Creepy - I Never Should Have Questions Where I Learned To Whistle

Episode Date: July 31, 2020

Don't ask...***Written by relicular and narrated by Mike Dent***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced 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.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends 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. Rupy Presents, I never should have questioned where I learned to whistle,

written by relicular, and narrated by Mike Dent. When my wife slunk out of the bathroom in her underwear, damp and rosy from the shower, I let out an exaggerated wolf whistle. The whistle cracked the serious mask of her face into a smile, but something about the peak and valley of the tone didn't sit right with me. My bedroom faded from view. I'm eight or nine and staring into the face of another little boy. It's Nolan, my best friend.

Our mouths are puckered into O's, and we're both blowing. Who's Nolan? Do I know a Nolan? He was pushing a shrill, reedy sound from high in his throat. My breath is nothing but a rust of soundless air. Don't worry, Sam. You'll get it, he tells me. My name is Jacob. Who's Sam? I blinked and it vanished.

Poppy crawled into bed and slotted herself into the slice between my arm and my torso. She ran her finger down my bare chest, a prelude and a promise. Pops? I said, have I always been able to whistle? She frowned at me. Of course you have. He whistled at me just like that the day we met. Did I?

I couldn't remember. She crept closer, her hair sweeping my skin. But I was trying to grasp that fluttering vision. It's just that I don't think I'd ever learn to whistle. Poppy peeled herself up. Her eyebrows, rigid lines. Of course you did. You just whistled. He must have learned some time. Why are you worried about this? She leaned forward to press your lips against mine, as if she meant to silence me.

I pulled my head back and said, I don't know, I'm just a little freaked out. I'm too young to be losing my memory. I meant it lightheartedly, but she didn't take it that way. Her voice swelled with uncharacteristic anger. You're being ridiculous. Stop talking about this, she demanded. My wife was one of the most level-headed people I knew. If she told me to drop it, I listened. But the force of her defensiveness unsettled me. I had already ruined the mood so we went to bed facing opposite directions.

Our backs rising and falling and syncopated rhythm. When I was sure she was asleep, I rounded my lips and quietly whistled. If I didn't know better, I would have thought Poppy was having an affair. Ever since I'd brought up that damn whistling. Really, the only time I can remember her raising her voice at me during our otherwise idealic relationship, she'd been acting oddly. Not when we were together. If anything, her sweetness was sicklier, the tips of her fingers always brushing electricity across my arms,

her warm body, a luxurious comfort on the couch. But we were together less often. She started working late. She would take calls after hours in the guest's bedroom with the door closed. She went in on weekends. One day she arrived home two hours later than expected, with our daughter Hannah in the back seat, claimed community theater rehearsal ran late. I was reluctant to involve Hannah, but I asked her a few careful questions,

and she confirmed the story, using almost the exact same verbiage, as if she was parroting it. Any of these things would have been isolated blips. but when plotted on the same graph, like seismic spikes that crested with increasing frequency, they were a pattern. The memory of the little boy who couldn't whistle twisted inside me and told me it wasn't a good idea to address her behavior directly. After nearly 15 years of marriage, 12 of them and sconed in the mania of raising a child,

I had seen a sharp edge to poppy that she had never revealed to me. I'm sure you can see where this is going. I did the thing that all suspicious lovers do, and snooped through her phone. Normally, Poppy guarded it closely, but the opportunity arose sooner than I'd expected. We were watching television when something crashed in Hannah's bedroom. Perhaps she'd knocked her laptop off the bed again. Perhaps it was something worse. Poppy leapt up and started bounding up the stairs, calling Hannah's name. I was about to follow when I noticed she had left the phone on the table.

I'm not proud. but I needed to know. I picked it up and punched in the basket I had surreptitiously watched her enter. There were no unusual text messages, only calls. Regular calls to the same number. 959-5-4-44-9. I knew that number. 959.

I'm sitting in a room of slate gray. The walls are on blemished concrete. There is no dust in the corners. I'm on a very, very cold metal chair. I'm resting my hands on the table. Something that looks like a hospital bracelet is pinned around my wrist. There are tiny numbers printed on it. A phone number beginning with 959.

The room appears to have no door. Then a section of the wall slides open with a hydraulic wish, and I realize that faint lines carve its silhouette. A man steps into the room. Do you have any questions? Poppy's footsteps begin to descend, snapping the vision in half. Hannah was fine. I placed the phone carefully back on the coffee table,

feeling it was crucial that I leave it exactly where I found it. I researched the phone number at work. I didn't want to use my home Wi-Fi. The number was listed on a web page. Redevelopment Corps. Infuriatingly generic. The page was a mess of buzzwords and lingo that obfuscated any clue as to the purpose of the business.

It had a professional finish, all clean lines and stayed blocks of text. There were no images, no links. The contact information consisted only of the phone number and an address, in the state adjacent to mine. Google Maps told me that it was about a three-hour drive. As I closed the browser and wiped the search history, my eyes fell on the picture frame on my desk. Poppy and I on our wedding day, I had my arm around her, and my expression was burrower. bursting with love and trust. I wished I could remember that day.

I'd been so happy I blacked out even though I was completely sober. The joy overwhelming my grasp with the details. That happens to everyone, doesn't it? Poppy was extremely suspicious of my claim that I was going on a business trip. I couldn't blame her. She was always more perceptive than most. She could read my moods. Told me why I was sad or angry or anxious before I could even,

put a name to the emotion. She knew, obviously, that I was lying, and to try and convince her otherwise would have been fruitless, so I merely wished her a good few days and kissed her forehead. As I pulled out from the driveway, I could see her watching me from the living room window. She was on the phone. The long stretch of highway that I had about an hour into the trip knocked loose another vision. I'm in the driver's seat going 75. It's too fast. The limit is 60. But my fiancé seems to enjoy it. It makes her feel alive. So I eased just another notch of pressure on the gas,

watching her thrill in the whipping wind. My fiancé is not Poppy, it's Lauren. The light of my life. The girl I've been in love with since I bought a movie ticket from her when she was working the counter at the AMC, and she said, I heard that's supposed to be good, and I said, why did I just buy two and you can come see it with me? And she unclipped her name tag and left her post,

and she clutched up my shirt in the darkness, where the shadows flickered at the corner of the screen. The image is toppled. into each other. I tried desperately to catch one. Any of them, but they dribbled through my consciousness like a sieve. I arrived at the facility as the sun sank below the horizon. It looked more like a prison than an innocuous corporation. The building was a solemn cube, nestled amongst farmland, the only large edifice for miles. A chain-link fence surrounded its perimeter. Was the barred wire meant to keep people out? Or in?

I lowered the window and heard the crunch of the gravel under my tires as I approached the booth. The garden side was dressed in a nondescript black uniform, and he was heavily armed. State your business. I need to find out why I can whistle. He pulled a lever to open the groaning gate and waved me inside. I was back inside the room. the immaculate gray walls, the cold chair, the metal table. I had been led here by silent men,

who did not touch me, but marched beside me with their shoulders boxing me in. I sat there for half an hour. My eyes fixated on the cracks in the wall that outlined the door when it opened. I didn't recognize the man who entered, but he recognized me. Jacob Sanderson, he said by way of greeting. I've been expecting you. I stood so suddenly I surprised myself, the chair clattering to the ground. Tell me what the fuck is going on, I said trying to keep my voice even.

You know my name, you know that my life is not my life. I'm not really married to Poppy, am I? My name isn't Jake? Is Hannah my real daughter? You have many questions. It will take some time to answer. Sit down. He motioned at the chair.

He didn't move. and for a while, neither did I. Finally, I hoisted the chair upright and sat at the table. He sank into the seat opposite from me, tapping his fingers on the surface. Mr. Sanderson, feel the skin behind your ear. Why? But I did as I was told, and rubbed my skull just behind my left ear. There was a bumpy ridge of skin, a scar.

like it was sewn together. How had I never noticed it before? Mr. Sanderson, you were wearing a different skin. You have been implanted with a device that alters your memories. It's not perfect. As you have realized, we offer our deepest apologies for the malfunction. My vision swam. It couldn't be possible.

I realized that I'd been holding up. I'd hope that this would turn out to be a figment of my imagination, a wild conspiracy that I'd cooked up entirely within my own head. Somehow it was worse to learn that I wasn't crazy. What the fuck did you do to me? You have a new life, Mr. Sanderson. A new identity. It has been this way since you were 23.

I was gripping the table so hard my knuckles were turning white. What about Poppy? And Hannah? He studied me closely. monitoring my reactions. Poppy was a volunteer, though I believe she has come to care for you. Hannah, he's your daughter, and knows nothing about this. I slammed my fist down on the table and stood up again, pacing quickly around the room.

Hot blood was rushing to my head. I felt like I was about to pass out. Why did you do this to me? I shouted. Why did you take my life away? Because, he said, you asked. too. I stopped. What? He stood as well and got very close to me.

His voice almost a whisper. Something terrible happened. Something so awful you couldn't bear to continue living. You were referred to this facility after a failed suicide attempt that left your original body disfigured. And you were already planning another. We gave you a choice. We would not stop you if he desired to die by your own hand, but we offered you the chance to forget. What was it? I asked hoarsely. I don't remember what happened.

Well, it was your fault. He paused. Do you want to hear the rest? I scrambled through my fragmented memories. Sam's memories. My real memories. I could find nothing that gave me the barest hint. I don't know. Do I? I can't make the decision for you. But I can tell you this, he said. You've been in this room before. Not just the procedure, but thrice after that.

The technology was a prototype. We've made advances, but your early model seemed to sputter and fail after a few years. We've had this exact conversation several times you and I. And you have always chosen not. to know. I screwed my eyes shut as though I could claw my way out of this nightmare. The thought of carrying on knowing that I was incomplete, that I wasn't truly me, loomed large. But what had I done? Back before I'd forgotten, the knowledge had been so horrific that I'd wanted to take my own life and had chosen to excise it from my memory forever?

After a moment, I shook my head. I suppose I don't. I think that's wise. Silence blanketed the room. We looked at each other. Two men who had orbited each other for decades. One unaware. One always watching.

He said, You have another choice. We can perform the procedure again with the, upgraded product, we have worked hard to make it last longer, and preliminary results from other subjects are promising. I must emphasize that I strongly believe we have managed to develop something truly permanent. So the decision is yours, Mr. Sanderson. Do you want to walk away, or do you want to forget? I swallowed my mouth dry. Can I have a few days?

Of course, you have our number. He cocked his head at me. You know, it's funny. The thing that always brings you here, it's always the whistling. Bobby was waiting in the living room when I arrived. She must have heard my car. There was a feline weariness about her. The sight of her on the familiar couch,

and the nightgown she wore almost every night, felt like an anchor, tethering me back to reality. Jake? She asked. Her voice unsteady. After a moment, I nodded. Her body visibly relaxed in a wave of relief. She embraced me, murmuring in my ear, telling me that my favorite pasta dish was warming in the oven.

Was it my favorite? Did she love me? I didn't know. I leaned into her warmth. letting it invalid me and become my world. It's been a few days. In its broadest strokes, life is normal. Hannah is bouncing around in excitement because her birthday is soon.

She'll be a teenager. I'm excited too, although it's dampened by the intrusive thoughts that cage me when I'm alone. What have I done? What happened to Lauren? What unimaginable destruction did I cause that made me want to erase my own existence. I made the call last night.

I have an appointment for next week, and I've told them that this time, they'd better make it stick. Goodbye, Sam. I don't think I can face you. I suppose in a way, as you wished it to be. I am ending your life.

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