Creepy - In Debt, We found Each Other & A Gentle, Soft Boy

Episode Date: March 23, 2023

In Debt, We found Each Other***Written by: Joshua Bryant and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***A Gentle, Soft Boy***Written by: Olivia White and Narrated by:  Michelle Kane***Content Warning: emotional, psychological abuse; sexual assault***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. 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, much simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of biocations of biocations. Silence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. In debt, we found each other. Written by Joshua Bryant and narrated by Owen McKeown. I was a thoroughly desperate young man. Not for money or housing, but for attention. Specifically, that of a romantic sort. I hungered for it. like a dog does for table scraps.

Every woman I saw was a subject for my foolish, misbegotten fantasies. I believe this is a common ailment for a great deal of young men, and I was no different. It was in the winter of my 21st year that I was forced to come to terms with this. I drove late at night through the northern part of the state where I was attending university. It was long past sunset. A tremendous snowstorm I just passed through the day before, rendering the forest at each other, either side of the road, a place of coal-black tree trunks and four-foot-tall snowdrifts. I drove slowly in case of black ice.

There was an overcast, and the world was held within an abnormal hush, as if a pillow were laid across the mouth of the planet. My thoughts were the same as they always were back then. I dreamed of a woman that would love me. Kind, quiet, passive, all the most unrealistic assumptions you could imagine. imagine, and upon this boyish reverie, a very apt interruption became illuminated in my high beams. On the roadside there was a lone figure walking. Dressed in very dark clothes, I still knew immediately that it was a woman. This, of course, set my heart to drumming, and my mind careened with pleas to any

God listening that she was not an old, homeless junkie. I braked my car and pulled up beside her. I rolled the passenger window down and leaned across the seat. I smiled. Hello there, I said. Need a ride? She stopped when I spoke, but did not look over at me. She was wearing a black bucket hat, and her face was downcast, not revealing much to me other than the fact that she seemed very pale.

A purple gingham shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, no scarf, no coat, and yet she did not seem to be trimmed. When she answered, it was in a sad, hollow voice. Are you going to town? she asked. Well, yeah, hop on in. I'll get you wherever you need to go. I unlocked the car door, and she opened it, giving me at last a full view of what she was wearing, though it was still too dark to make out her features in detail.

She was in an old black dress, a pair of dirty white stockings, and her shoes were these square-toed jobs with white. wide brass buckles. But the strangest thing about her was the slip of paper that fell across the right side of her face and it was held there by her hat. There was a Chinese symbol

that I was unfamiliar with on the paper. I'd never seen anything like it before and on such a cold, dark night it made me rather uneasy. She sat down and closed the door behind herself. She placed me under the gaze of her left eye, quiet and somber. It glistened weirdly in the almost non-existent light.

Yet this did not frighten me. Rather, I was excited at the mere fact that a woman was looking at me. I'd pulled back onto the road and proceeded once more towards town. So, my name's Ted. What's yours? I said, trying to sound smooth and confident. Master calls me Po. She answered without emotion. I blinked and remained silent for a moment.

I didn't know what to make of that. And besides, the longer she was in my car, the more a fetid stink permeated. It wasn't enough to elicit a gag, but it was certainly obvious. I assumed her unwashed garments were to blame. Master, huh? Are you like a martial artist or something?

I mean, that would explain the paper, too, I said. She did not answer me. I thought that perhaps I had offended her, and my cheeks began to redden. I was glad at that moment for the intensity of the darkness surrounding us. In an effort to not ruin her impression of me, I let the silence hang. That gave me time to work up a brand new fantasy, with me as the lead, and Poe as my interest. I imagined that she would have nowhere to go, and I would invite her over to my place, completely honorable, with no intentions of anything.

beyond providing a safe haven for her. She would shower and trade her dirty, stinking clothes for some of mine. Her gratitude would invariably change to devotion, and I would have no choice but to accept her into my life. How rosy sweet it was,

just like a movie script. I believed it would end all the loneliness and tedium that kept my life under a crushing heel. Suddenly, she spoke, You can leave me here. "'Wo,' I said, looking at the frost-laden trees and pristine snow carpet outside. "'This is barely in city limits.

"'I can take you all the way to wherever you need to go. "'If you don't have anywhere to go, well—' "'I do have somewhere to go,' she replied. "'You can take me all the way there if that is your wish.' "'Oh, definitely. I couldn't let you walk the streets alone at night.' "'What kind of man would I be?' "'Very well, then. "'Turn here,' was all she said,

"'pointing a long black fingernail at an avenue leading to the suburbs. "'I did so. "'My mind raced. "'I felt I was working against the clock "'to make such an impression on Po "'that she would need to contact me later. "'I kept glancing over at her. "'She could have been sculpted from ice,

"'she was so still. "'Her silence still. to me did not seem awkward or spiteful, but rather shy and demure. I licked my lips and almost spoke, but she once more indicated for me to turn, and I lost my nerve. Here, she said, and I pulled alongside the curb in front of a nice two-story house. She was opening the door before I'd even put it into park. I felt it was now or never, and jumped out of my car. Wait up, Po! The sidewalk looks slippery.

I'll walk you to the door. She did not acknowledge me, and I kept moving towards the house. Her gate was very stiff. She did not seem to want to bend her knees, and she held her arms slightly in front of herself. I consigned this to her being cold and not wanting to lose her footing on the iced concrete. I hustled and walked closely to her left side, in case she needed me to catch her.

The house loomed ahead of us. For all its suburban trappings, it still looked grim and foreboding in the night. I cast glances over my shoulder, studying the snow-heaped hedges and skeletal trees that lined the walkway to the front door. Outside my car, with it now so late, I felt immensely vulnerable, like a naked child wandering a graveyard. I shuddered. Poe, meanwhile, was unperturbed. That is, until we reached the front door itself. She let out a shrill cry and brought her thin arms over her.

her face. She recoiled as if struck, stumbling back and shedding her stoic implacability. I reached out, trying to catch her, employing her to tell me what was wrong. She would not answer, and I had to follow her gaze to find out the cause of her alarm. She was staring at a mirror hanging from the front door, stricken by her own reflection. I smiled, looking at her reaction as childish insecurity. This titillated me more than anything else she had done previously. standing tall, imagining myself Hercules reborn, I walked up to the object of her terror and took it from the door. I looked at myself in the mirror, grinning at how dashing I thought I appeared.

Then I tossed it lightly into the snow. Oh, Po, I said. I know how scary it is to have low self-esteem, but you are beautiful. I see it. As abruptly as she had lost it, her composure returned. My compliment went unanswered, and she moved past me to the door. I thought nothing of it. Again, I considered this to be a product of her insecurity.

When I sighed, it was because I felt our encounter was drawing to a close. Well, I guess this is where we part. Could I maybe have your phone? She interrupted me, raising a pallet hand for silence. With her other hand, she reached for the doorknob but did not grasp it. She merely hovered her palm over it. The quiet seemed to grow, pulling itself into knots and tangles that made me feel as if there was something electric in the air.

Suddenly, whether it was a trick of the darkness or a product of my mind, I don't know, but a shadow seemed to leap from Poe's hand and disappear into the doorknob. The lock clicked and the door squeaked open on its own. I gasped and took a step backwards. I wiped my eyes and tried to speak, but the words would not come. Paul looked at me with her stone-like eye. I shall return in a few moments. Leave or stay as you please, she said, before walking into the house.

She dissipated amongst the shadows of the house and I was left alone. I was speechless and more than a little afraid. I tried to reason. through it, arguing with myself about the impossibility of what I had just witnessed. I tried again and again to tell myself it was dark, and I was tired, and that it only looked like Po had opened the door without touching it. But her strange appearance and rotten odor kept me from fully discounting something different about what had just happened. I did not have very much time to contemplate this, however. I heard something from the house

that made my stomach sink and froze my blood in my veins. It had been a startled cry of alarm that immediately transformed into a muffled shriek of pain. I made as if to run, but the thought of Poe made me hesitate. Meanwhile, the sounds of a struggle were now echoing from the dark house. Furniture seemed to be being struck aside that I could hear something like a strangled wheeze. I stood, trembling, and straining to hear more.

I had never known such abject fear. I didn't know what to do with myself. Suddenly, there was a wet pop. Then all other sounds ceased. Something heavy was dropped to the floor. Soon, Poe materialized from the shadows at the house and walked out to where I stood. I stammered and ran my fingers through my hair again and again.

What the hell happened? I demanded. My voice hoarse. I was settling debt for master. Now I am free, she replied. Well, get in the car. We got to get out of here. When we made it back to my car, I slammed the gas and we sped away. I wasn't thinking of black ice anymore.

Adrenaline was the only sensation I was cognitive of. Poe, on the other hand, sat as immovable as a granite slab. I did not go into the city. I returned to the road we had taken to get there. I thought it would be best to get a hotel room elsewhere. Established an alibi or something. But even in those moments of sheer excitement, I still wanted to be post-s savior.

This, though in an arguably unprecedented turn of events, merely made the movie script more interesting. Obviously, I wasn't watching the road very intently, but I was exceeding the recommended speed limit by at least 20 miles per hour. It was only a matter of time before I hit a patch of ice and lost control. When I did, we spun across the road, the centrifugal force adhered me to my seat, and it ended with us plowing deep into the snow.

I cursed loudly for several minutes. My hands were shaking so bad. They were completely useless. Eventually, I placed my face into my clammy palms and sat there, wallowing in my panic. I was brought back to reality by the sound of the passenger door being forced open past the snowpack. I looked over just in time to see Po get out of the car. I called after her, but she did not respond. She was walking into the forest.

Away from me. For the first time that night, I felt angry at her. I yanked my seatbelt off and tried to open my door. The snow was so thick I couldn't, and eventually I rolled my window down and crawled out. Wait up! Po! I yelled. She ignored me and kept marching through the knee-deep snow, her figure becoming one with the night. But I wasn't going to let my fantasy go that easily, not after how involved I'd become over the course of the night. I pursued her, struggling through the frozen crust of white. I kept calling out, but she never even looked back.

Her pace was as stiff-jointed and sluggish as before, but the same. snow was hardly an impediment to her monotonous pace. It took me a long while to catch up to her, and when I did, we were deep in the trees where all was dead and caught as if in a trap. I grabbed her shoulder, and she stopped. I stumbled against her and bounced off like she was made of ramrod and rubber. She turned around and regarded me, though the darkness was altogether too encompassing for me to make her face out. That's it? I screamed.

I pick you up off the side of the road, drive you to somebody's house that I'd never met before, then help you escape what couldn't be anything other than murder. And you just get out of my car and leave? You believe I owe you something? She asked her voice as cold as the night. Hell yes! We became acquainted by happenstance.

You took me to that house because you wished to and you took us away for the same reason. Not once did you stipulate any fees for these actions. You alone are responsible. I owe you nothing. I shook my head in disbelief, yet her logic was impervious to argument. But still, I felt wrong.

I wanted her and felt that was enough for her to give herself to me. So I shot my hand. out, meaning to grab her by the front of her dress. She stopped me before I could. Her right hand, faster than anything you could imagine, snapped out and took hold of mine. With a squeeze, she broke three of my fingers, and I fell to my knees. I immediately began begging to be let go, and I pried at her grip with my left hand. But her fingers were hard as steel, and I doubt that three men with crowbars could have loosened her from me.

Just then, a bitter wind howled through the forest, causing a break in the overcast. A pool of moonlight illuminated us, and I was given a good look at the hand that held mine. It was a talon. Nails were long and black, but not painted. They seemed to have grown that way. The skin was very pale, and there was a multitude of translucent fibers that grew either from the flesh or on it. It appeared much like a coat, a very fine hair covered her skin. My eyes traveled up her rigid arm all the way to her face.

I couldn't stifle the screech of horror that escaped my throat. Her lips were blue as a corpses. The left side of her face was covered in sagging, papery skin, and her teeth bared in a hateful snarl were as jagged and sharp as shattered glass. Her left eye was filmy and yewere. yellowed, but it was the right side that truly instilled terror. The paper slip that had until now obscured the right side of her face stirred with the wind. It fluttered about, revealing the putrid ruin that had been hidden beneath all along.

There was an empty eye socket that receded into the terrible blackness of her skull. About the exposed cheekbone, there were spare chases of moldering green flesh. Hers was the rotted visage of crypts and nightmares, and I looked up at it in helpless fear. I have performed my final duties. She was shrieking at me, a voice as horrible as any demons. I am at last free of mass' commands. I have repaid all debts, and yet you wish to impede me?

I think not. And with these words, she squeezed my hand even, tighter. My voice reached volumes and pitches only torture victims were acquainted with. Like a child squishing a rotten banana, she reduced the bones and flesh of my hand to a paste within the sack of my skin. I was certain she was going to murder me. I thought she would rip my throat out there in the snow and feed on my still hot corpse. I sobbed and begged. I even soiled myself. but she didn't kill me. Po released my hand, if you can call it that, after what she had done to it.

I clutched it to my chest and sobbed. She wasted no more words on me, and, like the wind that had now departed, she faded into the surrounding darkness. Eventually I stood and found my way back to the road. I called for an ambulance. They took me to the hospital where my hand had to be amputated. I told the doctor it had happened when I spun out. She said that it looked more like an elephant had stomped on it. I was never questioned about the murder of the man in the house.

He was some sort of antique dealer. Nobody had ever found out that Po had done it. I doubt anybody other than her master and myself knew of her existence. for a long time I resented her, hated her even. Coming to terms with life with a prosthetic limb was something I was in no way prepared for. I learned to write with my left hand, learned to be quite adept at everything, in fact. It is certainly not the burden I initially thought to be. After that night, my foolish fantasies ceased altogether.

Expectations without reason, thoughts that I was owed anything else. else by those I felt desire for, all melted like ice under a lamp. Now I am well above forty, a father to happy children, and a husband to a loving wife. Yes, I am quite content. I owe nothing to no one, and neither do they to me. But what's more, I expect nothing from others save what they establish. That night, Pote didn't just settle her own debts. She settled mine as well.

Just like her, wherever she is, whatever she may be doing, I am free. Creepy Presents A Gentle Soft Boy Written by Olivia White and narrated by Michelle Kane. I first met Robin through some mutual friends. We actually met online, followed each other on Twitter, then Facebook came next, DMing became Skyping, and within a couple weeks we were making concrete plans to hang out in the city sometime soon. I was attracted to Robin almost immediately, and yeah, that was just from his selfies and social media posts. You're going to be reading this and thinking, she's naive, and yeah, I fucking know.

Easily fooled, though, if you're thinking that, I'm not sure that's fair. Robin was, I don't know, his whole brand and persona was that he was this gentle, soft boy who cared about feelings and had no shame in showing his own. This was his Twitter bio. Nice boy, good friend, soft-spoken somebody. Kindness is cool. Selfishness sucks. Hashtag, respect women. Every time I see a guy with a bio like that these days.

start shaking. It's amazing how easy it is for people to convince you, they're something they're not, just by saying it. Robin did keep the front going, though. He was good at it. He was a tech journalist working for a site which had an office locally. I fell for him in part thanks to his work. He was just so in touch with what it's like to be a woman in tech.

So thoughtful. He'd lecture on the subject. In fact, he did diversity talks at shows like GDC, P-A-X, etc. I watched some recordings of them, and he was excellent, really passionate, really knowledgeable. I guess I was taken in by a guy talking about me. I feel really stupid, but I know I'm not. I know his every move was designed to do this. We got closer. We talked a lot. I don't let mid in that easily, especially not men who it's clear they have a thing for me. I had a really, really abusive relationship in the past, and I didn't want to repeat that again. So fucking much for that. Robin was lovely. He was sweet, sensitive, and caring. When we first met up in person, we ended up walking in the park one evening for three hours,

holding hands and just talking about life, the state of the world, etc. He got it. He really understood. So I thought anyway. We progressed to steamy sex and exchanging a few news. He was pushy a little, but I dismissed it as inthes. enthusiasm. He really liked me. He kept telling me as much. I did a little bit more than I wanted to, but it was fine, I told myself. He's one of the good guys. He understands consent and pressure.

He just isn't fully grasping my boundaries. Maybe it's me at fault. Maybe I should just do what he wants. That's what I told myself, and that's why I kept doing it. Meanwhile, Robin's brand was growing stronger. He'd frequently engage in 10, 20 tweet threads about how women get a rough time in tech. He'd talk about his own privilege and how aware of it he was, how much he reflected on it. Looking back, he was running through a checklist of things he thought women wanted him to say. Things he thought I wanted him to say, but it's hard to see it when you're in that deep. It's hard to see it when you think you actually love that person, because you're in love with who they're pretending to be. He flirted with other women a lot, both online and in real life, and I admit that bothered me slightly.

I've been cheated on, and yeah, okay, I. can get a bit jealous. But he'd explained to me how that was my own internalized misogyny at work, and how I'd been brainwashed into believing that men and women couldn't be just friends. It was society at fault. The patriarchy, not Robin, never Robin. If you'd rather I only look at you, then step up your game and give me something really worth looking at. He'd said playfully, one night. We were hanging out in his apartment. I knew he wanted me to agree to have sex with him. I wasn't entirely at that place yet. He kept nudging me into stripping for him, pushing and pushing. I left, almost in tears. I didn't show him a thing. The next day, I woke up to a long email about

body positivity, and how I should learn to love myself, that I'm too harsh on myself, and that's why I was hesitant to give myself over to him. I fluctuated between alarm bells and self-doubt. Of course I did. That was his intention. Over time, the alarm bells faded, and the self-doubt grew. This was Robin, my Robin, this woke fucking guy who understood what it was like to be me better than any man had before. I feel like him under your skin, he said to me once. When I think about what you go through as a woman, it feels like I could fit inside you like a glove. Why didn't I see that as creepy? Why did I find that romantic? How wasn't I aware that this was purely performative? That's what people like Robin do. They seduce and blind us. It's like hypnotism, but using our own vulnerabilities,

comparing themselves to other men in a way that will always leave them looking better. They're like sponges, malleable, adaptable sponges who slimely creep and manipulate, shifting their minds and bodies, molding themselves into the men we want them to be, hiding the men they really are. He made me feel really insecure. He'd go out of his way to talk candidly, sexually to other women, women who are open and up front about, their bodies, their sex lives. Women he knew I wish I could be like, but never have the confidence. He started talking a lot online to a specific woman, a woman I really didn't like. He knew I didn't like her. He'd goad me into blowing up, knowing my jealousy, my baggage could make me volatile. And then I'd have to sit there, listening to his lectures about how I hate I hated women, how I hated myself, how he wanted to teach me to love myself and my gender, that I was deserving of respect.

Of course, these are all the red flags of an emotional abuser. Of course I can see that now. But I was closer then. I had his scent and my nostrils, his taste on my lips. I had his words in my head and in front of my eyes. eyes every day. I had his persona, his brand, a gentle, soft boy, harmless, without the rough edges. And I had myself, vulnerable, damaged, conflicted. There was a temptation, such a big temptation, to fall into the arms of a guy who told me he knew how I could be happy, who told me he understood me and what it was like to be me. Things got bad. I felt like I was losing him. Robin grew more and more popular online and developed a following.

He became the go-to guy whenever anyone wanted an example of a man who was doing it right. I felt, I felt pathetic, out of touch, a burden. I didn't want to lose him. I loved him. He made it clear to me how I could fix things. I had to love myself better. I had to love my body better. I had to love sex better. I had to become one of those strong women, those outspoken feminists, full of sex positivity and understanding. I'd never be free from the stigmas and objectifications that scared me until I let go and explored myself, he said.

Explored myself with him. Of course, I believed him at the time. I was going through things that he knew about. Estrangement for my family, the death of my father, a period of depression that had me sobbing to him on the phone every night. He told me he could fix me I knew it was a lie deep down

but who doesn't want to be fixed and besides everyone else said he was an expert that he was a nice, wonderful guy who knew his shit that any woman would be lucky to find a man like him I knew I had

to have sex with him I knew I had to show him that I could be strong, confident, feminine, and powerful. I had to let him inside me, despite the trauma and the back of my mind screaming, no, no, no, no, at the thought of being penetrated ever again. I had to get over it. I wanted to get over it. I wasn't ready, but I agreed to it anyway. Robin had just gotten back from San Francisco, where he'd been on a panel about gender representation.

He came to my apartment with flowers and wine. I cooked him steak, and we had a genuinely nice time. He took me to the bedroom. He sat there, a smug and predatory. smile on his face as he nodded at me to get undressed. He'd seen me naked before so many times, but only in photos. I was trembling. I slipped my clothes off and stood there, shivering and cowering in front of him. He surveyed my body and gave an appreciative murmur. He guided me to the bed, moved my hand,

to his back. My fingertips pressed against his flesh. It was soft, too soft like clay. This wasn't right. It would never be right. I changed my mind. I said no. He held me tighter. And said yes. I wanted to stop. I couldn't move. I opened my mouth to say no again. but he kissed me and tasted of dirt. I wanted to resist. I cried out against him, but his breath filled my throat, dry and dusty. His touch was numbing me.

All I could feel was my own body, shaking, and so I gripped his back tighter. My hands sunk into his body. I could feel him. on top of me just starting to slide into me but it wasn't right it should have been hard not this malleable flowing sensation his body began to fold into mine i could feel flesh was it flesh it was cold it smelled musty flowing into me filling me up robin's body began to begin to to envelop me. He had no skeleton, no form, no structure. He was nothing but wriggling flesh. Somehow from a mouth he no longer had, he whispered dirty talk into my ear. I felt him pass

between my lips. He was between my legs, flowing up over my butt, thin and sticky across my breasts. down my throat, over my nose, ears, eyes. I couldn't breathe. He was on me and in me, and I no longer existed. I was a speck, a dot, inside the substance that was Robin, coating me, burning my skin, filling my body. I have no memory of how long it lasted. No idea where I went while I was inside Robin and Robin was inside me.

I awoke, sore, naked and shivering on the bed. My skin red and covered in a thin, chalky substance. Robin sat by the window, wearing no clothes. I saw his flesh flowing quickly back into place, the contours of his face forming even as I watched. The flabby folds of creeping skin returned to the shape of arms, legs, a torso. He smiled at me with worm-like lips. His eyes were the last things to reform.

His brown eyes knitting themselves back together in empty gaping eye sockets. What had once been a thing of twisting flesh and writhing skin became a man again. a man who claimed to have a heart, a soul, a brain. I don't believe he had any of these things. I don't believe there was any humanity within Robin. Just that the thing Robin was could do a very good job of disguising itself as one who had it all. Robin stood up, pulled on his pants, and gave me a dismissive, almost disgusted grin. You have to leave soon. I've got work. He grunted at me. I lay on the bed, quaking.

I'll make you coffee and send you on your way. I know it might not have happened how I perceived it. I know that men are supposed to be flesh and bone and internal organs. I know that the way Robin got inside me was impossible. It is supposed to be impossible. Trust me, I know. I know that. And yet, too, I know it all to be true. No matter how it happened, all this is true. But too, I know that Robin was a man, no matter what his body told me his actions. Even if Robin was a being who flowed into me and suffocated me with his amorphous form. even if he had no humanity, he was still just a man. But maybe I didn't want him to be that. Maybe I needed him to be this thing, this creature. If he could transform himself into the man he thought I wanted, then I could transform him into the man I knew I needed.

That was only fair. A wooden baseball bat. That's all it took to turn Robin into the perfect man. Bones can be crushed to powder. Internal organs can rupture and split. Pound something enough times and you'll find it perfectly malleable, easy to soften. Go for the skull first, and it's not even difficult. Sure, Robin can't deliver his speeches anymore. He can't tell women what he thinks they want to hear. But there, carefully transported into his bathtub, he's still and supportive. I can talk to him and he listens now, really listens. He doesn't try to hurt me anymore. He doesn't make me doubt myself or hate myself. Robin doesn't pretend

to be something he's not. He's just flesh and blood. No form or strong. structure. He can be anything I want him to be. Sometimes I reach into the bath and touch him. He's sticky and starting to smell a bit, but I don't mind. It's only right that Robin has become the type of man he pretended to be. Passive, docile, understanding, quiet, thoughtful, a good friend. Just a just a gentle, soft boy. 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 done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.