Creepy - I'm Watching You & Cold Embrace

Episode Date: November 23, 2023

I'm Watching You***Written by: S. Boseley and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Cold Embrace***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Content warning: Discussion of Intimate Partner Violence, from the point of view of the abuser***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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 not simply fabrication is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. I'm watching you.

Written by S. Bosley. And narrated by Owen McCune. All right, all right. Mike didn't like shouting at his wife, but sometimes she really knew how to push his buttons. I'll do it later. I already said that. He ran a hand through his hair. and reached for his beer.

Gloria placed her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. Why not now? She wondered aloud. She didn't want to start an argument, but sometimes Mike could be such an idiot. She stepped in front of the television as Mike took a swig of beer. Well, at the moment, I'm trying to watch television. He leaned over, trying to see around his wife.

Gloria pointed out that it was a job of five minutes, the time spent arguing could have been spent taking out the bins. In an effort to motivate him, she pressed the power button and the picture wanked out. Why would you do that? Mike threw his hands up in the air. He picked up the remote and turned the television on, only to watch Gloria turn it back off again. He tossed the remote to the other side of the sofa and shook his head. All he wanted to do was put his feet up and have a drink after a long day at work.

Was that too much to ask? Gloria reminded him that he had been working 12-hour days for the last week, leaving her at home all day. It crossed his mind to ask her why she hadn't put the bins out herself, but the thought stayed safely behind his lips. As he stood up, the phone rang. It was Hank, Mike's business partner. Mike lowered his head and dragged a hand across his face as he listened.

I'll be right there. He looked up at Gloria and her hands went straight back on her hips. I won't be long. Gloria shook her head and informed him that he could be as long as he liked. Make sure the bins are out when you come home was her final demand. Glancing at his watch as he closed the door, Mike thought there would be enough time for a few hours' sleep before he needed to be back at the garage.

He considered Hank's suggestion of getting a bed at work. It had initially seemed funny. But perhaps he had a point. Once things were stable at work, there would be time for home comforts like a warm bed and a warm body to cuddle up to. However, when was the last time Gloria had wanted to cuddle, let alone do anything more?

On those odd occasions that Gloria felt in the mood, he had struggled to get it up. So could he blame her? It didn't, however, stop her from blaming him, so perhaps a bed at work wasn't such a bad idea. He didn't want to leave Gloria, But, God, she could be annoying. He grabbed his half-finished can of beer from the fridge and sat at the kitchen table.

The beer went down easily, and he tossed the empty can into the recycle bin, giving himself another job for the morning. Half a can was not enough, and Mike opened the cabinet above the sink and found some wine. It was glorious, and not to his taste, but it went the same way as the beer. The blinds had not been fully closed, and Mike could see something. outside. He walked across the kitchen and peered out. In the garden, just beyond the glass, he could see an eye. He stared at the eye for several seconds. It didn't blink, nor did it move. His first thought was that it was a burglar, or perhaps a peeping Tom, although why anybody would want to watch Gloria was beyond him. He stepped outside and walked to the back of the garden,

tripping over a coil of garden hose. Perhaps he had drunk more than that. than he realized. Whatever it had been was gone now, and his bed was calling. When Mike woke the following morning, he was alone in the bed. He had slept in his work clothes and took a moment to check for grease on the sheets. If additional cleaning cut into Gloria's daytime TV schedule, she would not be happy. He walked into the bathroom and looked at the two-day-old stubble on his tired face. When he lifted the razor to his chin, he paused. There was something behind him on the wall. He rubbed his eyes and grasped both sides of the basin,

looking down into the water. He took three large breaths and then looked up again. An eye hovered somewhere over his right shoulder. There was no head, no eyebrows, no nose. It was just an eye, partway up the bathroom wall above the towel rail. Mike continued to grasp the basin as he stared at the reflected eye. he could feel his heart racing and he splashed water on his face.

Without opening his eyes, Mike reached for the hand towel that hung alongside the basin and covered his face. After taking several deep breaths, he slid the towel down until he could see the mirror. The eye was still there. Gloria!

Can you come here for a moment? He kept his voice calm, fighting the rising tide of panic. Mike listened as his wife, stomped up the stairs and banged the bathroom door open. Could you pass me that towel? He flapped a hand at the towel rail behind him. He closed his eyes and waited for the screaming to start.

Mike heard his wife snatch the towel off the rail and throw it at him. It settled over his head. Pulling it off, he saw that Gloria stood what looked like inches from the eye. She didn't look shocked. She looked pissed off. She swore under her breath before inquiring if he would help her wipe her arse when she took a dump later that morning. She left the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Love you!

He shouted after her. The sooner he got to work, the better. But there was still the eye. He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed. It's a disembodied eye. Sort yourself out. Mike turned slowly. eyes closed until he was facing the towel rail.

He eased his eyes open slowly and waited for the image to resolve. The eye was gone. He turned back to the mirror. Still no eye. He walked over to the wall and placed one hand on the white tile. There was nothing. No warmth, no change in texture, no discoloration, nothing. He rubbed his hand across the tiles.

There was nothing. There was never anything. After shaving, Mike went downstairs to find Gloria. Sorry about that, he said. I think I need a couple of early nights. I'm not thinking straight. Gloria agreed and told him to make his own cup of tea unless, of course, that was too much trouble for him to do by himself.

For all his gruff exterior, Hank was a caring man and asked Mike if he was feeling okay. He pointed out that Mike's hair was sticking up and that he had large brown rings around his eyes. Reflexively, Mike ran a hand across his head and looked into a wing mirror on one of the cars. The offending pieces of hair sprang back up when his hand moved away,

and he cursed under his breath. I'm just tired, he said. These long days are getting to me, I guess. Mike sat down and let his shoulders slum. despite their closeness, Mike wasn't sure he was ready to tell Hank about what he had seen that morning and the previous night.

He wasn't sure he would look at him in the same light. Hank assured him he knew how he felt, although Mike doubted that Hank had a disembodied eye on his bathroom wall. He wasn't convinced of that himself yet. There's more gravy than grave about you, whatever you are. The Dickens' Christmas Carol reference made him smile. Not that he was a Charles Dickens kind of guy,

but The Muppet Christmas Carol was one of his Christmas favorites. The pair toiled for the remainder of the day until Mike looked up at the clock hanging just above the calendar depicting a scantily clad woman. The sun had set almost an hour ago, and the clock was hard to see in the failing light. Mike started to collect the various tools scattered across the garage floor. As he did, his throat locked, and his heart jumped.

On the far wall, just above a shelving unit, was the eye. He stood in the center of the garage looking at the eye. It looked back. Mike screwed his eyes shut. More gravy than grave, more gravy than grave, he told himself. After a moment and several deep breaths, he opened his eyes and was not surprised to find that the eye was still there, staring across the garage.

Mike moved towards the eye, and the pupil dragged itself around to follow him. He zigzagged across the garage and watched the eye follow every step. Mike stopped when he could see the eye clearly. Tiny veins crossed the white sclera, connecting with the pupil, which contracted, causing Mike to shudder. Slowly, he reached out his index finger. More gravy than grave, more gravy than grave, he repeated as he stretched out the tentative finger. He stopped several centimeters short of the wall, withdrew his hand, and pulled a spanner

from his belt. He reached it towards the eye. That was when it blinked. Mike dropped the spanner, and it clattered against the concrete floor. Hank shouted across the garage and asked if Mike was okay. To his credit, Mike managed to keep his voice steady and said he had just dropped a spanner. Mike watched the eye as it blinked again. He could feel his heart racing, could hear it pounding in his ears. His mouth hung open as he bent to retrieve the spanner. When his fingers closed on it, he stood up and thrust the spanner towards the eye. It clanged as it struck the brick wall.

The eye remained open and staring. He tapped the spanner to the eye twice more, each time with a metal on brick clink. Mike stood staring at the eye, and when Hank tapped him on the shoulder, he spun around. What, what? He stuttered. Again, his friend asked him if he was feeling all right. Yes, he shook his head. No, I'm not sure. He dropped the spanner again and cupped his face in both hands.

What do you see there? He gestured back over his shoulder before returning the hand to his seat. face. Hank stepped around him and told him what he saw, which was Cindy, age 22, from Basingstoke. He also said that if Cindy was really 22, then he was a monkey's uncle. Nothing else? Mike remained with his back to the wall, his hands over his face. There was another pause as Hank studied the featureless wall. His eyes lingered on Cindy for a touch longer than was necessary. After about 30 seconds, he scratched his head and told Mike that he saw nothing other than Cindy and her two friends. He removed his hands from his face and turned around.

He could see nothing where the eye had been. He placed the palm of his hand against the wall. His throat felt constricted, and he drew in a ragged breath. I think I need an early night. He bent down to collect the spanner, but Hank reached for his arm and said he would take care of everything. He thought going home was a good idea. Mike stared at his friend for a moment. He must think I've lost it. Without speaking, he turned and walked to the door where he plucked his coat from a peg. Slipping it on, he walked out of the garage, out of the yard, and turned up the street. When he heard Hank shouting, he stopped and looked back to see his friend was waving his car keys. Mike turned and walked away.

The walk would probably do him good. Fresh air was the tonic he needed. The car would be there in the morning. The stars were becoming visible as Mike trudged along the street. Each step felt like an effort that he didn't want to spend, but the night air was refreshing. A light breeze ruffled his hair as he walked, and when he caught sight of his reflection in a window, he smiled.

He looked like a Muppet himself, hair sticking. out at odd angles. More gravy than grave, he continued to chant under his breath, drawing questioning glances from people he passed. He didn't care. He just needed to get home and fall into bed. Perhaps a beer or two would help,

although it was probably beer that got you into this mess, he thought. He probably shouldn't, but he struggled to think of a situation where beer wasn't the answer. Mike pushed the door of the late-night store. It gave a pleasant tinkle as it opened, and then closed behind him. The store wasn't big, just two aisles filled with a variety of food that he recognized, if not the brands. To his left was a rack of newspapers and magazines, and to his right, the wall was decorated with pet toys,

plastic bones, collars with bells, and bits of rags that dogs would no doubt love to chew on. The service counter was beyond that. It was a wooden counter smoothed at the edges from years of use. The till that stood there looked out of place in the modern world. It was big with lots of brass. The owner, Mike assumed,

stood behind the counter watching him and had done so since he entered. To be fair, Mike thought that he must look like someone that had just fallen out of bed. His face was streaked with grease, his hair stood out at odd angles, and his eyes were red-ringed.

As he approached the counter, the owner asked Mike if he needed any help. What little of his hair remained was silver and clung to the sides of his bald scalp. Do you realize the sign out front has a letter hanging down? Mike's tone caused the counterman to step back from the counter. Mike noticed, then it pissed him off. The counterman informed Mike that he was not the first person to say that. So fix it. In a wavering voice, the counterman informed Mike

that the sign had been like that for as long as he could remember. He thought it was like that when his father first owned the shop. He wiped his hand on his shirt and offered it to Mike. Right, said Mike, nodding slowly. Was the old man mocking him? Just point me towards the beer. The counterman pointed towards the back of the shop, and Mike moved away.

As he walked, he looked at the canned goods. This one had a picture of a fish of some kind, but the label was in a language that was not English. Swedish, perhaps? Dutch? He picked it up and turned it over. The whole label was Dutch or French or some damn language that he didn't read. He tossed the can back onto the shelf,

causing the counterman to throw a glance in his direction. He approached a lady carrying a plastic shopping basket and pulling a canvas pole along. basket. Mike placed her in a similar age bracket to the counterman. She had some lettuce in the basket, some vegetables he didn't recognize, and several cans. She smiled as he approached, and Mike thought her teeth were slightly too big for her mouth. When she was alongside him, he touched her on the shoulder. The lady gave a noticeable twitch and turned to him. Her teeth were definitely too big for her mouth, although poorly fitted dentures were not what

had caught his attention. For a moment, he thought he had seen her right eye flash yellow. When she turned and looked up into his face, the yellow was gone, replaced by regular old-person eyes. He looked down at the floor and moved away. As he reached the end of the aisle, he stopped and turned around. The old lady was emptying her basket onto the counter, and the counterman was ringing up her purchases. He picked up each item and tapped the large till. Mike could see no barcode scanner, which meant the sale would take several minutes. The pair talked while they worked their way through the cans. Mike couldn't hear them, but on several occasions the counterman laughed at something the old lady said. They were probably talking about him. He watched for several minutes as the lady emptied her basket,

item by item, the counterman ringing in each purchase with an accompanying ding of the till. As she handed over the final item, the woman glanced back up the aisle towards Mike, who pulled his head back around the corner. He didn't think she saw him, but he heard the counterman laugh again. Mike waited until he heard the tinkle of the doorbell before looking back. He watched the counterman for another minute before resuming his search for beer. Stacked against the back wall was a pyramid of cans packaged in boxes. The top of the pyramid was about Mike's eye level, which was ridiculous.

He couldn't reach far enough to snag the top box, and taking a lower one would topple the pyramid. Each box was green and decorated with horses. He wasn't sure where the horses came in, but the price was right, and it was beer. At least he thought it was beer. Yampland's briggery hell was what it said. Most of it made no sense to him, but the hell part he could read, and he thought that sounded good. He knelt down and tried to slide a box out of the pyramid.

The box slipped out without a shutter from the stack, and Mike sighed. He heard the clink of glass as he picked it up. Don't need a bag, I'm going to drink it now, he told the counterman as he set his purchase down. He pulled out his wallet and dropped some notes on the wooden surface. Take what you need. As the counterman gathered the notes and began to ring up the purchase, Mike surveyed the rest of the shop. Above the door hung a picture of someone with his arms outstretched, wearing what looked like a loincloth. The counterman asked Mike if he was a believer in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,

and Mike replied that, no, he wasn't a believer. What he was looking at was something that seemed to be in the middle of the loincloth-wearing man's chest. It could have been a trick of a light or an errant brushstroke, but he didn't think so. He walked towards the door and looked up at the picture. At this distance it was clear. The counterman's Lord and Savior had an extra eye, right in the middle of his chest. Mike's mouth fell open as he looked up at the eye. It was watching him, and as he moved side to side, the pupil tracked him.

He turned back to the counterman and pointed up at the picture. Can you see that? How long has it been there? Using his fingers to count, the man recalled that his father had put the picture up, making it over 60 years old. Funny, said Mike. The eye. The eye in the center of his chest.

He stabbed his finger towards the picture. Using the corner of his shirt, the counterman cleaned the lenses of his glasses before resetting them on his nose. He moved around the counter and stood alongside Mike. He didn't see anything. Why would you lie to me? Mike strode past the old man and collected his box of Swedish or Norwegian beer. He walked back to the door and pushed it open. Outside in the fresh air, he felt a little better. He sat on a bench with the box in his lap and pulled out one of the slim brown bottles. He popped the cap and drained the bottle in one go, placing the empty on the floor between his legs. Within a manner of minutes, a second and a third followed it. Mike popped the cap

off a fourth and slipped the remaining two into the pockets of his overalls. By now he realized he was on his way to a hangover and a night on the sofa as soon as Gloria smelled him. This was not as unpleasant a thought as it might have seemed yesterday. Gloria was becoming a pain in his backside. She offered him no support with his efforts to get his new business up and running. There were no words of encouragement. No, it'll be all right, after a tough day. She offered little in the way of running his house.

She didn't make him a lunch to take to work. And if she had had a hot meal on the table when he came in, it was because there were leftovers from what she had made herself. As for the bedroom, Mike wasn't even sure he could remember what to do. The sofa would do just fine, and if Gloria was in bed when he got home, he wouldn't even wake her. She was probably having an affair. All the evidence pointed to it. She had plenty of time to carry on while he was at work. She was always too tired for cooking when he came in. Her sex drive had dwindled to almost nothing. She was getting it somewhere else. Had to be. He drained the

bottle he was carrying and dropped it to the pavement where it smashed. A young couple was approaching him, and the man muttered something about recycling. Mike put the man in his early 20s, a student, no doubt. You can recycle it if you want. I'm done with it, Mike said, pulling another beer from his pocket. I've got more. If I'm still drinking this when I get home, I'll recycle it, I promise. He licked his index finger and drew a cross over his chest. Hope to die. Student pointed to the broken glass and asked Mike to clear it up. Why don't you and Little Miss whatever just fuck off back to Studentville? I hear they have books. Student looked shocked by this turn of events. He let go of his girl's hand and began to ball his

own hands into fists. Mike looked across at the girl. Her blonde hair flowed over her shoulders and tight ringlets. Her bright red lipstick was visible even in the poor light. She wore a button-up blouse, unfastened far enough for him to see her bra. His eyes lingered on the swellings under the blouse before he looked up. Her mouth was open slightly, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. Her tongue played over the teeth, and she raised her eyebrows at him, letting a finger drop to the topmost fastened button on the blouse, which,

She started to unfasten. Student noticed Mike looking at his girl and asked if he was a pervert. Mike looked at student, then back to the girl. She was standing close to her man, clutching his arm. She wore a blue sweatshirt with a logo he didn't recognize. There was no lipstick, and her blonde flowing hair was now brown, and hugged her chin in a tight bob. How did you do that?

said Mike. The girl asked Mike what he meant, and stepped closer to her boyfriend. The blouse! Where did it go? The girl informed him that she hadn't been wearing a blouse, and student stepped towards Mike and pushed him. Mike had outweighed him by perhaps 15 kilograms, so the push didn't move him far.

He regained his balance and turned back to the young man, striking a perfect blow to his chin. Student went down, unconscious, before his head struck the pavement. The girl screamed and knelt alongside him. Mike watched as she started crying and patting the student's face, pleading with him to wake up. As Mike was about to walk away, he looked at the girl's face and saw a yellow eye swivel to face him. He strode off, leaving the crying girl and unconscious boy behind. He waited until the pair were far behind him before draining his fifth beer of the night.

The walk home would give him enough time to finish the final bottle, giving Gloria something else to moan about. As he approached his house, he could see that the lights were on, which meant that Gloria was still up. He fumbled with his keys as he tried to pull him from his pocket, and they dropped onto the doorstep. Gloria chose that moment to pull the door open and stood in the doorway, watching him scrambling around on the floor.

Hands on hips, she asked him what he was doing. Looking for the keys, I dropped them. he said, without looking up. She asked him how many it had taken to get him to the state. Just one or two. Gloria shook her head and ordered him to get into the house. Mike staggered to his feet and followed her in, closing the door behind him. She asked him if he had been stupid enough to drive his car home.

Didn't bring it, he said, falling into an armchair. What's to eat? Gloria informed him that she had already eaten and then asked where the car was. Mike seemed to consider the question for a minute before speaking. I think I'm having a stroke. Gloria made no effort to move. I said, I think I'm having a stroke.

I might need an ambulance. Gloria walked over to the phone, plucked it out of its caddy, and tossed it to Mike. She told him the number and sat back down. He looked across the room at his wife and clenched and relaxed his jaw. She wore black leggings that made her look fatter than she was. Her t-shirt was perhaps two or three sizes too big and had a faded picture of the beetles on the front.

A large streak of ketchup scarred Ringo's face. To top the outfit off, she wore fluffy pink slippers, which dangled from her toes as she sat cross-legged. At some point in the past, Mike had been physically attracted to her, and he tried to think what it was that he had seen. Even the six bottles of beer weren't helping. Can I at least get a cup of coffee? She reminded Mike that he knew where the kettle lived.

At his kitchen table, Mike stared into his mug of coffee. He didn't really believe he was having a stroke, but something was happening. Otherwise, healthy people in their 30s didn't see things that weren't there. That was reserved for old people living in warden-aided bungalows, not him. It was a symptom of a virus. Something picked up from a kebab he had eaten last week. Maybe a trip to the doctor would give them the answer.

He sipped the coffee, in no hurry to get back to Gloria. He needed his head to clear before he said something which he might regret. their years together hadn't been all bad. He just needed a course of antibiotics, a few early nights, and some support from his wife. He could guarantee the first two, but the third was out of his control. The idea that she was having an affair occurred to him again. It would need addressing, but when he felt more able, more under control.

At the moment, he didn't trust himself to remain calm. He'd had several bottles of foreign beer and was seeing things that no one else could. He looked at the picture frame on the kitchen table. It was a photo of them both at a park somewhere. Mike didn't recall where or when it had been taken, but they looked happy. She was young and attractive with a smile that lit her face.

He shook his head and wondered what happened to that girl. The last few years had not been kind to her. He smiled as he imagined what it was. was she had to offer another suitor. It wasn't looks. It wasn't intelligence. Then it sure his shit wasn't money. That left very few positives,

and all the ones he could think of she hadn't wanted to do to him in a long time. He took another sip of coffee before looking back at the picture. Both of their heads were now obscured by the eye. It stretched from one side of the wooden frame to the other, almost four inches. Mike could see the vertical slit that bisected the yellow iris.

He said nothing, but continued to stare at the photo. The eye stared back, its pupils dilating in the dim kitchen light. Mike dragged the frame towards him and held it in front of his face, the distance he would have held a book if he ever did any reading. The eye seemed more substantial somehow, and he reached a finger towards it. The eye blinked, and he withdrew his finger as if he had touched a boiling kettle. He stared at the eye for several seconds before he tried again. This time, the eyelid closed as his finger made contact.

He felt something warm and soft that could have been skin. It was not the glass he had expected, and as he withdrew his hand, the eye opened again and resumed its staring. What are you? He whispered. The last thing he wanted was for Gloria to hear him talking to a photograph. The eye blink. Are you real? There was no response.

What do you want? Mike spoke through clenched teeth. What do you want? He screwed his eyes shut and counted down from ten. When he reached zero, he opened his eyes. He looked up at the smiling faces of the two of them in happier times. Mike led out a breath

that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He drained his coffee and banged the mug down on the table. Partially hidden beneath the undissolved sugar, the eye stared up at him. Mike swept the mug from the table, sending it crashing into the kitchen wall

where it shattered. Shaken, Mike stood up and went back into the living room. He looked at the pictures on the wall in the hallway, They were all watching him. He flopped into the armchair in the living room. Not stroke. Aneurism.

His voice was monotone. Gloria told him to take his hypochondria to the doctors. She lit a cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke. Mike blew out a long sigh. She told him to get a proper job with normal hours. Get to bed earlier. Spend more time with his wife. Mike closed his eyes.

He could feel the beginnings of a headache. Perhaps he did have a brain aneurysm. She reminded him that she did everything in the house. Did he cook? No. Did he clean? No. A drag on her cigarette and a plume of smoke followed each point. In fact, what use was he?

He couldn't even take care of things in bed. She dared him to disagree and blew more smoke at him. Mike opened his eyes and looked at the woman he loved. The smoke haze cleared, revealing her face, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, yellow eye in the middle of her forehead. He sat back in his seat and watched it, blinking in the smoke from Gloria's cigarette.

What do you want? he said. Gloria shrugged and blew more smoke towards him. I don't understand, he said. What do you want? you want from me? Although he was speaking to the eye, Gloria answered his question. She told him she wanted a man because he was currently failing that task. She took another drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke straight up, obscuring the eye. When it cleared, the eye continued staring. Not a man was what Mike heard it saying. You're failing.

I'm not failing. I'm not failing. I'm not failing. he repeated. Yes, yes, you are, it said. No, I'm not. He clutched the sides of his head. Can't even throw one into your wife. I could, give him the chance, he shouted and stood up. Gloria looked confused and told him that he could continue to talk to himself down here

whilst she went to bed. She stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it at Mike. He continued to watch the, eye, and as Gloria brushed past him, he pushed her to the ground and knelt over her. She stared up at him and told him to keep it in his trousers and save them both to disappointment. The eye blinked. You're a disappointment. No, I'm not! screamed Mike.

He picked up the vase from the coffee table, and without removing the flowers, he brought it down on his wife's forehead. It smashed, scattering the flowers, around her head. Gloria screamed, but Mike continued to drive the smashed vase into the eye on his wife's forehead. Glory had already stopped moving when he planted one of the shattered shards of porcelain into her head. His wife's face was bloody, almost unrecognizable. Using his shirt sleeve, he wiped the blood from her forehead and smiled when he could not find the eye. He climbed off his wife when he heard the knocking. As he walked to the door,

he felt his erection. He could not remember the last time it was that big or that hard. He knew it wasn't him that was the problem. Never was. Mike could hear the policeman shouting up the door. There had been several calls from neighbors who heard screaming. The knocking continued until Mike turned the key and opened the door. The officer stopped talking when he saw Mike.

It's okay, officer. I've taken care of it. Mike stood in the doorway, his shirt red with his wife's blood. You can check if you need to. He stepped aside and motioned for the officer to come in. Creepy presents. Cold Embrace. Written by known of consequence and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. I wake cold, wet, and incomplete darkness. There's water up to my neck, and I try to rise out of it, but I'm unable to move.

I've been in this freezing water for so long that my body is numb. I struggle to bring my arms out of the water, but they'll only go so far, failing to break the surface. Blinking my eyes, I'm unable to discern the difference between when they're open or closed. The darkness is so complete, there's absolutely no difference. My breathing becomes erratic, and I panic. I've never liked the dark, a childhood fear I was unable to grow out of. To this day, I fall asleep with. with the TV on. Not because I need to fall asleep to something like I claim, but as an easily

explainable way to have light without judgment. A grown adult still needing a nightlight is weakness, and I'll never admit to being weak. My father raised me to be a man, and that's what I am, damn it. My wife doesn't like the TV on at night, but I need it. Therefore, it's on. The sound of my unstable breathing echoes off the walls back at me. It's to the point where it sounds like thunder, and my head spins. I can feel my eyes drooping as consciousness begins slipping away. My face splashes into the freezing water, and I jolt awake again. It's as dark as it was before, and nothing about my situation has changed. In fact, this is exactly how I woke up a moment ago.

Holy shit, how many times have I hyperventilated, passed out, and woken up like this? Realizing I've been on an unending loop allows me to stop. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself that the darkness is a choice, that I'm choosing to shut out the light instead of being trapped in it. This actually manages to work enough for me to get my breathing under control. I can finally hear something besides my thundering breath, not that it's much of an improvement. Something is dripping into the water.

A subtle sound, widely spread out. No wonder I couldn't hear it over my panicked breathing. You need silence to hear something that quiet. This isn't the kind of drip you can get from a leaky kitchen faucet. No, with the way this is echoing, I'd say it's more of a fat drop falling into a large standing pool. The space must be pretty big. big for it to echo so clearly. It drips once or twice a minute, and as time drags on,

the echo gets louder and louder. Even a strong-willed man can go insane from this. Time has no meaning here. An hour could be a minute. My sense of reality comes into question. Is this real? Am I awake? Could this be a bad dream where I'm awake wondering if I'm merely dreaming? My breathing becomes erratic again, and I dunk my face in the cold water to calm myself. If I was a woman, I'd be slapped in the face for becoming hysterical. Since I'm a man, the cold water is plenty. Bringing my face back out of the water, I take a deep breath to eat.

even myself out. Without thinking, I lick my lips and immediately spit. This isn't regular water. It's salt water. I fucking hate salt water. I hate it so much that I refuse to vacation anywhere near the beach. My wife hates that. She loves the beach and the ocean. But I can't stand it. It's always too hot, the air is too humid, and there's almost always wind. Then there's that added suckfest of walking on sand, and if you're dumb enough to go barefoot, you'll likely find something sharp and pointy just hiding below the surface. Don't even get me started on going into the water. Fuck that noise.

If I ever go into the water, it's in a clear pool that I can see into. Open waters are home to all manner of creatures, and unless you're in a really nice spot, you can't see three feet into the water. It's not just sharks that freak me out, but jellyfish and anything else that could do me harm. There's a type of octopus that's small enough to fit in your hand, but ranks as one of the most deadly creatures on the planet. One sting from this blue-ringed water spider will kill you in a matter of minutes. Shit, there's a tiny jellyfish about the size of a thumb that can kill you just as fast.

Fuck the open water. A shiver runs up my spine, not from the cold, but of thinking about what could be. in the water with me. For that matter, how large is this body of water that I'm in? Am I trapped in some kind of cave? And why can't I move? Shouldn't I be experiencing hypothermia?

Or is that why I'm numb? What the hell is going on? A loud click thunders, and suddenly white light floods in from above. I hadn't realized it, but my eyes had been open for a while now. Fully dilated in the pitch black to pick up on anything, the sudden influx of light shoots lightning straight into my brain. Squeezing my eyes shut, I scream in agony. I try to bring my arms up to shield my eyes.

The light is bright enough that the thin skin of my eyelids isn't enough to stop the pain. but they still won't move. The only thing I can do to alleviate the pain is putting my face in the water. After what seems like forever, and several dunks in the water, my eyes adjust enough to the light that I begin to crack them open.

At first, everything is blurry and out of focus. The light is so intense, I think I'd have trouble seeing even if I'd come in fresh from a bright sunny day. The only thing I can determine is that I'm not in a cave. Unless the lights are floodlights hooked up to a generator,

but I'd be able to hear that instead of the low hum of electricity. Minutes pass torturously slow. But things begin, to come into focus. The first thing I notice is the water, and the fact that I can see through it. The second thing I pick up is the size of the body of water. It's not nearly as big as I imagined. In fact, I know exactly how much there is because a 55-gallon drum is one of those universal things everyone should know. It's one of many, but the others don't have people in them. Either I'm the first,

or I'm just special enough to receive this kind of attention. Regardless, it doesn't bode well for me. I try to stand up, to reach my arms out of the water and climb out of the drum, but I still can't move. Looking through the distortion of the water, I finally understand. It's not that my body beneath the surface is frozen. There are straps wrapped around me. The cold is numbing me enough that I can't feel the restraints. I wonder who I pissed off bad enough to warrant this kind of treatment. Something loud and metallic shifts on the door against the wall. It's up a small staircase with a little platform. The door swings open on rusty hinges in desperate need of oil.

A figure steps through, and I'm relieved to see, Tony, my wife's little brother. It's been a while since I last saw him. In fact, it's been a few months since anyone's seen him. He just up and disappeared one day from college after getting into a fight with one of his professors. I don't remember hearing what the fight was about, just that things got physical. I hadn't known the kid had it in him. His sister sure isn't much of a fighter. I've seen to that. I tell Tony how good it is to see him and ask for his help to get me.

me out of this mess. I have no idea how I got here or why someone would want to do this to me. Tony doesn't respond or even acknowledge that I've spoken at all. Taking the time to look at him as he slowly walks down the steps, I notice he's thinner and paler than the last time I saw him. Not like he's been sitting at a computer. for weeks on end, but starved in a dark prison. His movements are slow and deliberate, like he's concentrating too hard on walking down those steps.

He may look like my brother-in-law, but he sure as hell doesn't act like the overly talkative kid I used to tolerate. I continue to talk, and Tony keeps ignoring me. He places four round pads on the drum. And as he connects them to wires, it finally dawns on me. Tony's the one who put me here. He looks at me and smiles the smile of some psychotic clown. The annoying kid I knew never had a smile like this, not even when he was trying to be menacing.

I can feel the water is a little warmer than it was a few minutes ago. So, the last horse finally crossed the finish line. It's about fucking time. Okay, I know I'm not the smartest guy in the world, and I have genuine moments of stupidity. What pisses me off most is someone pointing it out. It usually results in me throwing things, fists, a desire I have right now.

Oh, please, Doug, you and I both know you don't need an excuse to throw hands. Just ask my sister. The water is actually getting warmer, so maybe I didn't piss myself. I'm sure you did, Tony says. I hadn't meant to say that part out loud. But borderline hypothermia will screw with anyone's brain. But I don't want you to go completely numb. That just won't do.

It's nice to know he's caring for my well-being, despite making me waterlogged. Tony starts messing with some weird tracks on a table. He starts with a two-foot-long section and attaches a smaller piece at a slightly downward angle. The more pieces he puts on, the angle it gets at the bottom piece is nearly vertical. Once he's got it the way he wants it, Tony brings it to me. The piece he started out with clips onto the lip of the drum I'm in

and dips into the one next to me. It kind of looks like a water, But the inside of the U-shape is textured, not designed for slipping. Well, that, and it's less than three inches wide. I cringe at a thought. It's just large enough for a rat to crawl on comfortably. I never liked you, Doug. I knew from the moment I met you that you were a sorry excuse for a man.

I tried to tell my sister that, but Leah wouldn't be swayed. She thought you were the man of her dreams, and you loved her. Leah swore it had nothing to do with the family's money, but I didn't buy that for a minute. I'm curious. How long after you were married did you start hitting her? She refused to tell me. Ah, shit.

That's what this is about. How do you explain to some spoiled rich pussy like Tony how to handle a woman? My father taught me by example, doing what he had to to keep my mother and sisters in line. Things with Leah started off easy and well enough. It wasn't until after we were married that she started overstepping. I mean really, how hard is it to keep a house clean when you don't have a job? No woman of mine will work, not outside keeping the house. That's just the way things are.

And now I'm having to explain this to Tony's dumbass. This is a conversation his father should have had with him a long time ago. You honestly believe that's how things still work in this age. You're not old enough to have that kind of mentality, but I suspect no matter what kind of upbringing you had, you'd still be a rotten bastard. Tony clips on the second track, and then a third. I don't know what he's getting all bent out of shape about.

Leah only went to the emergency once, and that's because she'd tried to run when I slapped her. Falling down the stairs had been her own damn fault. If she'd have just stood there like I told her to, she wouldn't have tumbled down the stairs and broken her arm. Tony clips on a fourth track, and the water is quite warm now. The heat has melted away,

the numbness in my body, and I can actually feel the restraints now. Tony goes to the table once again and comes back with a large syringe. The thing is so massive, it's almost as thick as a decel battery. Hold still, he tells me as he pushes my head to the side, exposing my neck. Wouldn't want me to slip and puncture your esophagus, through the artery, now would you? He's none too gentle as Tony jabs me in my neck. The large needle hurts like hell as it penetrates my skin.

I can feel the draw as he pulls the plunger. It's strong and taking enough blood from me to hurt. No wonder some people develop a phobia to needles. You see, Detective Jones, this is why, I joined Embrace, Tony says as he removes the needle. I realize that the door he came through is open, and a young, attractive woman in a leather coat is standing on the platform. There are two thin, freakishly tall guys standing to either side of her.

Their skin looks to be gray, and their hair is wavy. Not like it's styled that way, but it nearly shimmers with an odd, wavy movement. There's no wind here, so I have no idea how they manage that. Your sister spoke of unity, belonging, the beginning of something new. It sounded like a beautiful dream, but with people like this, Tony pats me hard on the head. Sorry, excuse for a man in the world. It would have only ever been a dream.

Then she promised me something I never thought I'd have. Tony takes the needle full of my blood to the track and begins squirting the red fluid inside. He makes a trail of it from where it clearly. She flips onto the drum to the water of the next drum. She promised me I could do something about my wife-beaten brother-in-law. Something permanent. The woman on the platform says something, but I don't catch it. It's not that I can't hear her.

I'm unintentionally focused on my brother-in-law admitting to wanting to execute me. Movement at the corner of my eye catches my attention. The water in the drum to my right is rippling. There's something alive in there. Tony's not just planning to execute me. He's already set it in motion. I get the feeling this won't be quick. You can stand there all day and tell me that the master is evil, detective, but it won't change anything.

I want you to go back to my parents and tell them you found me, but you were unable to sway me back to their society. I have fully embraced the master. And once this loathsome son of a bitch is dead? He grabs me by the hair and yanks my head from side to side for emphasis. I will commit myself to be in one of his soldiers. My head is swimming with the realization that there's no reasoning with this lunatic. So much that I miss what the woman on the platform says again, but I hear Tony's response, even if I don't entirely understand it.

Oh, yes, it'll take quite a lot of Shadow Cove Prawns to remake me in his image, but that's what Doug is for. This facility has recently been retrofitted to farm the prawns, and they grow the best when they have something wicked to feast on. Doug's sacrifice will sprout enough prawns to convert four of my brothers. I've imagined being killed by a lot of things in open waters, but never shrimp. What kind of man dies from being attacked by shrimp? That's no way for me to die, and I start doing the unthinkable. I ask the woman who Tony calls a detective to help me.

If she's a cop, then she's duty-bound to help me. Tony dunks my head in the water, silencing my pleas. She's not a cop, you moron. Miss Jones is a private investigator. My parents hired to find me. She can't help you. The woman makes a noise. Excuse me, won't help you.

Funny how a woman wouldn't care to help an abusive asshole like you. I'm about to say something to that, but my head is wrenched to the side again. This time I'm forced to look at the drum to my right. And what I see would be hilarious. if I wasn't the one this was happening to. The largest shrimp I have ever seen are crawling on the track from their drum to the one I'm in. They're incredibly slow, more accustomed to swimming in the water

than walking on metal. In a desperate attempt to dissuade them from coming at me, I try to blow air at them hard. As expected, it does nothing, but I keep trying. The monstrous crustaceans walk off the edge of the track and plop right into the water. I swear I can feel them begin to crawl all over me. There's a sensation on my neck, like a spider crawling on my flesh. Before I can try to crush it,

between my shoulder and chin. A sharp pinch makes me yip in pain. A warm trickle flows down my neck to the water, and I feel even more pinches. They're all over me, slowly cutting into my skin. I scream and thrash, agonizing at the pain and unable to do a damn thing about it. The pain begins to be too much,

and I sink into the water with every intention of inhaling the saltiness. Drowning would be preferable to this death by a thousand cuts. But before I can draw the water into my lungs, there's a sharp pull on my hair. At the surface, Tony, puts his face inches from mine, and he snarls at me. No, you don't, you son of a bitch.

You're going to feel this until the bitter end, and I am going to laugh as you die screaming. And scream I do. I can't help it. The pain is too intense and all-encompassing. After a while, Tony's laughter drowns out my helpless pleas. And the last thing I see is the hatred in his eyes. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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