Creepy - I Won't Call it a Monster & Madam Ona's Shoppe of Curiosities

Episode Date: July 24, 2025

I Won't Call it a Monster***Written by: Rebecca Cuthbert and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Madam Ona's Shoppe of Curiosities***Written by: P.D. Williams and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or 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 won't call it a monster.

Written by Rebecca Cuthbert and narrated by Michelle Kane. Jack's great-grandfather told his son never to chop down the gnarled old tree. And Jack's grandfather told his son never to chop down the gnarled old tree. And Jack's father told Jack never to chop down the gnarled old tree. But Jack, my stupid fucking husband, Jack, went and chopped it down anyway. Well, he tried to anyway. He stopped when something, some actual goddamn thing, took our daughter. I haven't decided yet, whether or not I'm going to leave him.

Would you? If you were me. Would you leave him? I bet you would. I'll back up. It was four days ago. A perfect Sunday afternoon here. It's his family's cabin, passed down from father to son for four generations.

Cammy loved it here. No. loves it here. How can I be talking like my six-year-old is past tense? My baby who will turn seven in August and who loves horses and wants to be a ninja when she grows up. I've explained what happened that day 20 times. To the local cops, to the sheriff's department, to the statees, to some guy in sunglasses and a black suit from God knows what government agency. And now you, too. Where did you say you're from again? More initials? Fine. I don't care anyway. I'll tell you the same as I told them, all of them. Not that it did any good. Not that any of them have found her. I don't blame them, though.

I blamed Jack. Cammy had been playing on the lawn, piling the cut grass into a giant's bird nest and trying to get Roscoe, our docksen, to curl up inside of it with her. Mommy, we're baby birds! She called to me. I was on the patio, drinking ice tea.

The ice cubes rattled in the glass. Four ice cubes. I don't think I'll ever drink ice tea. iced tea again. I'll taste that day. Sorry, I'm rambling. I said something like, that's nice, or I see, and she laughed. That's the last sound, the last sound I heard from my daughter, her laugh. Earlier, Jack had told me the gnarled old tree in the back corner, closest to the woods, had to go. He said it was an eyesore, that it looked diseased, and that if he got rid of it, he could build a shed there. It'll be so much more practical, he said. We shouldn't just store the

mower under a tarp. And now, I can't help thinking he sacrificed our daughter for a lawnmower. I know it's not really like that. Jack is heartbroken, too. We sob in different rooms, but between my moans and heaving, I hear his, with that eye patch like he's a sad fucking pirate. When he told me that, though, about cutting down the tree, I told him, don't. Your dad said not to, and his dad said not to. Jack cut me off with a laugh, that annoying, nasally laugh. He said, yeah, and he said, yeah. And his father before him, superstitious old farts.

It's just a tree, hon, an ugly old tree. And it was a little ugly. It's trunk all squat and mottled, gray and brown and green, like the melted version of a prettier tree, branches twisted. Not many leaves. I think it's an oak. And the funny thing is, not funny, not funny, not. really. Is that in a way, Jack was right? That tree is diseased, just not in the way he thought.

Diseased and cursed are the same, right? He found a rusted axe in the basement. The basement is full of old tools, tools and spiders. And he brought it up and put it over his shoulder like Paul Bunyan and whistled as he walked over to the tree. Are you sure I can't get you coffee? Tea? I drink a lot of coffee. I don't sleep. Cammy was well away from the tree.

I made sure of that. I don't want you to think I'm a bad mom. Though you probably do. When kids go missing, that's what people say, right? Where were the parents? What were they doing? But I'll tell you, Cammy and Roscoe were playing in the grass. I was sitting on the patio, and Jack walked across the yard to the far corner with an ancient axe and way too much confidence and started whacking.

At first, nothing happened. The axe barely chipped that scaly, gray bark. So Jack swung harder. since I had told him not to do it, his pride was involved, and harder. He got through, making three or four cuts, and he was sweating, still trying to whistle for the show of it, but he was out of breath, and he hit it again, and chunks of wood went flying, and he'd gotten a good bite into it. You saw it, I know.

I watched you through the window earlier, taking pictures. And that's when the idiot got a splinter of wood in his eye, because he didn't bother with safety glasses. Shit! He yelled. He put a hand over his eye and doubled over. And Cammy and I yelled, What?

Or something like that. What's wrong? Whatever you say when someone does that? And he said something about his eye, and he ran past Cammy, and then he ran past me into the house. I set my glass down on the table. The ice cubes rattled.

I was about to go after my husband to see if we needed to find an urgent care. See how bad it was. I had already taken two or three steps toward the back door. Do you have a husband? Is he a moron, too? Good for you. So, like I said, I was heading for the back door, but then Roscoe barked. Roscoe isn't a yappy dog.

I know you probably think he is because he's a little dog, but he's not. He only has two barks. One is for when he's really happy. It's more high-pitched. And the other is lower. And he only does it when he sees something that scares him. Usually I only hear him bark that bark if it's thundering out, or if the FedEx guy comes up to the door.

I don't know why, but he doesn't mind the mailman or the U.P. yes guy. Anyway, I turned around. Cammy was standing right next to the tree. She was staring into it, into the gash Jack had cut in it. That gash, it looks like a mouth. Have you noticed? Look again. It does. She was staring into it. I didn't know how stable that tree was, like if it would fall over and snap, crush her under its weight. So I hollered. Cammy, get away!

And now that I'm thinking of it, now that I'm telling the story for the millionth time, I'm wondering, do you think some of it is my fault too? Like maybe if I hadn't yelled, the thing wouldn't have been, I don't know, alerted to her press. Do you think so?

Okay, maybe not. Well then, I'm sorry. Would you, would you hand me one of those tissues? This part is hard to get through. Thank you. Something came out of the tree, not from behind it. The police already tried to convince me that it was someone hiding in the woods, a kidnapper. No. I know the difference between a flesh and blood human and whatever that, whatever it was.

And please don't tell me that corner of the property is dark. How can I be sure, blah, blah? I know it's all shade and shadow, even in midday. And I'm telling you, I'm telling all of you, that something. thin and lanky and black leaned out of that goddamn tree and took my daughter. It was like ooze, like it wasn't entirely solid, kind of like it didn't have solid edges. Do you know what I mean? Of course you don't. And from the look on your face, I can tell you don't believe me. But its edges were like gasoline in a puddle of rainwater, indistinct, shifting. It looked stretched, long head, long torso, long arms with too many joints, skinny, and hands with fingers that reminded me of a spider's legs. Sometimes in my nightmares,

it's a giant spider that's taken her. Do you think that would be better or worse? Stop calling me, ma'am. Well, it's, it's, no, I can do this. Thank you. It's fucking spider fingers reached out and grabbed my little girl, grabbed her, grabbed her by the neck. And I screamed.

I might have screamed her name. name. That I can't remember what I screamed. It was probably her name. Well, it grabbed her, and it pulled her inside, inside the tree. It was like, like the gash in the tree opened up. I told you it looks like a mouth. It was like the mouth open and gagged out this, no, I won't call a monster. This creature, this creature that crawled out of the tree and grabbed my cammy and wrapped her in those long, awful arms and looked up at me. It had eyes, just milky blank spots. I mean, what kind of thing has eyes like that? And when it did, I felt absolute emptiness, Like every bit of light and love and goodness in the world was dead and gone.

Like time stopped. And I remember wishing I were dead too, so I didn't have to go on feeling it. Then it took her, pulled her back inside with it. That's what I'm saying. They were there and then they weren't. I don't even think Cammy screamed. or maybe she did and mine drowned hers out. Mine and Rosco's.

He was still barking that low, frightened bark. I ran as soon as my legs could move. It was half a second, but that was too long. I ran across the yard to the tree, Roscoe, at my heels. Jack came out of the house and ice pack over his eye yelling, What? What's going on? But the tree was how he left it, how Jack had, with its gash like a mouth, and a black, oozy inside and twisted, creaking branches. But no, Cammy.

Jack didn't believe me either. He called 911. The police came. They brought tracking dogs. Roscoe hated it. I had to lock him inside. But the tracking dogs. never left the property. Because like I told the police, Cammy never left the property.

She's in that tree, or wherever that tree goes to. How should I know? This place belonged to Jack's family, not mine. If some great-great someone trapped that thing in there, if they knew what it was, what it could do, they sure as hell didn't even sending notes about it. Just that simple warning, Jack ignored. You aren't any different from them, are you? Nicer suit, expensive haircut, designer heels, but you won't find her either. So it's up to me.

There have to be shovels downstairs with all that other shit. I'll find one and I'll dig. Wherever that thing has her, I'll find her. And after I do, I'm going to burn that fucking tree to the ground. Write that in your little notebook. All set? Then get the fuck off my property. I'm wasting daylight.

Creepy presents. Madame owner's shop of curiosities. Written by P.D. Williams. And narrated by Alicia Atkins. I can't stand this. anymore. Blair sat up in bed, wrapping her arms around her middle as if she were keeping her insides from exploding through her stomach. The pain was worsening. Despite the ultrasounds, lab works, x-rays, and countless consultations, there had been no conclusive diagnosis for her

searing abdominal pain. No tumors, no tissue scarring, no disease, no luck. By her ninth-second opinion, she had all but given hope of her going back to her life as it was. The life before the sickness had ravaged her world. Now the pain meds were barely working. Useless pills. I wonder how many would it take? There'd been a time in the not-so-distant past when the idea of ending her life would have been unthinkable.

Now it felt like a reasonable option, an escape option. Enough. This ends tonight, she promised herself. It was a promise she meant to keep. First, she somehow had to make it to the medicine cabinet for the pills. It might as well have been a hundred miles away. The trip to the bathroom was intolerable when she was having a good day. But tonight, the thought of making the journey bordered on the cruel and terrifying.

One more trip. Just one last. try, then it'll all be over. Blair planned to make the trek in manageable stages. First, she needed to stand up. She inhaled deeply and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The discomfort wasn't as bad as she had feared. Next, she rocked forward a few times, and when ready, stood.

Oh, my God! She felt as though she'd swallowed a douse of lightning. her joints stiffened. Her teeth gritted so hard that she feared they would splint her. Blair took in short snippets of air through her nostrils, as if they could somehow dilute the agony. After a bit, the pain subsided enough for her to continue. Blair cried as she contemplated the most challenging part of the journey, the walk to the bathroom. Please, just give me just a bit more strength, just a little more.

I'm begging you, she whimpered, grunting with each step. She inns closer towards the place wherein her salvation lay. By the time Blair got to the bathroom, she was exhausted. She placed her hands on each side of the sink, bracing herself up. She gasped when she looked in the mirror. The fit and trim woman who used to weigh a healthy 120 pounds was now an 80-pound scarecrow. her sallow skin sacked as if it were too heavy for her frame to support any longer. Her bulging eyes looked like too grotesque orb straining to break free of their skeletal cage.

Although she grieved for the woman she once was, she simply couldn't cry anymore. She was just too spent. Blair opened the medicine cabinet and looked at the pharmacy that now inhabited it. She spotted the hydromorphone and plucked it from the stack of other medication. the doctor had prescribed. She looked at the bottles as if they were a loaded gun. Her resolve began to wane. It's like ripping off a band-aid.

Just do it quickly and be done with it before you change your mind. She popped the lid and shook four tablets into her palm, twice the normal dosage. To be on the safe side, she added two more. She filled one of the small plastic cuffs beside the sink, through the pills toward the back of her throat. and took the full shot of water. Blair sat on the edge of the bathtub and waited for the pain to lessen enough for her to return to her bed. Within minutes, she became lightheaded.

Once the pain ebbed, she got up and plotted back to the place she hoped would be her second to last resting spot. Blair fell onto the mattress, closed her weighty eyelids, and waited for the lightness of death that would allow her to drift away like a wispy white feather. The light pouring through the window of Blair's bedroom the following morning covered her frail body in a blanket of soft gold. After a few tries, her eyes opened and remained so. Her mind was fuzzy, her body limp and heavy. As she became lucid, she realized that she had lived to see another day. Oh, no, not again.

She moaned. Blair had sat up and gotten out of bed before she realized that her discomfort was somewhat barren. The extra pills had served a useful purpose, after all. However, experience had taught her that moments such as these were short-lived. Her thoughts taunted her. I couldn't even catch a break from suicide. The second time's going to have to be the charm. But first, let's make this last day feel normal, for a little while, anyway.

Blair decided that, more than anything, she wanted to be around people again. She managed to get showered and dressed. When she was ready, she called an Uber to take her to the downtown district. It had been ages since she'd wandered at streets, shops, and cafes. Before leaving, she downed a couple more hydromorphone tablets to take the edge off, making sure to leave plenty for later. The Uber dropped Blair off in front of a coffee shop she used to frequent in the old and better days. The uncomfortable stares from the customers as she entered brought about a swell of embarrassment and sadness.

She didn't need a mirror at that moment to remind her of her cringe-worthy appearance. Their expressions cut deeper than any cruel reflection could. Blair limped to a table at the back wall of the cafe and eased into one of its soft, padded seats. Hoping to escape any further scrutiny, she hid behind a menu and waited. The server's reaction to seeing her was awkward but expected. Her clumsy attempt at appearing compassionate struck Blair as disingenuous and patronizing. Pushing the unintended offense aside, she relaxed and ordered something. She played things safe, asking for a small muffin and some tea for her breakfast.

The items smelled wonderful, and the very sight of them cheered her. However, the best Blair could manage was half of the muffin and the oven. and less of the warm tea. Given how much her stomach had shrunk, it was enough to satisfy her. After leaving the coffee shop, Blair walked along the sidewalk. Her senses absorbed every sight, sound, and smell.

Despite the busy life that was swirling around her, she felt a melancholy tugging at her soul. The day's activities would be her last glimpse of real life, a life she had taken for granted. Blair knew she was ill and had been for her. a while. But this was the first time that she felt like a ghost, a stubborn soul that had not yet taken its leave. She decided to walk a few more blocks than go home and vanquished the pain for good. Blair was halfway down the third and final block when she came to a store

she couldn't remember having seen before. It was a small, nondescript shop. Its modest appearance was in conspicuous contrast to the more modern, trendier stores. Even its door looked out of date. It was a simple affair, a wood frame with a single large pane of glass in the door's upper half. Stincled an old-style calligraphy was the shop's name. Madame Ona's Shop of Curiosity's. Intrigued, she turned the doorknob and entered. Ring-ring.

The small bell over the door surprised Blair she walked in. She found it quaint and musical. Despite the foot traffic just beyond its door, the shop was empty of customers. Its interior brought to Blair's mind an eerily lifelike Norman Rockwell painting of a small town general store. The old ceiling fans, combined with the rough hardwood floors, created a worn, rustic look. The place was full of shelves and glass display cases of mystical odds and ends. jars of colored powders, crystals, incenses, and old books. Blair felt as if she had stumbled through a mirrored doorway and into a magical layer.

A voice broke the silence, welcoming her to the store. Enthralled by the spiritual essence of the place, the woman's voice startled Blair. The woman introduced herself as Madame Ona. She apologized for startling me. She spoke with a lyrical accent that Blair couldn't quite play. The diminutive woman was dressed in a loose, brightly colored mumu. She was middle-aged, with piercing gray eyes. Her unkept mane of bushy white hair was so bright that Blair squinted at first.

Despite the woman's small stature, her presence was intimidating. That's all right, Blair said. My, you have a lot of interesting things here. Madam Ona swiveled her head from side to side, as if she were viewing the setting for the first time. With an intense gaze, she suggested that Blair had come seeking something, a worry or a need. Her eyes closed, and she tilted her head to one side, as if she were receiving an important message from some mystical force far away. She identified that I had a deep, physical pain that modern practices could not alleviate. That's right, said Blair.

The woman's intuition both impressed and unnerved her. As if sensing her apprehension, Madam Ona's ominous demeanor changed to a kind and gentle patience. She assured Blair that she could help. Her gaze settled on an item resting on a middle shelf to Blair's right. It was a small glass bottle, not much bigger than a shot glass, sealed with a crue. cork. There was no label of any kind to identify the single ingredient. A black, gray, speckled capsule. Madame Ona pointed to the bottle, encouraging Blair to pick it up, as if inviting her to examine a flower. Blair pince the curious remedy between her thumb and index finger. After studying it for a bit,

Blair asked, What is it? Madam Ona suggested that the contents of the bottle could eliminate all of Blair's pain, addressing her needs and desires. Blair was torn between trusting Madame Ona and avoiding being deceived. Such an act seemed cruel and self-serving. After all, she had a bottle full of cure waiting at home in her medicine cabinet. Why should the woman profit from her misery? As far as Blair was concerned, Madame Ona was offering her little more than snake oil, but her anguish was forcing her hand. She wanted so badly to believe that there was hope for herself that she pushed aside her suspicions and allowed herself to be vulnerable. Please, don't hold out false hope to me, Blair said. This is my final attempt before I end this hell myself. So please, please,

don't take this lightly. I'm a human being and I am desperate. Madame Ona smiled at Blair in the way that a mother would behold her splendid child, acknowledging the conflict between logic and the desire to believe in something magical. She emphasized that the bottle contained a remedy, capable of healing the pain that specialists had deemed incurable. The choice was ultimately Blair's, and she encouraged her to reflect on her past experiences with medicine. Then she turned and walked away. Wait, Blair called out. Madam Ona stopped.

How much? Madam Ona turned and walked back to Blair. She reassured her that there would be no payment required up front. They would discuss it later once the cure had worked. Blair's weariness returned. So you don't want me to pay you for this today? I can just take it and go? How do you know I won't change you?

cheat you. Madam Oana reached into one of her pockets and retrieved a small card and handed it to Blair. When Blair tried to take the card from her, she held on to its edge tightly, urging her to be patient and allow time for the remedy to take effect. Going to the front door, it occurred to Blair to ask an important question she'd not thought of before. Excuse me, ma'am. Should I be concerned about any side effects? Madam Oana mentioned that tiredness and increased appetite could occur. She was already walking to the back room, leaving Blair alone with her miracle cure. Blair didn't want to wait until she got home before taking the capsule, so she returned to the coffee shop she had visited earlier.

She ordered a cup of coffee and called for an Uber. She took the small bottle from her purse and laid it on the table in front of her. She stared at it, wondering if it would help her, if only a bit. Anything's better than nothing, she thought. When her coffee arrived, Blair removed the capsule from the bottle and swallowed it with the swig of the coffee. The hot liquid angered her insides.

Thankfully, by the time the Uber arrived, the burning had subside. Blair hopped into the car and headed straight home, eager to see what would unfold. Twilight's artful strokes painted Blair's apartment and pastel hues. She was reading, as she lay curled up in an oversized leather chair beside the living room window. The growl from her stomach reminded her she had eaten nothing since earlier. She closed the book and said about making dinner.

Blair went to the kitchen, found a small pot, and set it on the stove. Then she opened a cupboard and twirled the lazy Susan until she found a can of tomato soup. Soft foods and liquids were all she could tolerate. Blair remembered the woman. promised that her appetite would improve. I'd give everything I own for a single slice of pepperoni and pineapple pizza. Once she heated the spoon to a moderately warm temperature,

she emptied it into a bowl, then grabbed a spoon. Blair sat down to the table and worked up the courage to eat. With hesitation, she spooned some of the soup into her mouth. She braced herself for the first wave of suffering. but to her pleasure and amazement, the tepid liquid made its way painlessly to her stomach. She ate a couple of more spoonfuls. Again, no burning sensation. Relieved by the kindness of her stomach, she gulped down the rest of the soup. Blair stood from the table so fast that she toppled her chair. Oh my gosh, it worked, she yelled. She briefly considered rushing back to Madam Ona's

store and giving the woman a big hug. But first, her stomach was screaming for another bowl of soup. Later that evening, Blair stood before her medicine cabinet, the site she had planned for her suicide. She unscrewed the lid of the hydromorphone and shook a couple into her hand. She was about to take them, but paused as she noticed the absence of any pain, not even a slight twinge. Blair smiled as she recalled it had only been that morning when she planned to swallow the entire bottle of painkillers. Now she was content to skip a dose. She returned the medicine to the cabinet and went to bed. For the first time in months, she didn't need to be drugged out of her mind to fall asleep. A strong grumbling in her belly woke Blair in the middle

of the night. Typically, it would have been a twisting pain she had to deal with. Now, It was a deep hunger. The welcome return of her appetite filled her with joy and gratitude. She climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen to appease it. Blair had a craving for something more filling than soup or jello. Although thrilled to get her appetite back, she couldn't wrap her head around the strength of her gnawing hunger. She kept little in the way of solid food,

so she ended up placing a large order from an all-night diner. As she waited for the delivery person, she walked around her apartment, cramming saltines into her mouth. By the time the two ham hogies arrived, she consumed a half dozen individual servings of pudding, two cans of soup, and nearly a gallon of water. When the food was gone, Blair returned to bed. Despite having slept for many hours before her binge, Blair was amazed by how exhausted she felt. She slept for another 15 hours. When Blair finally awakened, it was late afternoon. Despite the extraordinary amount of sleep, she was still dog tired.

The only activity she felt any energy towards was eating. After shuffling around the kitchen in search of something to eat, she found nothing. So she grabbed a quick shower and headed for the supermarket. Blair went crazy at the store. She bought so many groceries that she paid the Uber. driver an extra ten dollars to help her tote them up to her apartment. Before she could put them away, her stomach beckoned again. An excessive amount of cookies, sodas, and thick sandwiches eventually sated her appetite. Then the drowsiness returned. She slept for 17 hours. The cycle continued

for another two weeks. By then, Blair had gained 47 pounds and was sleeping nearly 20 hours each night. her desire to eat was relentless. She considered going back to her doctor, but remembered how little he'd been able to help her. Thinking of reaching out to Madame Oana, she remembered the advice, allow a few weeks for the remedy to work. Within days, Blair had gained an additional 15 pounds.

She hadn't bathed in over a week. Her former physical appearance used to frighten her, but her current state shocked her more. As she stood on the bathroom scale, looking down at the escalating numbers, she became concerned. It's too far. I'm heading too far in the other direction. Sweaty and dizzy, Blair shuffled to the bathroom sink and turned on the cold water. She cupped it in her doughy hands and splashed it on her face. Then she ran her fingers through her unwashed hair.

The amount that came out startled her. Oh, God. what's wrong with me? Despite her anxiety, Blair still craved food. As quickly as her bloated body allowed, she waddled to the kitchen and ate for nearly an hour. After gorging on everything that was left in the kitchen, Blair plopped down on the living room sofa. Suddenly, it felt like something was sliding around inside her. Indigestion?

She lifted her shirt and looked at her abdomen. A small knob pushed outward. She felt nauseous and afraid. She touched the protrusion with her fingertips, and it receded. Blair began panting like a cornered animal, as the mass moved toward her chest cavity. She screamed. Blood dripped from her nose and down her throat. She could taste its tang in her mouth.

Her mind began worrying. What did that woman give me? I'm calling her wrong. right now. Blair staggered to the bedroom. Where is it? Where is it? She dumped the contents of her purse onto the bed and pushed the items around until she found her phone in Madame Ona's card. She called and waited. Someone answered on the third ring, but to her, it felt like many more. When someone answered, it was the familiar, exotic voice of Madame Ona. Panicked, she said. Yes, hello?

I hope you'll remember me. I visited your shop a short while back. You sold me a remedy for my chronic stomach pain? Madam Ona recognized her immediately and expressed delight, inquiring about Blair's health and the pain. Blair was shivering. Yes, the pain's gone, but I'm experiencing some serious side effects. I sleep for hours on end, and I can't stop eating.

I don't even recognize myself anymore. Now my hair's falling out, and I'm pretty sure I'm hemorrhaging. I'm scared to death. Madam Ona acknowledged the side effects, asking if there were any additional symptoms. Yes, something's moving around inside me. You didn't say anything about that? Am I going to die? Do I need a doctor?

Madam Ona snickered. Then, in a reassuring tone, telling Blair that she was not going to die. The remedy had merely done. its job, that there was only one last step and she would return to normal. There was no reason to worry now. Her sincerity soothed Blair. Thank you. Thank you. I'm just eager for this to be over. Madam Ona then reminded Blair of their agreement and stated that she needed to honor her part of the bargain by paying for the removal of whatever the remedy had done. When Blair asked how much she owed, Madam Ona quoted a price of $1,000.

The price stunned Blair. Listen, I don't want to seem ungrateful, but that sounds a little steep for a single dose of medicine. Madam Ona clarified that the remedy itself was free. The cost was for the removal of what had been inside the capsule. Blair was confused. Removal? What removal?

What was in that capsule? Madam Ona's response left her stunned. She smiled when she explained that there was no capsule she gave Blair. It was an egg. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are dot.

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