Creepy - I've Been Trying to Contact the Spirit of My Deceased Son & The Man in the Floor

Episode Date: January 13, 2022

I've been trying to contact the spirit of my deceased son. Maybe I should stop.***Written by: u/ bastard_vampire and narrated by: Heather Thomas***Content Warning: None***The Man in the Floor***Written by: Paul Caseley and narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warnings: Mental illness***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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 books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. I've been trying to contact the spirit of my deceased son. Maybe I should stop. Written by bastard vampire and narrated by Heather Thomas. Good evening. The young woman greeted me as she opened the door. She spoke with a very strange and vaguely Eastern European accent. Her face stood out starkly against the dark hallway behind her.

I hesitated for a moment. Am I really going to do this? Hi, my name is Jane Webster. I called yesterday? My voice cracked a bit as I tried to hide my hesitance. A wide smile spread across her face knowingly. She nodded and opened the door wider to let me in. "'We've been waiting for you, Mrs. Webster.

"'I am Daniela. "'Oh, no, Webster is actually my father's name. "'My ex-husband and I separated ten years ago. "'I explained as she closed the door behind us. "'I do apologize. "'She led me through the hallway into a dimly lit room "'where an elderly man was sitting at a small round table "'with an expectant look on his wrinkled face.

"'His long snow-white beard swept a cold room. across the glass surface, as he nodded his head to acknowledge my presence. There were three slender candles positioned to form a triangle in the middle of the table, which gave out this strong odor that was making me feel nauseous as I approached. My grandfather does not speak English much. So I'll be here to accompany you for our session tonight. If you don't mind. She said as she pulled out one of the tall wooden chairs for me,

across from the old man who was eyeing us in silence. Thank you. Would you like me to get you anything to drink? She offered. No, thank you. I would like to start now. She exhaled and nodded and then proceeded to occupy the chair right next to me, and then she said something in a language that I did not understand to him.

They spoke back and forth for a few minutes while throwing glances at my direction occasionally. I waited nervously until he nodded and motioned for her to light the candle. Now, I need to ask you a few questions if you don't mind. Of course. Who are we trying to contact here? It's my son, Peter. What happened to him? He went missing. When did it happen? thirteen years ago. He was only twelve. So there was nobody. I didn't answer her, but I knew she could tell from the look on my face that I had been living in hell for far too long. Is this your first seance? Yes, I lied. What changed your mind about us? I am desperate. I've been living with so much pain these past fourteen years. She nodded. Miss Webster, it's very important that you do as I say. You have to promise me that under no condition will you interrupt with the procession. You will only speak when I tell you to speak. If I tell you to close your eyes, you do it. If I tell you to open them, you do it. If I tell you to stay where you are, you do it. If I tell you to run, you do it, understand?

It's for your own safety. You have to promise me. She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed it a bit. I promise. Good. Some spirits don't like to be summoned at all, and they can be really dangerous to try and communicate with as they would try to possess living, or worse.

She paused looking in her girl. grandfather's direction across the table. They would try to feed on your spirit, and there's no guarantee that your son is not one of these malevolent spirits. Her words sent a chill down my spine. Not because I was worried that my son could harm me, but the thought of some evil spirits lurking out there, looking for innocent souls to pray upon.

I understand. One more thing. Sometimes. the dead would ask you to stay a little bit longer with them. Don't do it. If I tell you to let go, you do it. The portal to the realm of the dead can only be opened for as long as my grandfather can hold it. So, use your time wisely.

I will. She nodded again and then stood up from her chair to turn off the only source of light in the room, leaving us in complete darkness. As she lit the candles, she said something in their language to her grandfather, who was already murmuring something under his breath with his eyes closed. The light from the candles were making weird, elongated shadows around him. Did you bring the things I had asked you to?

She went back to her seat next to me. I rummaged through my purse and pulled out a Polaroid picture of my son, one of the old t-shirts he wore before he was gone. and a small glass jar of banana muffins, his favorite snack. Daniela took the photo from me and gave it to her grandfather, and then she put the neatly folded t-shirt in the middle of the table near the candles, and took the lid off the jar, and put it right in front of me. The old man said something as he brought the photo closer towards the candles

to take a better look at it. "'Your son?' he asked, staring at me intently. I nodded my head. He is beautiful. May the soul rest in peace. A sympathetic smile spread across Daniela's face. We are ready to get started. He whispered, his dark eyes twinkling wildly in spite of his calm demeanor.

Then he reached out a hand to me and the other one to Daniela. We sat around the table holding hands in silence for a few moments before she told me to close. my eyes. Then he began to chant strange and weird words in a sorrowful, almost guttural low voice, and it was nothing like I had heard ever before. He repeated this three times, and his voice got louder and hoarser each time. At first nothing happened. We sat in silence for a few minutes, and it took a power of will not to open my eyes to see what was happening around us. and then I heard it. It started so vaguely that I had to strain my ears to make sure it was really there.

A murmur of hissing whispers that began to surround us from every direction and made every hair on my body stand on end. Voices overlapping with one another. It was very subtle and clear at the same time, though I could not make out any intelligible words. I could no longer hear the world around us. The walls seemed to be closing in on us closer and closer. It was like being locked in a soundproof room full of people.

I kept my eyes closed and squeezed Daniela's hand tighter as the temperature began to drop gradually. Keep your eyes closed. Her voice was barely audible, engulfed by the whispering spirits. I was shaking all over, and I was sure it was not so much because of the cold as it was because of the fear. And then I felt something soft and icy cold, brush against my nape. I gasped in horror and almost fell out of my chair, but Daniela did not let go of my hand. And then the whispering stopped abruptly, replaced by a deafening silence so intense I felt,

I felt like I was no longer in the realm of human existence. And from the corner, I heard a tiny voice calling me. Mommy, I hesitated, but then I felt Daniela gently put a reassuring hand on mine. Pete? Mommy? Is that you? Pete? Oh, God.

Pete? I miss you so much. I began to sob. It had been so long since the last time I had heard this voice, but I knew I could not ruin this opportunity. Mommy? My thoughts went to that day, the most horrible day in my life as a parent.

Peter Anderson, my son, was only ten years old when he went missing ten years ago. His best friend Ron said that he and Peter had been waiting at the bus stop as usual when Peter told him that he needed to go get something in his locker. That was the last time he was ever seen alive. The police combed the whole school and even the force behind it

and found nothing suspicious. There were no signs of foul play or abduction. They checked the recordings from the school's security footage that day. But Peter was not in them. He never went back into the school building. Of course, there were questions about the probability that he might have run away somewhere. But I told them Peter would never do such a thing. Why would he? What would have been his reason to leave me alone and cause me so much pain?

I had raised him well, and I had loved him so much. He was such a sweet boy, not some street punk who ran away from home because of his family's disapproval of his drug abuse. He was only ten years old. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and finally years. But still there were no signs of Peter's whereabouts. I spiraled into depression and started drinking. My husband had finally given up trying to find our son after only a few years, and that made me despise him. I channeled my frustration and pain into anger directed at him.

I blamed him for everything. If only he had allowed me to take that driving lesson, I would have driven Peter to and picked him up from school every day myself. But no, he insisted that our son needed to learn to depend on himself and not act like a spoiled little brat. We separated three years after Peter's sudden disappearance,

and ever since then I have never stopped trying to find my son. I criticized the police harshly because I thought they didn't take this case seriously. I knew I would never find peace until the day I found out what happened to my Peter. Two years ago, the bitter truth came to me. I found out that Peter had died. It was the first seance I had ever been to. A friend recommended it to me because she could not bear to see me destroying

myself slowly every day. At that point, I was so desperate that I would just do anything to get any clue as to what might have happened to Peter. It's okay. Don't be afraid. Mommy's here, baby. I answered him, trying to regain control of myself. You can open your eyes now if you want to. I heard Daniela's voice. It sounded so. so clear yet distant at the same time. Be quick. We don't have much time. I opened my eyes and found myself in the same room,

sitting in front of the small round table. But there was something different about it. Danielle and her grandparents were nowhere to be found, and everything looked dark, as if gilded with the blackness of death itself. The deafening silence still persisted, and it was pressing on me even stronger than before. The only source of light was coming from one of the candles that was fluttering,

as if being disturbed by a gush of non-existent wind. I looked around, and behind me I saw a small blurry figure, standing in the dark corner opposite me. Meat? I hesitated. The figure did not move. It just stood there watching me tentatively. as if trying to decide whether or not to step into the light,

which seemed to only illuminate as far as the edge of the table. And beyond that, was only darkness. Pete? I called out again, a bit louder. Mommy? Why am I here? His voice sounded distorted and almost unrecognizable. But there was no doubt.

He was my son. Baby? I am so sorry. I am so very sorry. You know how much I love you, but we don't have much time. I called you here tonight because I wanted to ask you some questions. I love you so much. You know that, don't you? I love you too, Mommy. Yes, Pete. And Mommy loves you too. You told me that the day you went blank. You cannot remember having seen anything strange or unusual at all.

Before it all went dark? Yes. Have you heard or smelt anything then? Silence. Pete? You're still there, baby? A whistle? Somebody was whistling.

I started to feel the sensation of rapid fluttering in my chest. Who was it? Could you tell who it was? No. What? Was it another kid? No. Then, who? It was a man.

A sudden wave of nausea washed over me. Who could be so heartless to hurt a little kid like Peter? You can't remember who it was? Maybe a teacher or one of the parents? I can't. It's okay, Pete. It's okay. So that was the last thing you heard before everything went dark.

A whistle? Mommy? Yes, Pete. Mommy? I'm scared. Why, sweetie? Why are you afraid? I see.

People. What? What do you mean people? I can't see their faces. But they're sad. They don't know where to go. They're making me scared, Mommy. Please don't go.

I'm scared. Pete, sweetie, are you okay? Silence. Pete, answer me, please. Miss Webster, it's time to let go. No, please. My son needs my help. Let go now.

Mommy, no! I stood up from my chair and reached out towards my son, whose silhouette was already dissolving into the darkness behind him. And then from the spot where my son had stood only a few seconds ago, another silhouette appeared, darker than the night, tall and terrible. It opened its mouth wide to reveal the blackest and the deepest trench of horror within as it hovered closer to me. I reached out a hand and I felt a cold burning sensation on the tip of my fingers as soon as we touched. But then I felt a strong hand pulling me back onto my chair,

and I found myself back in the dimlylet room with Daniela and her grandfather staring at me intensely, both looking really pale. Daniela was squeezing my shoulders so hard it hurt. What do you think you're doing? She yelled, wide-eyed. as if she was about to slap me. Have you lost your mind? Didn't I tell you to do what I tell you to do?

You could have got my grandfather killed because of your stupidity. He's 87 years old. You selfish woman! I found myself holding Pete's t-shirt tight with one hand. Cold sweat was running down my back. I'm... I'm so sorry. She helped her grandfather stand up

and then took the still-shaking poor guy into the next room, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. She returned a few minutes later, glaring at me. Listen, I am really sorry, I told her. But I need to ask my son some more questions. Pull yourself together. He's no longer with us now. Daniela shook her head, still looking shocked, angry, and really. believed at the same time.

That wasn't the first time you ever communicated with his spirit, was it? An accusing look on her face. I struggled to find the right words to say. I did not want to upset her. I might need her help again one day. You put my grandfather's life in danger. You broke your promise. My son was kidnapped and murdered.

I told her, wiping tears away with both hands. His body hasn't been found. Nobody believes me. They all, including my husband, think that he just ran away because he hated his life. Apparently kids do such things when they get bored with their own lives. Her lips twitched for a moment, as if she was struggling to find the words to say.

I am so sorry, Miss Webster. I can't imagine the horror you've been through. I have a son, too. You have no idea. But you have to understand. There are dark beings who dwell in the in-between. They neither belong to our world nor the afterlife. Ancient ones, nameless.

They are attracted to human spirits to feed on. Sometimes they would find a crack among these realms and try to break in. When you summon a spirit, you basically create some sort of shortcut, like a wormhole, that temporarily connects the realm of the living to theirs, thus enabling us to communicate with them. My grandfather here acts as a medium, and he will end the connection if things don't go as planned. She said, as she put the candles out and turned the light back on. Which is why it is so important for you to listen to everything I tell you.

One slip is all it takes to unleash those dark beings into this world. But my son, they can't reach him now. He told me he sees people. Lost souls, the restless, spirits with unfinished business, earthbound, your son is still stuck in a limbo, halfway between the living and dead. When somebody dies violently, sometimes their spirit hangs around, waiting. Waiting for what? A closure? Justice? Whatever it is. I'll do everything it takes to find that fucker, and he'll regret ever being born. I bawled my left hand into a fist.

Miss Webster, have you ever considered that maybe the only closure your son has ever needed was from you? What do you mean? What if all these years he's been waiting for you? Yes, to find the asshole who murdered him and bring them to justice. No, to let him go. To make peace with his death. Maybe you're the one who's been keeping him attuned to this plane. Sometimes it is the only way to have them cross over to the other side where they belong.

Let him rest in peace. I looked at her in disbelief, refusing to hear what she had just suggested. You don't get it, do you? He was murdered. My son was murdered, and I will never rest until his murderer is brought to justice. Anger was rising in my chest, causing me to breathe harder. I just want to help. Thank you.

I think I should get going now. It's getting late. I put the photo, t-shirt, and jar back into my purse and stood up. She walked me to the door, and before she closed it, she squeezed my shoulder again. Sometimes it's better to let the dead rest in peace. I didn't say anything and proceeded to walk quietly to my car. But in my head, I was thinking very hard. Everyone thinks years of grieving and being in so much pain has finally taken its toll on me that I've lost my mind.

I mean, how many people in grief out there resort to the paranormal to find some kind of closure? Though I have to say there is some truth to that. Like I said before, I will do just about anything to make peace with the loss of my son. These days I am barely holding on to the edge of sanity. The only thing that keeps me going is my obsession with finding the actual truth about my son's disappearance. The first séance I went to did not go too well. I started sobbing uncontrollably for minutes as soon as I heard Peter's voice that I could barely speak. They had to end it soon and asked me to go home.

The others weren't so genuine. I have lost a significant amount of money to tricksters. So I did some research online to find the most reliable spiritualists out there, and after asking around a bit, I managed to gather some information regarding people who seem to actually have this ability to communicate with the dead. And it led me to Daniela and her grandfather. People disappear every day. Some just want to run away from their past and start all over again. Some are taken without their consent. Kidnapped.

Or worse. My son is one of them. I know for sure I will never rest until his murderer is caught. I know I am getting very close to solving this mystery. That has been torturing me for more than a decade. That night when I was about to fall asleep in bed, I heard a low growling sound in the darkness of my bedroom. I opened my eyes and saw a dark figure standing at the foot of my bed,

watching me in silence. It was very hungry. I could feel it, but it could not touch me. Not yet. I had to set it free, and it was bound to do my bidding. All I needed was strong determination, or desperation in my case, some elaborate spells and someone who genuinely has the ability to communicate with spirits. All those months I spent looking up information on the Internet and asking around,

have finally paid off. You can feed on as many souls as you can later. I clutched the cross around my neck tight. But now, I'd like you to find one soul. One soul only. Find him. Don't stop until you find him. There was a sudden gush of cold wind surrounding me

as it floated out of my room and disappeared into the dark hallway. It knew what to do. Like I said before, I'll do whatever it takes to find whoever is responsible for my son's demise, even if it would cost me my own soul. It's been a week since I set that thing free, and it hasn't returned yet. I am getting close. I can feel it.

Creepy presents. The Man in the Floor. written by Paul Kiesley and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. There is a man in my bathroom floor. Actually, I should be more specific than that. There is a man in the floor tile about three feet from the wall closest to the bathtub. I stumbled into the bathroom one morning and at precisely 12 minutes past two and saw him there. He was staring up at me as I sat on.

the toilet. His eyes twinkle. He had fairly high cheekbones and his mouth was twisted into a grin that was somewhere between mischievous and conspiratorial. I gasped at the sight of him and blinked a few times thinking it would disappear from my sight, but he didn't. Instead, he stayed there, leering at me. Now I'm not an idiot. I know about paradolia. The tendency to be a bit of a period. Tendonit. The tendency to for the brain to seek and find familiar patterns in random objects. Parodolia is what causes you to see that bunny in the clouds. It's a normal human reaction to patterns. The brain works and seeks to make sense out of the chaos of what we see around us.

As a result, it transforms meaningless visual stimuli into something we can understand. It is not an unusual phenomenon. Pretty well every human being has had it happen to them. When I first saw the man in the towel, that's exactly what I figured it was, as I'm not some religious fanatic who saw Jesus in my toast. I looked at the face paring up at me, and I dismissed it as my half-sleeping, half-dreaming brain, superimposing the imagery from my sleeping time onto this floor. I thought that was kind of interesting, and dismissed it from there, choosing the much

more reasonable course of action instead, going back to bed. I had little doubt that after some sleep, my next interaction with that floor and tile would see it as perfectly normal. It wasn't. Going back in the morning did yield a different view of the face that I saw before, but it was still there. Now instead of the off-kilter smile, it sported a wink. It was winking at me, as if we were in on some colossal joke or secret together. I won't lie.

I was somewhat unnerved and felt strange taking my shower with the man on the floor watching. Almost like getting naked in front of him was a violation. After a while, running through how crazy that was, through my head, I was able to get into the shower. It was a trick of the mind after all. There was no way that someone or something could just live in the floor. My brain was just rearranging patterns, and that's it. If the phenomena continued, I would go see my family doctor, as I also knew that in rare cases, Parodolia can become problematic to a person.

I finished my shower and hurriedly left the bathroom and spent most of the day seeking out information on Parodolia. A word to the wise. If you believe you might be suffering from any kind of illness, mental, or otherwise, do not go on the internet, or at least take what it tells you with a grain of salt. actually came away more confused than before. Most of the sites did say that Parodolia was harmless, and that most human beings had it, and that it was a sign of a creative mind.

There were a few, however, that said when linked with other mental problems, it could be very dangerous. A few also linked it to psychosis and a bunch of health problems in general. That's part of the problem. You don't know who or what to believe, and when internet sites start listing symptoms, you can't help but imagine you might have them. Anyways, after a couple of hours of sorting through the internet,

I decided that it was still probably nothing. Maybe I hadn't got quite enough sleep, or maybe I was so desperate subconsciously to see what I saw the night before that my brain conjured another instance for me. I resolved that I probably shouldn't get too concerned. concerned as long as it was just a static face. Then the face changed again.

Going into the bathroom again had me met with the face that I'd moved to, you know, what could be called, a sneer. Their eyes were narrowed, the brow furrowed, and the upper lip on its left side was raised. The man in the floor was clearly sneering at me. It was at this point that I called in my wife to have a look. She hurried in and I pointed wildly to the floor. So what is it that I'm supposed to see? She asked, giving me a look that almost fully mirrored the one on the floor.

Can't you see it? See the eyes, the nose, the mouth? It's right there. She peered closer at the ceramic tiles and furrowed her brow in concentration. I'm sorry. I can't see it. I think your imagination is just a bit overactive today. It's pretty normal to see patterns and things like that.

I looked at her and suppressed the sigh. I knew she was right, but still, it wasn't normal to have a reoccurring vision like this that seemed to change. I shook my head. There was no way she was going to agree with me, and one of the things I loved about her was the fact that she didn't patronize me. She didn't see it. Maybe my overactive imagination had taken hold. and that was all.

Maybe I was losing my mind. I managed to avoid that bathroom and stare at the floor for the rest of the day. I knew, however, that I couldn't just use the downstairs bathroom and that eventually I would have to take shower. I also knew it would eventually be necessary for me to face whatever it was in there,

and that I would have to see it again for what it is. Just a bizarre hallucination. Again, I resolved to see a doctor if these odd visions continued. With that in mind, I re-entered the bathroom to take a shower. It was at this point that things moved for weird, tout right, insane. I'm real, you know, stated a voice, seemingly out of nowhere. The voice was fairly thready but strong enough for me to hear it. It was not a voice I had ever heard.

before and I glanced around the bathroom to find the source. Seeing no one, I exited and proceeded to search the house. With my confused wife looking on after scouring the area and finding no one and looking out windows only to find our yard vacant, I decided that maybe I needed to lay down for a while. As I made way for the bedroom, I passed the open bathroom door where I heard the voice again. What's you looking for, sport? The voice asked. in a clipped tone. I stopped and pivoted on my heel. Who said that? I said out loud. Me. You've been staring at me on the floor for a last couple of days. I'm right here,

in the floor. The response, quite frankly, baffled me. But it didn't take long for me to figure out where it was coming from. I re-ended the bathroom, closed the door, locked it. I stared at the image of the face in the floor which now wore a brook. God, smile. Look at that. I finally got your attention. Listen, don't bother telling anyone else about me. I choose who gets to see me.

And so far I only choose you. Oh, lucky me, I murmured. Who are you? What do you want? It doesn't matter much who I am. It's what I can do for you. I know an awful lot about what's going on these days. I can help you.

I like you. That final proclamation caused a shiver to run down my spine. There was definitely something that twigged misgivings in me. Um, okay. What do you mean? How can you help me? I asked. Seriously perplexed.

Well, the Ptelakow, for example, it's stalling a bit. The guy who has it doesn't know what to do with it next. He's kind of incompetent. If you come in to help out, bet you'll get a promotion at work. The information was not shocking. I knew that the Patel account had been languishing since it had been hand over to a fairly new person in my department. It was less about laziness and more about not knowing what to do with it. As in many corporate entities, the system does not exactly prize.

asking for help either. All right. I was kind of thinking there were problems there, I responded. How do you know? Well, they have floors, too. Came the simple and direct reply. To be honest, the notion that this thing could travel through floors anywhere was kind of unnerving. At the same time, I had wanted a promotion for some time, but in most offices it could be difficult to stand out. I had no problem going in and helping with the account, and if it resulted in my being noticed, how could that be bad? It did seem like the man in the floor was trying to help me. Maybe I had some kind of guardian angel or something after all, and this was how it was choosing

to present itself. If you could see the Virgin Mary in a burrito and have her give religious instruction, why not a guardian angel on my child floor who gave career advice? I mean, what makes one event more preposterous than the other. It turned out that the man in the floor was right. I was able to insert myself into the Patel account, save the day, and receive a little more than positive notice from the upper brass. The days that followed, the piece of advice given by my bathroom floor were pretty happy ones.

I had a new sense of purpose. My boss finally noticed the positive contributions to the company. And my wife was pleased with the bonus I'd received and the increase in pay, a promotion promised. The only person who was not so happy was the guy helped out with the project, but he'd get over it. For my part, I kept listening to the bathroom floor. It was amazing just how knowledgeable it was. For example, did you know that a mixture of three parts castor oil, one part dish soap will get rid of gophers? Really?

Man of the floor told me to mix it with about four liters of water and soaked the gopher holes with it. And voila, they were gone. Again, this made me quite a hero to my partner. She'd been trying to deal with the lawn destroying parasites for a while. And overnight they just vanished with that little trick. The smell from the castroil was a bit nasty, but oh well, man in the floor really knew his stuff. I also discovered the man in the floor gives excellent. financial advice. My new fortunes at work had translated into more disposable income.

Now, my wife and I argued about this, but in the end, I invested a great deal of it into our future retirement. I imagine sitting on the dock of our own cottage in a secluded locale someday. I'm not sure would she imagine. One way or another, the sound investing strategies from the man in the floor doubled the money in just six months. He was invaluable. to my life. And I had grown to trust him without reserve. Wouldn't you? I mean, he came and just fixed a bunch of things I didn't even know could be fixed and never asked anything in return. I guess what could he ask for? He was a floor. It was all pretty wonderful until it wasn't. I suppose it was just a matter of time before the information I was given with something I didn't really want to

here. One night after work, I was in the bathroom when the floor told me terrible news. Your wife is cheating on you. He said, his voice was impassive and neutral. There was no hint of glee or upset about telling me this news. Pardon me? Your wife is cheating on you. She waits until you are at work and then your neighbor comes over. The man in the floor repeated. This time with more detail. Oh, um, I... What? You don't believe me, he responded, his voice starting to grow annoyed. Well, she's my wife and you're...

I'm just a floor tile. I get it. But laying here affords me a pretty good view of the place. I'm telling you. She waits until you're at work. She dolls the neighbor. They come over and get hot and heavy. This has been going on for a couple of months.

Now. A couple of months, and you're just telling me now? Well, look at how you're responding even after everything I've done for you. If I told you right away, you would have dismissed me outright. You have to understand. I needed to be sure as well. It could have been two friends having coffee, the floor responded. What made you so sure it wasn't?

The shower they had yesterday. You must have noticed the two wet towels, neither one yours. I had noticed. It seemed weird to me, but who knows? Maybe she had to mop up a spill somewhere, or had her hair wrapped. I wasn't just going to go on that, but the floor seemed to make the doubts I had seem even more real. I mean, I had to admit that I already suspected, and the floor just confirmed what I already started to believe. The floor was my witness, and while I knew it wouldn't hold up in court, the man in the floor had never steered me wrong before.

I sighed with resignation. I believe you, but what do I do? I guess I have to confront her about it. And I'll probably lead to a divorce. You could go that route, responded the floor. You can have a messy divorce where you would lose half the house, and probably half of all that money you invested so smartly. It would mean that you got that promotion at work just to pay her alimony and to fund her

continued affair with your neighbor. I hadn't considered this, but what else could I do? Are you suggesting I stay with her? No, no, no. But if your wife and your neighbor were to disappear, you could spin the story that they were having an affair ran off together. Their love could not be contained. and all that shit.

You could keep what is yours and start over. And the romance department didn't be rid of that cheating tramp. I considered this. And normally I wouldn't be predisposed towards what the man in the floor was suggesting. But he presented it so logically. I mean, in the end, he had never steered me wrong before. Through the job and financial advice, the man in the floor hadn't steered me wrong. so why would I assume he would do so now?

With the floor, I plan my wife and her special friend's disappearance. You know, planning your wife's end is more difficult than you think. Once people realize that they're missing, the police invariably get involved. And they have some really advanced technique these days. All takes as one drop of blood or one eyelash, and they can deduce a lot. I also learned that the spouse is always the number one suspect. In retrospect, putting paving stones down in the backyard was probably a dead giveaway, no pun intended. It was the one time that the advice from the man in the floor wasn't so good.

As soon as the police pried up all the stones, they found my wife and her lover, and I was in a lot of trouble. Curiously, though, I ended up in this place, facility for the criminally insane. The diagnosis was extreme peridolia and auditory hallucinations likely stemming from schizophrenia. They said the promotion advice, financial advice, and even the way to get rid of the grofers were things I already knew. But I wasn't confident enough to put in action without inventing the man in the floor. I'm not sure if I'm in a better or worse place than I would be if I didn't tell them about the man in the floor.

Does life in prison with parole, possibility in 25 years beat locked up in a mental facility until I'm cured? Visits from the man in the floor stopped as soon as I was. arrested so there's a chance I might never get out of here, especially now that I'm all alone. Most of this time, I sit in this ten-by-ten room staring at the walls. They're individual and group sessions, but I don't think I'm going to do well at those. They want me to admit that the man in the floor wasn't real, and I know he was. No matter what they think, he helped me and guided me, until he didn't. I know that he was real, and that he's at least partially to blame.

for my being here. He wanted this to happen to me. While most of his advice was good, he waited until a point in my life where I felt that was going to lose everything to steer me down the wrong road. Maybe he's the devil, or at least a demon. I haven't said that in any of my sessions yet. I knew they wouldn't like it, but I'm pretty certain. I'm pretty certain because over time the stains on my cell walls have started to form the face of a woman. We got to know each other. And she's told me all about the wicked ways of the man on the floor. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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