Creepy - I Worked As A Live-In Carer

Episode Date: January 23, 2023

I Worked As A Live-In Carer. This Is The Story Of The Worst Experience I Ever Had On The Job***Story Link: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/ktq3gp/i_worked_as_a_livein_carer_this_is_the_story_of/***Written By: SamanthaR29 and Narrated By: Alicia Atkins***Content Warning: Mentions Of Sexual Assault And Sexual Assault On Minors, Ritual Sacrifice Of A Child, Taxidermy of Cats And Dogs***Bonus Episode: "Heart of the Beast" written by Alexa Simpkins***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea 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 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. He presents. I worked as a live-in carer. Written by Samantha R. 29.

And narrated by Alicia Atkins. It was early 2014 and I was working as live-in-career. It wasn't as bad as all that. Certainly not as bad as some of the jobs I'd done. the woman I was caring for didn't need a lot of help in terms of taking care of herself. There were just a few physical tasks that were hard for her at her age and in her condition. I was more of a maid than a carer in all honesty. She was still sharp as attack, wicked smart and with a biting sense of humor.

And the house she lived in. It was easily one of the most magnificent homes I'd ever stepped foot in. It was like if you got Howard Hughes and Gomez Adams to design a man. mansion. Four floors, easily over a hundred rooms. A room for every possible function, sometimes more than one. A library, a games room, a screening room, this old projector and all these old films all set up and ready to go, drawing room, a kitchen, this great dining room with a table you could set two dozen people around. I could go on. From the outside, the place looked like I had seen better days to be sure. It was overgrown.

with ivy and the brickwork was crumbling in places to be sure but on the inside oh on the inside it was beautiful i mean it was my job to keep it looking that way just like it had been the job of the person before me dusting sweeping cleaning these were all duties i had to perform as part of my employment but i was certainly paid well enough for it more than i'd been paid at any other job before or any job since the woman i was carrying for was this old Hollywood actress, Victoria Simpson, was her name. I remember on the first day I made a crack about her last name, as if she was any relation to Homer and Marge. She gave me a look, and after that I never tried to joke with her again. Oh, I'd laugh at hers when she made them, but I decided I would be better keeping my own attempts at humor to myself. She wasn't an ogre or anything. She could be bad-tempered in that kind of general way I think a lot of people get when they're older. She had that anger I'd seen in my own grandparents and my parents, too, that the fact she was getting older and the things that had come easily were now more and more challenging.

But she wasn't cruel or spiteful. Not to me, anyway. I'd been warned by the last person to hold this job that she could be challenging. But to be honest, after the first few weeks, we settled into a fairly easy routine. I'd do my chores. When she needed me, she'd press a buzzer or ring her little bell or just call out for me. And that was how it went. No, I never had any problem with her.

The house itself, though. That took a little getting used to. As I said, there were a lot of rooms. And some of them had some of the strangest things in them. There was this one room. It was just fully these strange little puppets, marionettes, tons of them. all carefully sculpted and incredibly strange to look at. And there was a room with this great carousel, a hideous looking thing.

It didn't have horses on it. It had these figures, stuffed taxidermied animals, but animals that had been posed to look like they were alive. Not just alive, but walking upright. Walking or running or jumping like people. these awful glassy eyes and gaping toothy mouths and little paws and claws poses if they were in the middle of playing a game together or giving chase

I always dusted that room first when it was time to clean around the place so that I could get it done right away I can't say why they made me so uneasy I'd seen stuffed animals before but there was something a little to I don't know life-like?

No, that's not it. They didn't just look like they had been alive, which obviously they had. They looked like they were still alive. Like at any moment they were going to spring to life and play and caper. Like those glassy eyes were watching my every move, carefully and intently. Every time I cleaned that room and felt like they were judging how I did my job.

And then there were the noise. at night. All old houses make noise. Creaking floorboards, rattling window panes. I know Hollywood likes to make us think each one is proof that the place is haunted or there's a madman living in the walls or something, but the truth is that sometimes strange noises in an old house are just an old house making strange noises. But all the same, the first few nights I did find it a little unnerving. I'd hear these odd little sounds and find my mind wandering to all kinds of morbid things. And there were times, usually at night, but sometimes during the day. There were times when I'd think I'd catch sight of something, out of the corner of my eye. There'd never be anything there

when I looked properly. In the end, I told myself it was probably just a mouse. The house was out in the country and very old. It would be easy for one to get in through the cracks and gapes in its exterior. Or maybe I was just imagining things. I remember the day when things started to get bad, though, or at least the day I think herald the change. It started out ordinary enough. I'd finished preparing a soup for Miss Simpson's lunch, and I went through the house calling her name. I finally found her in the little viewing room. She had the projector on and the music playing. and a glass of scotch in her hand. One of her old films was playing, and she was lost in it.

I felt like I was intruding, and I went to leave. But she spoke. She must have heard me there, on the threshold. She spoke in this terribly sad voice. I could have done so much more, you know, if I'd stuck to it, if I'd seen it through, if I'd gone that bit further. I told her that I had to be.

lunch prepared, if she would like it now, and she turned and looked at me as if she had only just realized she was there, as if being reminded that it was me had caught her off guard. And then she'd just turn back towards the screen. The worst thing you can ever tell someone, you know, to follow their dream. We never tell those poor bastards where to lead. I got the feeling that she was off in her own world right now. I placed the soup down on the table beside her and told her if she needed anything, I'd be nearby. She didn't respond. I didn't see her again until later that day. She invited me to join her

for a drink. I got the fire going and she poured us both a brandy. I insisted on having just a small one. In all honesty, I shouldn't have been drinking at all, but I reasoned that a small drink wouldn't do any harm. We sat there, the fire crackling away. It was the only light in the room and it through the most marvelous and strange-looking shadows across the room and over the two of us. She asked me what I wanted out of life. She asked me what my aspirations were, my dreams. I racked my brain for a proper response, and she quickly became impatient. Well, you can't want to look after an old wreck like me your whole life, girl.

You're young. Fairly pretty. I can't imagine there's much stopping you getting out there, getting what you want. I admitted that I hadn't really thought much about it. The honest truth was that I didn't really have a plan for my life. Things just sort of happened, one after another. I could tell this response didn't fill her with joy, and I felt like I was in the presence of a stern and disapproving grandmother,

or a particularly caustic teacher, annoyed at their pupil's dim-witted nature. When I was your age, I knew exactly what I wanted, And I got it, by God. No matter what it cost, no matter what I had to do, I got it. I didn't know what to say, but she was speaking before I got the chance to offer anything in a way of response to this. The drink had definitely loosened her tongue. Lawton.

God, what a bastard the man was! Oh, you wouldn't know what to look at him. But everyone who got close to him knew. they could see what was behind that twinkle in his eyes sure enough. I imagine that she was thinking back bitterly on some past director she had worked with, someone for whom she had had a bad experience, or who perhaps she had done some kind of favor for. We're all pretty familiar with the Hollywood casting couch at this point, aren't we?

I asked her of Lawton was someone she'd worked with when she had been an actor. She snorted and poured herself another drink. Oh, you could say that. Marcus Lawton. Thought the man was an ass right from the start. If I'd known. Well, I'd probably still have done it. Sounds like you didn't like him much, I offered,

which I realized sounded lame as soon as I said it. She snorted with laughter once more, but I got the impression it wasn't at the nature of my remark. It felt more like she was laughing at her own private little joke. No one liked Lawton. We just needed him. He made things happen. If you helped him.

If you got him what he wanted. If you kept him in his lot happy. I wasn't sure what that meant. And there was something in the way that she had said made me think I'd rather not know. As we sat in the firelight, the silence in the room became uncomfortable. She was looking at me closely, studying me, as if she was only properly seeing me now for the first time. You've seen them yet? I paused, the drink halfway to my lips.

I told her I didn't know what she meant, but her stare. It made me feel like I was something on a high school workbench, being dissected and studied. I squirmed uncomfortably in the seat beneath her gaze. You have, haven't you? I can always tell Happened with the girl before you Jenna or Jenny or Jamie or Whatever her damned name was

It had in fact been Jenny But I didn't bother to correct her on that point I was more curious about what she was talking about And I asked her that very thing As delicately and politely as I could She smiled She smiled showing off a mouthful of pearly white false teeth smiled and raised her glass to me as if toasting my success at something oh you know corner of your eye

they're quick as a flash when they want to be but they like being seen what are i asked her what gets left behind she didn't explain further that night she announced she was ready for bed and as i took her up to her rooms i kept my questions to myself Oh, I had plenty of them. Don't get me wrong. But I also got the impression that now wasn't the time to ask them. And she didn't seem to be in any hurry to offer any further information that night. I locked my door once I was in my room.

And it still took me longer than usual to get off to sleep as I told myself that the odd creaks and groan that were a normal part of the house didn't sound closer to my bedroom door than they had on previous evenings. I was on edge a lot the following days. Each noise made me start. Each time I thought I caught something just on the edge of my vision, it made me whip my head around, my body tense. I felt like a gazelle in a lion enclosure.

Victoria was much less chatty over the next few weeks. She spent a lot of time in the viewing room, watching her old films. I'd often walk past and see her there, drink in hand. Lost in her memories of when things had been better for her, I supposed, though she rarely seemed all that happy afterwards. It was maybe a month after the first strange conversation that things took another odd turn. I was eating dinner with her, a rare occurrence, but one that was normally enjoyable, as she had often rattle off anecdotes from the hilarious and scandalous,

to the point and moving about actors she'd worked with, experience she had had and her friends she'd lost. This time, however, when she spoke up, it was to ask me a question. blunt and direct and accompanied by a hard stare. What would you do to get what you want? I wasn't entirely sure what she meant, or why she was asking me this, and I asked her what she meant.

She scoffed, her eyes still locked upon me. It's a simple enough question, girl, to get what you want? What would you do? How far would you go? Is there anything you wouldn't do? I didn't know if something had gone missing and she was accusing me of something, if she thought I'd stolen something valuable or something like that.

And if I was wrong, I'd feel intensely awkward about bringing the possibility up. So I just answered as carefully as I could, that of course there were things I wouldn't do, for any reason. Again, she scoffed. Oh, we all thought that once. we met Lawton, we all thought that. I cleared my throat nervously, trying not to show my discomfort. Lotton.

He was that director you mentioned, wasn't he? Marcus Lawton was a lot of things, girl. And yes, a director, too, I suppose. She chuckled to herself and drank deeply from the glass of wine beside her. She was no longer staring at me, but I still felt that same uncomfortable energy in the room. Oh, just a look at you. We'd have eaten you alive, you know. Chewed you up and spat you out. Soft. That's what your generation is. Soft. Don't know what it is to need. Don't know what it is to burn inside. Lotton burned. Burned himself up in the end. But God, how he burned. And we all

burned with him? Before I could ask anything more, though I don't really know what I would have asked in response to this, she announced she was feeling too tired to finish her meal, and asked me to help her up to bed. As I did, we passed by some of her old posters on the walls, her eyes lingering on each one as we passed them by. I was so desperate, so eager, so naive at first. But I learned. Oh. I learned. You've got to have teeth to survive, girl. Got to be strong.

Got to make sacrifices. She chuckled at that to herself, and then went silent again for a while. It was after she was tucked up in bed that she spoke for the final time that night, and I wasn't even sure if it was to me or to the room. Burn the others up, one by one. Won't be long now. Can feel it. They're eager.

Can't wait to get their clothes into me. Because I was once again feeling too unsettled to sleep that night, I stayed up on my laptop and attempted to find out what I could about the man she had mentioned. I'd expected to find out that Lawton had been some kind of 1930s Harvey Weinstein in all honesty, but I had not been at all prepared for what I actually discovered, as I searched through the results. Lawton's family had come over from Ireland sometime in the early 19th century. sometime in the early 1900s, and his parents had passed away when he was still fairly young. There had been a period of his life where he'd been mostly unaccounted for, and then, in

1927, he'd made the scene, flushed with cash and rubbing shoulders with the rich and powerful, partly because he was supplying them with all the drugs and women they could ever ask for. Like a cocaine fueled Jay Gatsby, he'd found himself a figure of both fame and infamy among the right people, and a lot of the wrong ones, and had begun directing, writing, and producing his own pictures sometime in the mid-30s. Despite, or perhaps because of the scandal and rumor that dogged him, he'd had no shortage of big stars of the time lining up for parts in his films. However, things had come to a sorted end when in 1949, during the performance of a play he'd written and produced by the unwieldy name of The Clockmaker and His Apprentice, a cautionary tale,

There had been an act of arson at the theater that claimed the lives of the cast and crew, though not the life of Marcus Lawton, who was found to have slid his own wrist after setting the fire himself, in a truly gargantuan and grotesque act of murder suicide. It was right after this that much more about him came to light. Allegations by various actresses, the youngest of whom was only 14 years old, of sexual abuse, harassment, and acts so appalling that many detectives working the case retired rather than seeing it to completion.

It was also found that far from being only a rapist and drug abuser, Lawton was also a person of interest in a number of truly bizarre missing persons cases. The account about his behavior in his final days detailed how he became firmly convinced that he had been tasked with feeding souls, tainted by violence to some kind of entity or entities that many believed he'd simply manufactured in his own warped head. Only two of the films he'd made still existed in any form, and had, understandably, not seen any kind of commercial release. IMDB did have a cast list for all six of the films he'd worked on, however, and I noticed as I looked through them that Victoria's

name didn't appear once. It certainly left the questions of how she'd known him, but having read what I had so far, I found myself perfectly all right with not knowing the answer to that question. Something happened a few days after that. Something happened that I can't explain. But I haven't told anyone about because... Well, because I thought they would think I was crazy. There's a lot that happened in those final weeks I was at the house that I can't properly explain. And this was definitely the first incident that made me stop and think,

maybe I should just leave. I was cleaning one of the halls. And, as had become more and more frequent, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. And when I turned to look, it was one of the animals. One of the little taxidermied animals from the carousel. This little fox. Peeking its head around the corner, glassy eyes gleaming, stood on his hind legs,

that little green and purple waistcoat sewn to its body. One of its little stiff paws resting on the wall. That mouth unnaturally gaping open. showing off those pointy little teeth. Those glass eyes looking right at me, its head cocked to the side. I dropped the broom I'd been holding, and it clattered to the ground, and the sound made me start, made me blink, and it was gone. I went to check.

As insane as that must sound, I went to check the carousel in that strange little room. The fox was still there in its usual place, along with the cats and rabbits and dogs. Stiff and unmoving and thoroughly dead. And even if it had been alive, it couldn't have stood the way the thing in the corridor had stood. I locked the room from the outside. I didn't want to be anywhere near it ever again. It wasn't as if Miss Simpson used the room as far as I could tell except for storage. I doubted she'd notice if it wasn't being kept clean.

Let those ghastly old things gather dust and be left alone. I asked her about them one day. I was serving her a meal and I asked her, as casually as I could, about where they'd come from, if they'd been props from a movie she'd worked on. I desperately wanted there to be some thoroughly mundane explanation for their presence. Something that would help me convince myself that what I had seen had been my mind playing tricks on me, because of how unnerved I'd been recently. She looked at me as if she could tell right away that there was something more than polite interest behind my question.

She smiled this odd little smile Oh, they were from a film all right But not one of mine One of his And they were a good deal more than props I can tell you I asked her what she meant and she just chuckled Chuckled and muttered about how Maybe she'd show me one day

Before adding to herself one day soon Not many days left I'm sure those reading this think I should have quit. Looking back, I think I should have as well. But the money, the money of this job was incredible, and hadn't been put in the way of any harm. I'd just been spooked by some strange noises and seen something that, I reasoned, couldn't have been real. I deluded myself into thinking there was nothing to worry about, convinced myself that it would all be fine. Then came my last day working there.

the week beforehand had been a strange one. Victoria had been more and more reluctant to engage in any way, instead often shutting herself up in the viewing room, with the door closed. I heard her muttering to herself often and talking to the empty air around her, as if she was convinced she was being pestered by a nosy and invasive crowd. I would only ever catch little snippets of what she said, but it was clear that she was in a very anxious state of mind. Go away, go away.

Not like the others didn't do worse. Didn't do worse than I did. Knew what you were getting into. All of you should have known what you were getting into. Stupid little wretches. Stupid little things getting into trouble. Not yet. The others.

Go take the others. Leave me be. Just leave it be. I was becoming more and more worried that her mental faculties weren't as strong as I'd believed them to be. I considered whether I should do something about this, but she had always seemed so lucid and intelligent before now. And the house, with the exception of that one unsettling room, was such a beautiful home that clearly meant a lot to her. The thought of taking her away from it to be shut up in some old folks' home was heartbreaking to me.

On top of that, the sounds at night had begun to become more and more strange. It was no longer just creaking floorboards and rattling. windows. I could hear at night this strange and rapid clicking, this tick, tick, tick sound that reminded me of the sound of dogs' claws on a hardwood floor, as if multiple animals were rapidly running around in the house, scampering and skittering through it curiously. My mind went to that strange room, that strange locked room in its eerie little carousel. And then, it had been the sound that alerted me. There had been a little. There had been a little loud clatter, like something heavy had fallen.

Instantly I had nightmarish visions of Victoria's wheelchair tipping over, her going sprawling down the stairs. I ran through the house, calling her name, looking for her. Ahead of me, a door slammed shut, and I ran towards it. It was locked, and I banged my fists on the door, asking if she was in there, if she was all right. There was a click, and the door gave way. As I pushed it inward, I took in the sight, and for a moment all other thoughts left me.

The room was piled high with papers, dozens and dozens of papers, many of which have been tacked or stapled or glued to the walls. The ones that were on the walls were all of the same kind. Each and every one was a missing person's poster. They were ancient and yellowed with age, clearly from decades ago at least. sad little faces, many of them children and some teenagers, and young adults looked out from them. I stared at the strange room, my mind struggling to comprehend what exactly I was seeing here. I had never seen this room before, which was strange in and of itself.

It must have been locked during the months I'd been here. Perhaps I'd been told it was simply a storage closet or something of that kind. But seeing what was in there now, my mind struggled to explain it. I didn't dwell on it long, though. I remembered the reason I'd raced over to it in the first place, and as Victoria clearly wasn't there, I proceeded to run through the house in search of her. There was no answer to my shouts, but I found her.

She was in her usual spot in the viewing room, her back to me, and a drink in hand. On the screen it appeared that another of her old black and white films was playing out across the screen. I asked her if she was all right, frantic and breathless. If she noticed the state I was in, she didn't comment on it.

In fact, she didn't even look at me. Her eyes were firmly on the screen. Her hand trembled slightly. We all think ourselves such good people, don't we? That there are things we would never do for any reason. But what he offered, he could see it in us.

Which of us would do it? which of us wouldn't i think that's why i hate the ones who never got the offer what was in them that was so good that i didn't have what made them better than me i had no idea what she was talking about i didn't even know if she was talking to me or once again talking to thin air the ice and her drink rattled as her hand shook and when it was done well it was too late wasn't it We'd done the worst. Might as well keep doing it. We knew what they'd do if we didn't. And now here they come. Here they come for all of us.

One by one, with their little paws and jaws and claws, coming to get what's theirs. I asked her again if she was all right. She clearly wasn't. And then my eyes flitted to the screen, and I stared in hoarse. horror, stared in horror at what was happening on the screen, because what was playing wasn't one of her films. Or at least, it wasn't one that had been released to the general public in theaters.

On screen, I could see the carousel. I recognized the black and white forms of the taxidermy animals in their little waistcoats and hats and boots, and tied to the middle of the carousel was a young boy. He was tied and clearly terrified. The younger Victoria was stood, dressed in her finery, and holding a knife, using that knife, using it on the boy. I told myself that this had to be a horror film she'd starred in. I told myself that this couldn't be what I thought it was. Couldn't really be what I was seeing. And then as I watched, as I watched the carousel seemed to spring to life, twirling and flashing.

If there had been any sound, I'm sure I would have heard it playing some merry tune. And the animals on the carousel, they were moving. Moving in ways that I couldn't explain. Ways that couldn't be ridden off as skilled puppetry or stop motion. Moving ways that could only be described as the movements of actual living things. I watched that their heads turned towards the bleeding boy, their paws and claws making contact with this helpless body. The carousel world. The boy silently screamed.

Wide, gaping animal mouse stretched and wide animal grins. The young Victoria on the screen soaked herself in the blood. From somewhere in the house I could hear the skittering of paws and a carnival theme playing from somewhere within the bowels of the building. I ran to my car, parked outside the house. As I ran through the building, I could hear Victoria screaming. I could hear the sound of shattering glass, I could hear growls, and what sounded like gravelly whispering voices, issuing from mouths not made for human speech.

I could hear something terrible. As soon as I was locked in my car, I called the police. I babbled out something about intruders, about what I'd seen on the film. I made enough sense to them that they would send someone to the house. When they arrived, they found me, hunched up in the car. in trembling, and they found what had happened to Victoria Simpson. They found her body tied to the carousel I found out later, tied to it, and mutilated and interfered with in ways that suggested a ritualized nature to the attack.

I was questioned, but never seriously considered as a suspect, both because of the state they found me in, and because it was obvious to those investigating that I wouldn't have been strong enough to inflict the kind of damage that had been done to the body. It was ultimately ruled as a home invasion slash murder by person or persons unknown. It was what else they found in the house that interested them more, though. Victoria Simpson was in possession of a dozen of what could only be described as snuff films, all of which starred her, all of which involved her performing violent, depraved, and unnatural acts on the innocent victim or victims in the film.

Many of those who appeared in the films were those who appeared on the missing persons posters I'd found in that strange small room, missing persons cases that dated back to the 30s and had remained unsolved all this time. I wasn't surprised to find out that in addition to Victoria, Marcus Lawton appeared in many of the snuff films in her possession. I continued to work as a carer for a few years after this incident. I'm happy to say I've never had anything close to this happened to me again, and I'm sure it would make for a good spooky twist if I told you that these strange stuffed animals from the carousel stalked me for the rest of my life, or that I could see Victoria Simpson's ghost.

But the truth is, nothing strange has happened to me since that day. The only ghost I'm haunted by are the memories. Memories of working for her all that time, never suspecting what she had done, what she was capable of. The memory of what I saw on that film. what I saw those strange and monstrous animal forms doing to that poor boy. Of the way they moved. The unnatural way they moved that I still can't explain. That simply shouldn't have been possible.

That couldn't have been faked and yet also couldn't possibly have been real. And the memory of that rasping, growling voice I heard as I ran from the house and left Victoria Simpson to her fate. Time to come with us now, Victoria. for your bonus episode. Creepy presents. Heart of the Beast, written by Alexis Simpkins.

Dear God, she knows. She's gonna know. She always knows. No. No, she can't. She can't this time. Dear God, no. She's always been so forgiving.

Every time I come home with beer on my breath and perfume on my collar, every time she finds a new lipstick and my car's cup holder or a hairband under my seat, every time I go out with my two friends, greed and PCP. She smells it on me, the guilt, the wrongdoing. She inhales waffes of it when she greets me at the door. It's repugnant, and I know it. But a man has needs. She used to be all that I needed once upon a time.

I could grab her by the loops of her jeans and pull her into me, breathing in her scent, holding her chin as I kissed her. I would feel all the stress and anxiety I had for my life melt away with each soft caress, but things are different now. I feel alone and isolated. Touches from her feel cold and unyielding. When I kiss her, I feel as if my lips have sunk into an ice bath. She no longer brings the comfort I crave.

In fact, every time I'm around her, I feel myself sink deeper and deeper into hopelessness. That this is always how things will be. That this is my life now. I find myself turning to other means to satisfy that hunger. Sometimes that means drinks, sometimes that means drugs, sometimes, like last night, that means short blondes. I scour bars and clubs for temporary echoes of bliss in this hell that is now my life, Melanie, the girl that had whispered into my ear against pulsing bass and shouted conversations behind us. My apartment's just down the street. The moment replays over and over in my head.

A short blip of paradise that I did not deserve. My stomach sinks like a rock when I try to make sense of the past and the present meshing in my mind. Flashes of my wife's lips on my chest intermingle with Melanie's fingers and my hair. My wedding ring sliding onto my finger by my wife's nimble fingers. my wedding ring burning a hole in my pants pocket on the floor of this girl's apartment. I wish that this was the first time that this had happened. But that would be far from the truth.

Every time I walk through my front door, she slips her arms around my neck and kisses me with a smile. I see the glint in her eyes as she realizes what I've done. But she says nothing. Despite that, she's changing. ever so slightly the last time I could see clearer I know she won't always be able

to forgive my mistakes won't or can't one and the same with it's betrayal the crack in her heavenly facade falls apart her smile is a little tighter

not quite reaching her eyes her arms around me are a little stiffer the loving, forgiving wife I knew will soon be gone. This collection of her most ferocious primal emotions is all that remains. Jealousy, rage, hurt. The drive home is always hard. Worst case scenarios race through my head for the moment she realizes I've betrayed her again.

Each winding turn in the road brings me closer to drive. dread. Remorse sits in my soul. And so does she. She's tangled up in my web, right in the heart of the beast. I round the corner and feel a pit in my stomach at the sight of a small white wooden cross by the curb. Ribbons wrapped around it flutter in the cold wind into the January breeze. Flowers adorn the memorial. The blooms are nearly overflowing into the snow. street. My wife's picture stares up at me, her smile immoralized on her face. I see flashes of red and blue against it in the memory of my mind's eye. The police arrived too late. The ambulance arrived too late. I arrived too late. I may not be an innocent man by any means. I know that there will be a price for

my infidelity. But I also know. this. Drunk drivers will rot in hell. I pull into the driveway, barely remembering the rest of my drive home. I pull my wedding ring from my pocket and slip it back under my finger. Something in my gut tells me that this move is futile because she'll know it was off in the first place. I sit in the car for a moment before I go in.

I'm scared of what I'll see once I enter. The moment forms itself in my mind's eye before I can stop myself. She'll step towards me, the light of my life, the subject of my deepest devotion. She'll dance to me in stop motion. I will recognize the new malice in her eye and melt into a puddle. I'll watch her paint herself blue, her face turning a white hue. I'll cry apologies that I would give anything to do it all over, but really, I would give anything for her to not know about what I've done. I'll cringe with self-loathing.

I don't even know how I can speak with a forked tongue in my teeth. I'll cry and shake and wail. I'm a snake. I'll hiss. You don't deserve this. Through salty streams, I'll look over her beautiful face caught in the middle of my sinister cross-stitch. My pulse quickens with the idea.

My thoughts are less and less go here the closer I get to the front door. She makes me absolutely mad with guilt and fear. The saying goes, there's no wrath like that of a woman's scorn. It's less of a saying and more of a way of life in my case, because once she needs to be knows, she'll absolutely devour me. It won't matter that I'm an animal, I'm inedible, because of the indelible scars I've left on her. I'll sit on her tongue, poisonous and black, and taint her happiness just as I've tainted what's left of our marriage. I'll wake with a start, and she'll be standing there with cutlery poised in her hand, ready to eat my heart. No.

Stop thinking the worst. I forced myself to walk through the door. I see her, my beautiful bride, standing there waiting for me as she always does. She's dressed just like she was on her wedding night. Pearls on her neck and in her hair. Vail gently gliding behind her. It kills me each time I see it.

It's a constant reminder of the life that was robbed of us. You're young. You can restart, my family tells me, but I can't. She'll follow me for the rest of my life. I've moved, taken sleeping pills, not slept at all, nothing I do matters. Only what I did. She's always there. And she always is forgiven me for the things I have to do to get by,

the things I have to do to live with this grief and longing and guilt. But as she turns to face me, and recognition dawns on her face, I can tell that I've chipped away at her patience for the last time. Both her silky skin and gossamer veil melt together, pale as moonlight. Her eyes sit deeper in her face now than they did in life. Pale circles are set beneath them. blood tinge is the crisp white hem of her dress. The back of her head is sticky and matted with dried blood.

The worst part is her eyes. They were once a stormy ocean. A dark azure sky that stretched out before us, an endless expanse of our lives' possibilities. Now they're washed out in white. A pale blue that pierces through me. They rest on me now. sharp and accusatory.

She doesn't have to speak a word to tell me. She knows. I crumble immediately. The words come tumbling out and lay at her feet. What if I done? How could I? She watches as I undo my spool, pulling the wool up from over her eyes. This stream of consciousness flown from my heart through my lips.

There's nothing to play, Kater. I can see it as soon as I've seen. spoken, she dances closer. I can't even defend myself. She stands in front of me, gown billowing, a reminder of our very vows on that day. I remember every single beautiful word that she pledged to me standing at that altar.

Till death do us part? She said no such thing. And so she slipped her arms around my neck like so many times before. But this time her fingers close around my throat, forming a noose in the shape of a wedding ring. I gaze up at her, knowing she'll be the last thing I ever see. She's the last thing I ever deserve to see. Her hair falls against her face, framing both my entire world and the cause of the end of it.

I stopped fighting, knowing that this swift justice she carries out of her. both a fitting punishment for my crimes and the relief I so strongly crave. Everything goes black. And then I'm here again. Staring at my wife,

standing over my body. And in that moment, I know two things to be certain. She's a monster and she will forever be mine. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration.

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