unexpected blaze. The entire floor was chaotic. My ears wouldn't stop ringing as I tried to get a sense of what had happened. There were sparks flying and shooting from broken fluorescent lights and debris from the party

and office equipment strewn about everywhere. Smoke kept me from seeing who else made it through the bomb unscathed. But amid the clatter of noise, I heard a scream. As the room became easier to see, I realized the reason for their shrieks was because what had happened to the unfortunate soul that opened the last gift. All that remained of their body was a scorched heap of tissue and bones. In fact, as I stood there, I realized part of their entrails had scattered onto me. Immediately, I rushed toward the exit.

Another co-worker ran for the fire alarm. But it didn't do any good. The system was shut off and the door was jammed. I tried the elevator next, only to stop as I heard. heard blaring static over the old intercom system. All of us stopped what we were doing as strange, sinister, and jolly laughter filled the air, the voice said. I felt my stomach drop as I realized the elevator wasn't working.

I was realizing what was happening. We were trapped here. So Santa can tell you what the holidays have in store for you. A disturbing, disjointed voice ordered. Reluctantly, I joined the others in a small crowd as we stand. stood at the edge of the fire that was slowly dying near the center of the room. The voice cackled. I think by the end of the night we will know who's been naughty and who's been nice.

Then a projector screen slid down from the front of the boardroom nearby, showing an image of the now deceased man that had been destroyed. This man slept with several co-workers that weren't his wife. How very naughty! You will get nothing but cold this year. Our captor announced. Santa has been watching you all year round. I made a list and I checked it twice.

I know who's been naughty or nice. Tonight, I expect all of you to get drunk on eggnog and accept your fate. A timer replaced man's image. And as it began to come, down, the strange voice explained. Our next ten minutes is everyone. As the static end, all of us looked at each other trying to comprehend what had just happened.

One woman was insisting that she was a good person and she didn't belong here. Others were saying the same. Bill was trying his best to be the voice of reason, telling everyone to calm down. Several others were trying to call the police, but no one had reception. Even the internet had abruptly shut down. We were effectively trapped. Maybe there was a way to escape, I thought, as I looked towards the air vents. I made the suggestion and several the other guys helped me to push a large desk over to the vent.

Then I surveyed the group and tried to figure out who might be small enough to crawl through. Pointing towards a petite woman, I told her she'd have to be the lucky one. She timidly looked at the hole as one of the maintenance men began to unscrew the metallic cover. All of us huddled together to help her climb in. It was a bit of a mess to get her up, but she finally managed to squeeze into the tight hole. All of us sat anxiously in the middle of the room and waited to see what would happen. No one dared to make a peep as a woman's struggle to push her body through the tight space. Then, just as she crossed from the office we were trapped in, we heard this cry of pain and the lights flickered.

There was this ominous buzzing from the air vent and we heard a thud. and all of us got silent. We waited another moment to see if she was all right, but there was no response. Instead, our demented captor came back on the intercom with another jolly and sinister message for all of us. Looks like someone was getting greedy and trying to sneak out of the North Pole.

Let's not try that again, shall we? If you are good little children, Santa will bring you lots of toll. As the static died again, I looked toward the vent and saw bodily fluids drip towards a carpet, making you want to puke. So much for a chance to get out that way, I thought sourly as we all reconvened in the middle of the debris. It was easy to say that the carefree and lackadaisical attitude which had permeated the

room was now replaced with feelings of apprehension and uncertainty. Then one of the employees that worked directly on this floor made the comment that made Maybe the saboteur was right here among us. And I could see that everyone was looking at one another suspiciously. I tried to get everyone to settle down before accusations began to fly and immediately was discovered that the petite woman that had crawled into the vent might have been sleeping with the first man that died. Of course, I knew there was really no way to verify any of this.

But I did quickly point out that I wasn't supposed to be here. Maybe we should stop pointing fingers at each other and instead focus on trying to find the way out of here? I told them. Bill and a few of the older managers were looking toward the long glass pane windows that lined up the south edge of the floor. During the impact of the bomb, several of the thick windows had cracked, but surprisingly none of them have broken. Bill made the suggestion that we might be able to cascade down the side of the building if we had the proper equipment. It was safe to say that no one thought that was a good idea, but we changed our tune 10 minutes later when we heard from our mysterious secret Santa again.

This time the sound system played grainy old Christmas music, the kind of easily gets stuck in your head. Next we saw a slideshow of the woman that had died in the air vent. As if to remind us of her unfortunate passing, the air condition activated so we could smell her newly rotting corpse. I felt the need to throw up again, even as the dangerous psychopath holding us hostage made an announcement. It's time to find out who gets to go home early for being such a good sport.

Will the following caroling co-workers please step forward? It listed off four names, including Mr. Bill, and they were told to stand by the elevator and wait for more instructions. I told him I suspected it was a trap. They were so eager to get out that no one was listening to me. All of us watched as the forsome got to the elevator and the doors were the way. magically opened. Then a few of the others still stuck here began to object and push for the door.

Immediately a loud blaring alarm went off and the evil Santa warned us to stand back. Hold for good boys and girls. Any naughty children will still be punished. I managed to scramble to the front and hold back to the men as I shouted Bill to hurry and get on the elevator. One of the woman tossed her phone and shouted, As soon as you get out, call for help. Then the group left, as the elevator doors closed and we watched the digital numbers descend to the ground floor.

The rest of us were on edge for the next good ten minutes. The men I had stopped from shoving their way into the elevator regarded me with extra suspicion. It was easy to assume that I must have had a role to play in this insanity since no harm had come to me. Me and another young man were trying to remind everyone all we had to do now was wait. Shirley Bill and the others would be able to find help and then we'd be out of here in no time, but after about half an hour, that sense of re-insurance began to dwindle, especially because one of the women checked the elevator and made a startling report.

It had never made it to the ground floor, meaning our co-workers that had attempted to leave no traps somewhere in a confined space. Almost as if on cue, once you made the revelation, more jolly music came over the speakers, and our mysterious kidnapper had a new announcement to share. Holidays are always full of surprises, aren't they? One day you think you're on cloud nine, and next you might be in the gutter. The projection screen came down, and immediately a grainy image of the foursome that at last came into view. They were stuck just like we'd assumed, bickering and trying to avoid losing their hope as they waited in the elevator somewhere below.

Would-be Santa helpers have actually been stealing? from the company for over the past six months. How shameful. I'm sure you would all agree that only those good elves get to help with the toys in the workshop so they won't be home for the holidays. I watched an abject horror

at what happened next. The roof of the elevator opened up and little sprinklers came out of the hidden alcoves. a trap built by our maniacal captor and spewing out of those spouts it was what looked like acid even though there was no sound on the video feed I knew it sort of pain those people were enduring

they slammed their fist against the walls and tried to claw to the roof for help the acid was burning their skin hitting their eyes and making their bodies writhes with pain I held a hand over my mouth and tried to avoid screaming to myself at the awful display. Then the feed went black, and the secret Santa made the next proclamation.

No holiday would be complete without a sleigh ride. So stay tuned to see who gets to go for a magical journey with Santa. As soon as the awful display came to an end, I got to work on Bill's plan to scale down the side of the building. I wasn't about to wait to see if I was next on the chopping block for this madness. Grabbing an office chair, I slammed it against the thick windows, trying to break it apart, but it did no good. A woman helped me, and we shoved a desk toward the edge, pushing together to shove it through

one of the larger cracks. This time, the combined weight caused the window to give way, and we tumbled on the carpeted floor as the equipment flew to the ground below. I stared down at the busy metropolitan streets, realizing that none of the people below probably even had a clue about what was happening up here. I silently wondered if they would even care, or simply go about their business. But that was a cynical part of my brain kicking in

as I turned back to the crowd and gave orders to tie together Ethernet cables for rope. We gathered as many bundles as we could, binding them back and forth tightly against one another until at last they made a good, taught rope. Just to be fair, I suggest that we draw straws to see who would climb down. It would prevent any further arguments, I said.

As luck would have it, I drew the short straw. The others made sure the makeshift bungee cord was around my waist and then used one of the larger pylons in the office to act as a base point for me to repel off. I looked toward the precipitous gap between me and the lower floor and felt dizzy, realizing I wasn't quite ready to do this. It'd mean certain death if I'd miscalculated. But I couldn't hesitate now. I closed my eyes as I leaned over the edge and then made the first leap of face.

My feet hit the glass window hard and I told myself it would only be perhaps 10 to 15 feet to reach the next floor. It'd be like walking across a room, I thought as I slid down and felt the sharp winds hit me. As I reached the next floor, I pressed my body against the window and started a tap on it in hopes of getting someone's attention. The floor was dark. I shouldn't have been surprised. If it hadn't been for this office party, I would have been off today too. Most people were. It suddenly occurred to me that there might not be anyone in the building besides us.

I shouted to the group above to send something down that I could use to break the window. A gustavere hit me again, and I nearly lost my footing as they offered a small desktop computer. Hurry, the secret Santa just came back on the screen and I think they realized you're gone. One man shouted to me. Careful, I smashed the computer against the window just enough to shatter it and give me an opportunity to get through the hole. Once I was in, I released the Ethernet cable and it fell to the floor. As I stood there in the darkness, I felt an unease take over my body. This floor wasn't abandoned, I realized as the automatic lighting detected my movement.

The floor was littered with employees that had been asphyxiated somehow. All dead from some toxins released in the knee. here. At least 20 people were dead, I discovered. And as the lights came on while I walked across the room, I realized that this also was likely the secret Santa's control room. A bunch of monitors were set up in the center monitoring different floors where others were trapped, controlling everything to prevent anyone from escaping. So how come I've made it this far? Just as the thought crossed my mind, I turned and saw a bearded costume Santa slammed me in the face. face with the bag of toys.

I blacked out. When I woke up, I was tied to a chair by a candy cane rope and dressed as an elf. I immediately felt violated as I tried to squirm out of the bonds, and I heard the costume killer laugh from across the room. Finally up and about, are you? Well, good. I wanted you to wake up and see the end results of this merry crue. Christmas.

I suddenly realized that they'd planned this to take place right before the holiday on purpose when most people were out with their families. And they soon explained why. None of you have any decency in your heart. No spirit of Christmas. You waste your time here in this office while it sucks the joy away. You have forgotten the true meaning of the holiday. Even this close, I couldn't make out for sure who the disguised killer was, but I couldn't deny they were wrong.

This company had truly destroyed any chance I had of enjoying a Christmas with my family. But that doesn't make what you're doing right, I argued. They pointed towards monitors and made their point abundantly clear as they got on the intercom. It's time and last for our holiday season to come here. nearby desk drawer where Santa delivered your gifts to use them to get out once and for all. I watched on the large monitors as my coworkers did as instructed, all of them finding sharp objects including hatchets and knives to fight each other. Each one wrapped with a bow that had another co-worker's name on it.

Whoever is left standing in the next ten minutes will get to go free. and if any of you refuse to cooperate, well, let's just say it will be a very cold Christmas for all of you. The Santa chuckled. The men and women looked at each other with desperation and terror. Either they killed one another, or the secret Santa would end it all. He made another bellow of jolly laughter as he kept the feet going and added, I will let you watch the show. I have to deliver toys elsewhere.

I watched as the fat man ran towards the elevator and disappeared from sight. Then I desperately worked to break my bonds, watching as my co-workers turned on one another. Blood was covering the carpeted floor. Several of my co-workers were already dead. The rest were severely wounded. I managed to loosen my ropes or something. a minute before the timer ended and I grabbed the microphone that the secret sand had used.

Please stop. The killer's already left. You can stop. To my horror though, they didn't listen. And I watched until only four men were left in the carnage. And the power returned. And another Christmas melody played. The killer had made their way out.

And now we were left with guilt and a bloody nightmare to clean up. Then to top. it off, I watched as the videos were erased and the evidence scrubbed of any audio announcements. The proof that the Santa killer had even been there was gone for good. Let's have a white, clean Christmas. A final message right across the screen in bright red and green as authorities rushed in and arrested the survivors. I was the only one that was allowed to walk out scot-free, because I wasn't even supposed to be there. But I haven't been able to face work since.

and I can't even sleep without hearing that awful jolly laughter. The nightmare before Christmas is over, but the ghosts of this Christmas will haunt me forever. For your bonus episode, creepy presents, madness, mutilation, death, choose one, written by Sarcasonomicon and narrated by J.V. Hempton Van Sant. Madness, mutilation, death. Choose one.

I chose mutilation. Chose. Choosing implies rationality, agency, free will. What I did to myself felt rational. I weighed the pros and cons. I considered alternatives like I was reading reviews and consumer reports. then I hacked sawed off my feet. It was because of the wasp.

I found the wasp next to my kitchen sink, lying dead, I thought, on my sponge. I gave a startled shout when I saw it. Then I picked up the sponge and carried it to the trash can, moving carefully to keep the wasp from rolling off. Something about it caught my eye. The wasp was tangled in a tiny net of brown fibers that spiraled out of its body. Gross, I shouted. Then I flipped the sponge to launch the wasp into the garbage.

That's when I discovered it wasn't dead. Well, it wasn't inanimate anyway. It had enough energy for one last buzz of its wings. and one last twist of its tail or abdomen or thorax or whatever you call the part with the stinger. The fucker jabbed me, and then it died for real and fell into the trash on its own. I pulled the stinger out of my thumb with tweezers, put a band-aid on the tiny red puncture it made, then had a beer. Deciding to have a beer wasn't much of a decision.

It's not like deciding to open the fridge, grab a bottle, and flop onto the couch is as important as, say, deciding to quit your job or deciding to dump your girlfriend. But that stupid decision, grab a beer and sit on the couch, was the last decision I made by myself. My last decision without the influence of the parasite. When I woke up on the couch the next morning, the same little brown tendrils that spiraled out of the wasp body had sprouted and twisted out of my thumb. I sprinted to the bathroom, holding my hand out in front of me like I had just put my thumb into something gross. But it was really the other way around. I hadn't put my thumb into something gross.

Something gross was inside of my thumb. I turned on the hot water and scrubbed the little brown strands off with soap. They broke off where they exited my skin like they were little strands of super-fine spaghetti. Watching them swirl down the drain made me sad. Whatever they were, they had been hard at work all night, productively pushing themselves out of my thumb. I wish I had thought about it a little more before destroying them. Maybe then I could have gotten used to them.

With the little brown strands gone, I had to choose what to do with my day. It was Wednesday, and I had a regular office job, so there shouldn't really have been any kind of decision to make. Get dressed, go to work, just like the last 500 Wednesdays, of my life, but today was different. I felt bad, not sick bad, like I had the flu, physically actually, I felt better than I normally do in the morning. But as I putter around, starting to get dressed for work, the sadness that overcame me when I washed the brown tendrils down the drain turned into grief and guilt. Two years ago, I ran over a cat while

driving home from work. I wasn't paying attention, and neither was the cat, apparently. Suddenly, it was in front of me. I swerved, and the cat jumped back. It was just dumb luck that our reactions moved us in the same direction. The combination of my attempt to dodge the cat and its attention, attempt to dodge me, sent it straight under my tire. To say I felt bad or horrible after running over that cat doesn't even come close to getting at what it was like. The mixture of emotions was toxic, beyond belief, intense guilt that I'd killed someone's pet, sadness, as I thought about how the family that lost the cat would feel. Anger at myself for not seeing the stupid cat. Anger at the cat for not learning how to cross the street and a desire to somehow make things right, to atone,

to live the rest of my life in a way that would make up for what I did to the cat. Whatever you call feeling all that stuff at the same time, that's how I felt about the rest of my life. That's how I felt about the crud I washed off my thumb this morning. I collapsed onto the floor and wept. Therefore, I decided to start eating. I washed some crud off my thumb, became grief-stricken as a result, and decided to start eating.

I can understand in principle how that line of thought might seem counterintuitive to someone else. But to me, even now, this is an unassailable line of logical reasoning. Of course I need to start eating. Some amount of whatever the wasp injected in me was still there. Still sitting in my thumb wondering what happened to it the cute little tendrils it pushed out of my skin.

It needed food so it could make more. I boiled water for spaghetti. I finished a box of cereal while waiting for the water to boil and ate an entire half gallon of ice cream while the pasta was cooking. I drained the spaghetti, dumped all of it back in the pot, and poured a whole jar of ragu on top. Then, as my culinary instincts now completely engaged, I decided to unscrew the top of the brand new green,

cylinder of pre-grated parmesan cheese and empty it into the pot. I ate all the spaghetti, and then I kept eating all day. A whole loaf of bread, the foil-wrapped leftover chicken in the fridge. I made a shitload of rice and ate it with the condiments that were in the fridge door, a bowl of rice with a whole bottle of Thousand Island dressing poured over it, another bowl of rice with a half jar of mustard mixed in, another bowl of rice with a bottle of hot sauce and mayonnaise. I threw up a few times, but after every vomit session,

I decided to keep eating. It was the only logical thing to do. It's not that I wanted to. It just made sense. Eating made the feeling of despair and guilt go away. I finished all the food in my apartment sometime after the sun went down. Running to the store to buy more would take too long, I reasoned, so I started in on my liquor supply.

After all, alcohol has calories and calories. are good. I started with the vodka. I didn't have anything left to mix the vodka with. Literally everything that was in my refrigerator or pantry this morning had gone down my throat and was either in my digestive tract or upchecked into the toilet. I took a big swig from the bottle.

I counted ten deep breaths, then took another long pull. I could feel my stomach getting ready to push the vodka back out the way it came in. I counted to 60 and tipped the bottle back again, sending a series of satisfyingly large bubbles glugging up the neck. I wet burped. Nothing major but a warning that my stomach was about to go into full-on rebellion. I collapsed onto the couch and thought about eating. The alcohol, I decided, wasn't a good choice. If I drank any more vodka, I'd puke again for sure and lose the benefit of the calories I had recently consumed. I needed more solid food. I got off the couch and shuffled to the kitchen. I had downed a third of a bottle of vodka, and it was already starting to hit me. I grabbed a pad of paper

and a pen and made my way back to the couch, breathing hard. I read. I read. wrote Shopping List at the top with a double underline. I thought for a minute or two about what I needed to eat. Something with a lot of protein, I reasoned, to help the wasp-crud thing in my thumb rebuild itself. Ten cans of baked beans, I wrote, and then I crossed out the ten and replaced it with 20. I wrote tofu next. Tofu is supposed to be good for you, right?

I put the pen back on the paper and added at least 10 pounds. Then I put a few more items on the list. Sixteen whole chickens, one box of every kind of cereal, and 30 gallons of milk. I wet burped again, this time spitting. up a tablespoon of noxious mixture of vodka and semi-digested glop that rose up into my mouth. I struggled to my feet so I could run back to the toilet. Then the vodka really hit me. I fell back on the couch and the room started spinning. I closed my eyes and clung to the couch, waiting for the spinning to stop. It didn't stop, but ten minutes

later, it had slowed down enough that I could risk opening my eyes. I looked down at my lap. The pad of paper with the shopping list was still there. I squinted hard and re-read the list. What in the hell? I shouted it out loud to my empty apartment. What the hell had I written on the list? I wrote that list when I was sober. Now that I was massively drunk when you think my judgment would be impaired the most,

the list looked crazy. Sixteen chickens? Thirty gallons of milk? The irony of this was not lost on me. Usually you sober up and think of all the stupid things you did while you were drunk. I slumped on the couch and drunk. runk off my ass, was thinking about the stupid stuff I did earlier when I was sober.

Why had I been so upset about washing the strands of whatever it was off of my thumb? Why the hell did I skip work and have an all-day eating and purging festival? I paused to throw up. Most of it landed on the couch. Something had entered my body when the wasp stung me. Something psychoactive, hyper-psychoactive, mega-hyper-psychoactive, something so nutso that even Timothy Leary and the CIA would agree that it was a bad idea to use it. I still felt the grief and guilt and knew that eating would make these toxic feelings go away,

but the vodka had taken the edge off. The weird logic that compelled me to eat didn't make as much sense now that I was drunk. The vodka obviously affected my judgment, but it affected the judgment of the wasp gunk even more. As long as I was less drunk than what was inside of me, I could make decisions that weren't completely insane. Even though I still had the spins and couldn't focus and had zero hand-eye coordination,

I managed to do some Googling. My search history got a lot weirder and darker that night. I started searching for brown wasp hairs and eventually ended up searching for things like wasp psychosis and fungus-induced dementia. I learned a lot about behavior-altering parasites, fungi or bacteria or other things that change the behavior of their host to benefit the parasite. Sometimes these parasites change the host behavior in ways that make you think the parasite might be smart. There's a virus that can make caterpillars emerge from their hiding. places in the tree bark, climb into the treetops where they get eaten by birds, which spreads

the virus to other caterpillars. There's a type of bacteria that infects rats and somehow makes them sexually attracted to cats. Then there's the wasps and the fungi that make them do things. Ageliopalipus compels infected wasp to leave their colonies and die alone, hanging from leaves by their mandibles. Another parasite makes worker wasp gorge themselves, that sounded familiar, then pretend to be queens, spreading the parasite throughout the colony. The fungus cordiseptus fechospatis phala is especially, cruel to the wasps it infects.

Wasps are very hygienic. Workers remove dead wasps from the nests before the whatever killed the wasps can infect others. Cortisepsis fechospala found a workaround. Wasp infected by cortisepsis fechosephala mutilate themselves. so badly that their fellow workers

don't even recognize them as wasps. The self-mutilated wasps die in the nest and their bodies remain there, spreading the cortisept spores to the rest of the colony. A wasp brain has about a million neurons in it. How can a fungus, a friggin microscopic microscopic mushroom, take control of a million neuron central nervous system, and then make the wasp do these super complicated things,

like pretend to be a queen or methodically chew apart its own body. The fungus can't be so smart that it takes direct control of the wasp limbs, controlling them like the wasp was a puppet. Instead, I bet the fungus dumps out just the right amount of neuroactive chemicals into the wasp nervous system to make the wasp want to do these awful things. The wasp, I imagine, just gets these urges, the urge to hang from a leaf until it dies or the urge to mutilate itself. and it figures out how to satisfy that urge by itself. What did it feel like to be an infected wasp? One morning, instead of going out and finding food or fixing the nest or whatever job it is,

it thinks in its own little wasp way, Hey, I have a great idea. I'm going to go outside, and I'm going to grab onto a leaf and just hang there until I die. Cool. Let's go. Is the wasp scared or confused by this?

Or does doing whatever the fungus wants feel like the wasp version of free will? The vodka finally won its battle against my consciousness

and I passed out in front of my laptop thinking about what it felt like to be a wasp that happily decided to chew off its legs and wings. I woke up sober. My parasite was sober, too. The fungus had been busy while I slept. A nest of brown strands spiraled out of my thumb and wrapped around it like a tangle. A few strands had started poking out of my wrist and the back of my hands. hand, too, like tiny fungal whiskers. Progress. I held my hand away from my body, so I wouldn't accidentally break off the fragile strands. I thought about going to the doctor. Better yet,

the urgent care or the ER. Now that I had a behavior-altering parasite in me, and sprouting out of me, too, I knew. I knew I knew I should really think critically, dispassionately and without emotional bias, about whether I should seek medical help. I mentally made two lists, a pro-medical help list where I had collected arguments for seeing a doctor, and the anti-medical help list, which would hold counter. arguments. In the pro-medical help column were ideas like, I've been acting strangely and there's a fungus consuming my right hand from the inside. I hadn't hit my deductible yet, so the ER visit would cost me a lot. And besides, the doctors would

certainly damage the fungus and probably try to kill it with medications. After weighing the two lists, I decided that seeking medical help wasn't the right way to go at the moment. I also decided to unplug my Wi-Fi router, so I wouldn't waste any more time, Googling fascinating facts about the beautiful fungus that was flourishing in my arm. I turned off my mobile phone and unplugged my landline, too. I didn't want anyone to call me and give me misinformation about my parasite. Finally, I don't know. I don't decided to get rid of all my alcohol. The rest of the vodka, a half bottle of gin, and a brand-new

Johnny Walker red label went down the drain. It took longer than you'd think to get these chores done because I couldn't use my right hand. My little fungal strands were so fragile that they'd crack even if I gently brushed them against something. I needed some way to protect my hand, or they'd get crushed while I slept. I rummaged around my apartment, looking for something I could use to protect my hand. Eventually, I found an empty shoebox.

I took the shoebox, the box cutter, and some packing tape to the dining room table and began figuring out a way to fashion the shoe box into a fungus-protecting container I could somehow tape to my hand and arm. I eventually came up with a design that would let me close the box around my hand without the need to risk squeezing the fungus thumb

through the armhole. I didn't get very far in the fabrication process, though. Since my right hand was basically useless, I'd had to make complicated cuts with the box cutter in my left hand while we were wedging the box against the table with my right elbow. It didn't go well. I slipped with the box cutter almost immediately after I started, sending the blade slicing into my right forearm. The box cutter blade was new and was still scary sharp. The cut it made was only a few inches long,

but it was deep and produced an impressive flow of blood almost instantly. I stood up so fast I knocked my chair over and started to rush to the bedroom. to grab a box of band-aids. But I stopped when I saw the little pattern of red dots. I had dripped on the tablecloth. Seeing my fresh bloodstains gave me an idea. No, it wasn't an idea.

It was a decision. I've made a great decision. I decided to start hurting myself. I started small making a few experimental jabs into my thigh with the box cutter. The constellation of wet red ovals that formed on my jeans was satisfying. My decision to hurt myself was clearly a good decision. But I hadn't gone far enough yet. I decided I should try a few other methods of injuring myself,

just make sure I didn't miss out on any really good ways to cause damage. I took off my shoe and dropped a series of increasingly heavy objects onto my foot, a flour vase, a frying pan, a microwave oven. Ugly purple bruises started blooming almost immediately. I turned the stovetop on and rested my forearm on, the burner. It was my left arm, of course. I couldn't hurt the fungus living in my right hand. I managed to keep it there for about ten seconds, which rewarded me with a perfect burnt skin rendering of the spiral heating element on my arm. There was pain, but it wasn't that bad. My foot was now

nearly 50% covered in bruises so dark they were nearly black. My burnt arm stunk of burning skin. There was some stinging, a little soreness. But whatever chemicals the fungus was dumping into my bloodstream did a fantastic job of mitigating the pain. Thanks, fungus. I decided to start smashing my hands. head into things. The wall, the television, by the time I slammed my face into the sliding glass door

of the balcony, I was getting pretty good at the head-smashing stuff. My face broke through the glass door. I paused and inhaled the cool evening air. That little pause gave me time to think. I thought about the damage I'd done to my body, not to my right arm. I've got to keep the fungus safe. It all felt like a good start, but it wasn't quite good enough. I needed to do more to fully commit to helping my parasite. I pulled my head out of the hole I made in the glass, slid the door, open and stepped onto the balcony. The balcony overlooked the apartment's parking lot.

I carefully looked over the railing at the bushes and sidewalk six stories below. My forehead was bleeding badly for my interactions with the wall, the TV, and the glass door. A few drops of blood ran on the end of my nose and dripped off into the six-story gap of air between me and the ground. That! I needed more of that. More bits of me falling to the ground below. If I could just somehow hang myself by the neck over the balcony without falling off,

eventually my body would scatter to the winds and to the ground below. Ah, that would be wonderful. or not. I was doing a great job mutilating myself. If I continued to pursue my mutilation project to its logical conclusion, I'd eventually get to the point where I couldn't move anymore due to my injuries. Ugh, that would also be wonderful, just to lie in a ruin, mound of my living room floor?

What a dilemma. Death off the balcony or mutilation in the living room. Hmm. Both options were good. Really good. But I couldn't do both. I needed more of that dispassionate decision-making. I engaged in earlier when I decided to put off going to the doctor.

The doctor worked out very well. My little lists of pro-doctor and anti-doctor points really clarified things for me. I decided to go through that process again, where I'd weigh the merits of pro-death and pro-medulation points. I found the pad of paper from the shopping list. I scribbled out the list of chicken and milk and wrote two new headings. Death, mutilation. I had to write with my left hand to avoid damaging the fungus.

The words were largely sloppy, like they were written by a first grader, or a lunatic. Then I had a really wacky idea. I don't know where this thought came from, but it seemed almost absurd. I could not kill myself and not mutilate myself either. Just for kicks, I wrote down the third heading on the paper. Do nothing. With my three options listed, I'd be able to do nothing. Three options listed, I began writing pro and con points for each.

Death. Pro. Body fluids leak onto foliage below. Khan. Can't guarantee my body won't fall while hanging myself. Mutilation. Pro. Gives fungus a chance to spread inside the apartment.

Khan. Can I mutate myself enough for this to be effective? Do nothing. Khan. I will go crazy if I don't do something. Not a realistic option. Obviously, I'm still here. I couldn't post this if I were dead.

It shouldn't be too surprising that I ended up choosing mutilation. I'm not going to go into everything I did in pursuit of total self. mutilation. But I'll mention a couple of highlights. I took my feet off with a hacksaw. I made extremely effective use of the box cutter, too. I went out myself hard for about 90 minutes slicing through my Achilles and hamstrings on both legs. I gouged out my left eye. That was exhausting work. Chopping up bodies is hard. Doing it yourself

is particularly difficult. I intended to keep going, but I needed to rest. Since I was already on the floor, I rolled onto my side and stared at the dust bunnies gathered under the couch. There was something under the couch.

I wiped my face, on the carpet to get the blood out of my eyes. It was a bottle of tequila. It must have rolled under the couch when I was doing shots with a few friends last week. Suddenly, I realized how thirsty I was. I knew that parasite didn't approve of alcohol, but my thirst was bad.

Why hadn't I noticed how dehydrated I was getting? I swirmed into a slightly different pose, leaving bloody streaks on the carpet, and managed to grasp the tequila bottle. I unscrewed the cap by holding it in my teeth and tipped the bottle into my mouth. I drank. A lot. I finished the bottle. Now I'm drunk, and so is the parasite. Once again, I'm temporarily. in control. I'm drunk beyond belief and in a lot of pain. But at least my brain is making its own decisions. I can't walk because I took off my feet and ruined the remainder of my legs. I can basically

only squirm around on the floor. I forget where my phone is, and I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not mobile enough to search for it. But my laptop was on the coffee table, and my router, which I unplugged, was on the floor next of the couch. I was able to reach both of them. I managed to plug in the router and turn on the laptop. You know what the major problem with laptops is? You can't call 911 with a laptop.

Maybe there's an app, but I'm too wasted to figure out how to find it and install it. Also, yes, this is pretty terrifying. I'm starting to sober up, and so is the parasite. I can already feel its twisted logic starting to make sense again. My crazy-ass list of pro-and-con mutilation points are starting to start to make sense. seem reasonable. I'm already daydreaming about disemboweling myself. All I could think to do was post this here.

Maybe someone will read it and send help before I die. Although, with the damage I've done to myself already, I'm not sure I want to live anyway. At least, when someone does finally find me, they'll know what happened. For even more from creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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