Creepy - Journal of Jill Danvers- Hilltop Vista Resident & The Second Wife

Episode Date: December 18, 2025

Journal of Jill Danvers- Hilltop Vista Resident***Written by: Jason P Burnham and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee  ***The Second Wife***Written by: Livia E. De Souza and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, everyone. I'm currently sitting in a freezing cold studio on a night where the temp is.

Let me check. Yep, negative 20 degrees. And that's just the air temp. It wouldn't even get me started on a windshield. Sometimes it's hard being a Minnesotan. You know, besides you all making fun of how I say bag. I'm going to roll into things in a second, but first I want to let you all know quick that, you know,

but none of the issue. And I plan to get back. But none of that should be much of an issue. Unless there really is something going on in the new year. What are the out to that? But let's not get too lost in the weeds. with all this and focus on why we're all here. First up, from writer Jason P. Burnham and narrated by Megan McGuffey,

Creepy Presents. Journal of Jill Danvers, Hilltop Vista Resident. March 14th, the trees the city has been removing were, to my dismay, all on city property, residing, as they did, in the section of lawn between sidewalk and street. They'd been deemed dangerous and in need of removal before property damage occurred, I guess I hadn't appreciated how many trees were in such a bad state until the storm blew through two nights back. The limbs that were down were big ones, and a bunch of them seemed to have some kind of rot through their middles, hollow or brittle, soft parts running along through. Not sure what causes that, especially in so many different types of trees.

The neighborhood is looking pretty bare now. I don't like it. I think I'm going to write to the city. March 21st. I haven't heard back from the city, but Mark Derskowitz announced that Hilltop Vista will be having a kid-friendly tree planting this weekend, sponsored by someplace or other, maybe partially paid for by HOA dues, maybe something to do with an early Earth Day donation. If there anything like the Earth Day trees I've gotten in the past, they're going to be too short and spindly to restore any overstory to this place, which is in desperate need of it. It's too bright. I can

see too many roofs. If I wanted this much infrastructure view, I'd have lived downtown, where the only green is algae on the fountain of that abandoned railway exchange building outdoor water feature that nobody bothers to clean up after a rain. April 22nd, it's Earth Day. I'm not saying that it's a coincidence that the last tree we planted last month has given up the ghost today, but I'm not not saying it either. Even the trees in the neighborhood. that were looking sturdy over the winter have started to sag and fracture. Yes, yes, I know there have been some really heavy storms with high winds, and maybe even a very quick blink and you missed it tornado,

but some of these trees are hundreds of years old. What gives? I don't like it. Something is wrong in the soil under Hilltop Vista. With this state's history, I shudder to think of what poisons could somehow be surfacing. radioactive waste, some poly-insittered carbon-dioxin forever chemical that's disturbing the trees's growth cycles? If it's killing the trees, what are those chemicals going to do to us? The city never did respond to my letter. It shouldn't be on us to get to the bottom of this and fix things, but I guess that's where responsibility lies when the government will do nothing. June 30th. After Hazel died, I've not had much reason to walk the next.

neighborhood at night. But I miss her, damn it. And I went on a ghost dog walk tonight. I can still hear her leash jingle, can still remember every bush she'd make me pause at to sniff. Her fear of Hank and Andrews gargoyle they put out by their driveway. Something was off tonight, though, and not just hazel being gone. There were no fireflies, or mosquitoes. Who needs mosquitoes, but fireflies? And now that I'm writing this. Where are the ants? Usually by this time of year I'm driving myself crazy putting out ant traps around the windows, washing the formic acid stench off my fingers after squashing 30 to 40 of them as they scamper away from the wrath of my paper towel. Trying to prevent them from getting into the flower I could have sworn I put into a glass container during their last series of home invasions.

No fireflies, no mosquitoes, no ants. And I'm not. I can't remember the last time I had a fly in the house. Too weird. I can't tie this directly to the trees, but it has to be related somehow. July 1st. I forgot. Cicadas. There was supposed to be an emergence.

There hasn't been. No crickets either. None of the noise-making bugs. Street noise pollution is louder in the neighborhood with so few remaining trees, but once traffic dies down, it's too quiet without any insects. I wonder if anyone else in the neighborhood finds the silence of their own thoughts deafening. July 15th, it hasn't taken long.

I can't say whether it's fear, dread, hopelessness, or some combination of the three that limits my ability to commit the rapid decline of the neighborhood into a significant number of words for this journal. I have a million thoughts, but I just can't seem to put them to pay Putting them to paper would make them real somehow, as one might expect. No bugs means no birds. They're gone now. It's even quieter. August 1st.

Sure, a lot of people find squirrels annoying for one reason or another. But would those same people be happy now that they're all gone? I don't even know where they've gone. Where are the bodies? At least the downed tree limbs and trunks gave us a visual evidence of the trees, departure. September 15th, Hiltap Vista has gotten rather loud. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was coming from some kind of bug, but there's no visual evidence for insects of any kind. I think we're all about out of our minds with the noise, whatever it is that's making it.

The decibels are on par with the double cicada emergence from some years back, but it doesn't sound like cicadas. If you can imagine a thousand tiny, drills making their way through the meat of your skull at once that's about what it sounds and feels like I think people go to work just to get away from the neighborhood noise even though there isn't much to do at work these days I don't know if Hilltop Vista was the first but it seems our pattern of decay is spreading the whole of Riverside Drive throughway is treeless at this point October 15th the farmer's almanac predicted the first freeze on October to over 22nd this year. It's usually not too far off, but we've had a whole week of below freezing

temperatures as of today. Some people are relieved. Whatever was making that noise for all those weeks has stopped suddenly. Certainly argues for some sort of insectoid source. But me, I don't care for the quiet. It'll only make whatever noises come next all the louder. November 3rd, It was 87 Fahrenheit today, after several weeks of cold and a snow that wouldn't melt. The streets are clearing, and I sense a familiar buzz on the horizon. Whatever the freeze silenced is coming back, I can feel it in my skull. November 4th, the buzzing is back. I will not go outside, though I see nothing to suggest a source of the violent noise.

November 5th. Purely by accident, I have found that if I press my forehead to the ground, inside the house, the pain of the buzzing is alleviated. Or, well, perhaps alleviated is not the right word. No, definitely not alleviated. Counterbalanced, more like it. By another sensation welling up from the ground beneath the skin of my face. Noise from above, cancelled out by the vibrations from below.

The main problem is that the effect wears off. I'm spending more and more of my time with my head pressed to the floor. I don't see an exit strategy here. Some of the neighbors seem to have discovered this as well. When I'm not faced to the floor, I can see them out in their yards or in the streets, heads to the ground. November 6th, it's hard to write this. My head is against the floor as I write. I can only take it off for a few seconds at a time now.

without searing pain in my head that radiates down throughout the rest of my body. Not that there was much food left anyway, but now I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to eat while my head is pressed to the floor like this. I can't take my face off the carpet slash linoleum slash wood long enough to see what's happening outside to the neighbors. November 7th I've taken to eating small bites of things with my head pressed to the floor. I can't take my head away from the floor at all anymore. My handwriting is getting sloppy,

and it's hard to read with my eyes so close to the paper with my head on the floor. Added to that, the floor's efficacy of noise-canceling slash subduing is wearing off. The buzz from above is winning out, and it hurts. November 8th, I'm writing this from outside. Head still to the ground. Handwriting's still sloppy. hard to read with the pages so close to my face. The air buzz still hurts, but I was desperate, and I face walked outside in my agony and found that the counterbalancing is better when my face

touches the actual ground. Something about the intervening effect of the house floor diminishes the counterbalancing efficacy. I have a few sores on my forehead from where it's scraped on the concrete, but it's no matter. The concrete wasn't that good at counterbalancing anyway. Grass, mud, those are where it's at. I'm slightly concerned about the mud that is embedding itself into the cuts from the concrete, but it's only in the brief respite's when the buzzing isn't so overwhelming that I can think in full sentences. It's taking a while to write this. My forehead is digging deeper into the mud, and I think I've eroded some grass away as a result.

The mud is cool, and the counterbalancing of the buzzing feels cool against my brain. It's still the eighth, but it's later. Something is changing. The mud is up to my eyebrows now. The air buzzing is winning. The mud is cool, but the buzzing is hot. Hot from the air through the ground to my ears, to my brain. It's hot.

It's vibrating. And I'm so hungry. So hungry. I'm eating the grass now. I vomit it back up and I smell the sickness of the pool where it lays adjacent to my chest, which is slightly raised off the ground because of how deep my forehead is in the mud. I can see the neighbors.

They have their heads against the ground too. Nobody's talking. I don't think I could hear them over the buzz if they were. Across the street, Kathy hasn't moved in hours, though my assessment of time may be flawed. Every wave of buzzing lasts a lifetime if it lasts one plank time. Kathy, Kathy, can you stand? Do you hear the buzzing?

It hurts, doesn't it? What is this? No, I'm writing this, not speaking. Why do you ask? November 9th. The buzzing, thousand skull drills. The earth below is losing. Can't fight the loss of everything above.

Can't fight the deafening quiet of absence. Can't fight, can't fight, can't... Next, from writer Livia E. DeSuzza, and narrated by Rissamontanez, Creepy Presents, The Second Wife. I was tired, and I pressed my face between tight fists. There were a few moments like this every day,

when the minor occupations of the mundane fell away, and I was left alone with myself, sitting at the kitchen table, just waiting. I've never done well with boredom. This tedium was what finally prompted me to make a closer examination of the house. There was something strange about me, here, surrounded by another woman's possessions, stepping into her private little world as if it were my own.

Yet, there was no need for fear. She could hardly correct me or regain control of her sorry little kingdom. Everything seemed somehow dwarfed by the fact that it was only barely mine. But perhaps it was not just my perception. Perhaps it was unremarkable in, and of itself, and this is why she had chosen to make a violent exit. Maybe I should have felt guilty, rifling through her things, but I reminded myself that they were now mine. If she were looking down on me, perhaps she would see a cold-blooded carpet-bag relieving through her books, going through her clothes, and sorting through her medications with a critical gaze. One of the labels caught my eye, and no sooner was the name red,

Then the first pill was swallowed with a handful of tap water. I was bored. Maybe this would help. I settled down in front of the TV and kicked my feet up onto the coffee table. I'm sure she wouldn't have liked that either. But maybe she'd forgive me. After all, I was providing some level of comfort to the man she had once loved. I was beginning to feel relaxed already.

And I let my head drop back against the couch as I closed my eyes. The TV was running in the background, some old Western, and I let it build to a thundering backdrop against my sense of calm. The first moment I'd had under that roof without a self-consciousness of my own intrusion into another woman's forfeit life. I went into the bathroom to see what else she had, but it was then that I heard the front door open and close. So, I instead rinsed my face in the ice-cold water from the table. It brought me back to myself a little, and I pressed the cool skin of my face into a plush hand towel. My face was blanched from the water, but between the medication and the bracing effects of the water, I felt more like myself than I had since moving in.

I brushed my hair and was about to leave the bathroom to greet my husband after his long day of work, when something else caught my attention. A crimson streak in the periphery grew. to dominate my vision. Turning back, I saw that there was a streak of blood on the corner of the white sink. I cried out before clapping my hands over my mouth. I must have cut myself. Must have been made clumsy.

Must have been so tired that I didn't even notice what must have been a substantial wound, given the way the blood trickled from the edge of the sink toward the floor. Everything okay? There was a perfunctory knock at the door before it was open. Luke walked in and looked at me. I was sure my surprise must have shown on my face, though. And I tried to tame it beneath a quick smile. I'm not sure what happened, I said, looking toward the streak of blood,

which had at some point in my presence grown to a small stream. He followed my gaze before glancing back at me. Well, you're looking a little pale. Why don't we go sit down? he said. When I heard you call out, here, I thought you might have some good news for me, he said, kissing my forehead, before gently ushering me from the bathroom. He hadn't seen it, or at least he hadn't let on. Maybe he was worried that it would upset me to talk about the blood. Maybe he was subtly checking my

body for cuts as we walked. He'd always been considerate like that. We sat down and watched TV for a while while dinner was warmed in the oven. It was leftovers again, but he never complained. I was afraid to return to that bathroom and had, instead, used the one by the foyer for the rest of the day. When it was time for bed, I tensed as I entered the room, preparing myself for the sight of the blood that I could not explain. I should have cleaned it up the second I saw it, instead of letting my fear of it built throughout the remainder of the day. But I suppose that was a lesson I'd never thought to learn. When I went inside, I was surprised to see that the sink had been returned to its spotless state. Maybe Luke had cleaned it, sensing that I had been afraid. I brushed my teeth

with an unease that I felt was natural. Wash my face, though only momentarily closed my eyes, and switched off the light while stepping through the door. I was afraid to have the darkness touch my skin. I climbed into bed beside him. Luke had offered again and again to replace the bed, and he repeated this offer now. After all, this is where his late wife had chosen to take her own life.

The mattress was new, but the frame had witnessed the woman's brutal demise. As uncomfortable as I felt, I was reluctant to impose myself, so I told him it was all right by me if it was all right by him. And it was, or at least it had been. He seemed undisturbed by where we slept, so long as we were together. However, it was to my perennial shame that the first time we had shared this bed, his wife was not yet in the ground.

He told me that they were separated for all intents and purposes, and it wasn't until I heard the news that it had ever crossed my mind that the situation might have been otherwise. Now, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering just how little or just how much, she had known about us. Perhaps she had smelled my perfume in her bed, my sweat on his clothing. The next morning, I had to talk myself out of bed. Groggy, despite having slept well. I brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face, braver in the daylight. Still, I eyed the corner of the sink warily. I didn't trust what I had seen.

Had Luke wordlessly cleaned up the blood? Was it ever there? I opened the mirror and pulled the bottle I'd sampled yesterday. from the shelf. The count on the sticker said 80, and I wondered just how many were left. In the kitchen, while coffee dripped steadily in the background of my sunny Tuesday, I poured the pills out onto the kitchen table, hurting them gently with my palms, to make sure none of them escaped to the floor. I counted them out, nudging them one by one to the table, over the edge, and into the bottle. I said each number out loud, afraid I'd forget,

and have to start over. 78. Two missing. One for her, and one for me. I twisted the lid back into place and set the bottle down on the tabletop. Nothing else existing between myself and the bottle.

Nothing but the sound of the coffee maker. It would have been easy to pledge never to touch it again, not after yesterday. It would be a vow as easy to make as it would be to break that afternoon, when I found there was nothing to do. Maybe if we had more than one car, I could have gone somewhere. Maybe if I had something within walking distance to entertain me, I wouldn't feel my isolation so absolutely. But I had been reduced to things within arm's reach, and I would have had to make the most of these paltry offerings.

At 20 years old, this shouldn't have been my life. his first wife was a little older. She had her garden and her books, her projects all around the house. Now, I just looked around and wondered how exactly I was supposed to maintain any of this. I went from my parents' house to a college dorm and on to the house of a woman who had died

far too recently for my liking. Then again, there was a book for every question I may have had staring back at me from the shelf. There were a few more discreetly, stored, which were marked specifically for those who confessed to knowing nothing at all. But working my way through those was definitely a task for another day. Today, I had coffee, eggs, and that bottle. I filled a cup of coffee and down the first pill. It burned my tongue, but I felt the pill slide down my throat, sticking before I forced it down with another brutal sip.

There was a sink full of dishes and a refrigerator stocked with fresh produce. Things Luke had brought home yesterday. I knew he didn't want to get takeout again. I lied to myself, saying I'd remember to tackle those later. But for now, I wanted just to relax. I laid back down in bed, feeling the tightness of my empty stomach against my relaxed spine. I knew I wouldn't sleep. And soon the boredom again.

overtook me. In the kitchen, I returned to the bottle and took another pill. This time, I went to the refrigerator, retrieved the leftover pasta from the night before, and warmed it up in the microwave. I ate in silence, not bothering to turn on the television or even the radio to keep me company. When I was done, I went into the garden. The tomato plants were faded, their leaves yellowing and their fruit rotting around their roots. The rest of the garden had been overtaken by weeds and vines. I could see what had been planted deliberately, but couldn't tell from the barren stalks and stems

just what they were meant to be. When I looked down, my hands were dusty, fresh dirt caked under my fingernails. I ran my fingertip over the splintering garden fence, looking at this place with a kind of inexplicable fondness. I laid down on the grass, and my head rested against the warm, damp earth. I pressed my spine flat,

absorbing the grounding effects of the dirt, lightening my very core. When I returned inside, I saw that I had left the bottle on the table. Careless. If Luke saw this, he might grow conceivable. concerned. Worse, he might take the pills from me. So it would be safest to return them to the

narrow bathroom shelf where they had safely existed over the previous few months. When I switched on the bathroom light, my vision was overtaken by vivid, living crimson. A display of despair and brutality which sunk into my very bones, crushing me with its immediacy. The pill bottle dropped from my hand and rolled into a puddle of blood, which covered. cover the label in the slick, viscous fluid. Unwilling to lose the promise of the pills, even to this horrific sight, I dropped to hands and knees, reaching out delicately to retrieve the orange and white bottle without getting a drop of blood on my hands.

Desperation narrowing the scope of my fear, I stowed the bottle in my bedside table drawer and grabbed the baseball bat which Luke kept under his side of the bed, arming myself against whatever could have caused that profuse swelling of blood. When I returned to the bathroom, the lights were still off. and the opposing wall seemed to glow red, its light reflected from the grisly scene. It was strange. The blood on the mirror was slattered just above the height of my head,

while the blood on the sink was sticky, smeared where it wasn't puddled against the porcelain surface. But the largest pooling was on the floor. There it was. A single large well of blood, which ran into the grooves, channeling through the grid of grout between the bathroom tiles. I switched off the light and returned to the bathroom.

I poured myself a large measure of vodka before sitting down in front of the television, my eyes flicking from the screen to the digital clock below, counting down the hours before Luke returned home. Eventually, I fell asleep. But how sorry I was to be awakened hours later when Luke appeared at the front door. He had come home early today and had hoped that the both of us could go out to dinner with a client of this. I told him I wasn't feeling well before asking him to come see something in the bathroom. His smile was tired, but he followed me, making no comment on the fact that I was still wearing only underwear and an oversized t-shirt.

My heart was hammering as I switched a line on, and I was almost disappointed to see that there was nothing. No blood slatter. No pool of crimson. Nothing. What is it? he asked. I was silent. taking in every aspect of the too clean room. Well, where did Kate die? I asked. He took a deep breath.

Honey, I told you, she killed herself in the bedroom. With a shotgun? I asked. Yes, with a shotgun. The fresh silence stretched between us. She died in here, I said. No. Yes.

Yes, she died right here, right where I'm standing. I moved to the mirror and pointed to a place a little above my head. Her brains and blood were splattered here, I said, before moving my hand to the corner of the sink. Her body sagged against the sink, smearing her blood here. Finally, I pointed to the ground. And she landed here. Her blood spread out all over the floor, making some kind of criss-cross patterns in the grooves. A new silence was between us.

No less heavy, no less brutal. How did you know, Luke said. His words barely above a whisper. It's true? I pressed. Yeah, it's true. And it wasn't suicide. I continued, sensing a weakness in his defenses.

No, my dear. It wasn't a suicide. He put his hands on my waists trying to draw me closer, but I resisted his attempt. It was self-defense, he said, finding me unyielding. You killed her? I asked. Well, she found out about us. I don't know exactly when, but at least a week before her death.

She would watch me when she thought I wasn't looking. And it seemed as though she always had a weapon nearby. It was like I could hear her thinking. And hers were murderous thoughts. Then one day she confronted me. She was in the hallway, right there. He said, as he pointed to a place in the hallway, a few feet from where we stood. She was holding the shotgun, pointed at me, but the safety was on.

And the seconds between my confession and her fumbling, I wrestled it from her. But by then, she had taken the safety off. The barrel was pointed right at her face, and I couldn't stop what happened. I don't even think my finger was on the trigger. It just went off in the struggle. Christ, I said. All of this is in the police report, but when I told you about it, I wanted to give her a more peaceful end. I didn't want you to blame yourself for what happened.

The responsibility for what happened lies entirely between me and Kate. I took a deep breath, unsure of what to make of this. I was even more unsettled by the fact that I could never explain just how I had come about this knowledge, even to myself. Look, why don't we forget this client dinner and go out? Just the two of us. Luke said gently. We will get an hour or two away from the house,

and I think it might do us both some good. I nodded, feeling that it was somehow beyond me in the moment to speak. I selected a dress, spritzed on my jasmine perfume, and put on makeup. I did this while staring into that same mirror, as though daring the ghost of Kate to confront me directly over the affair. When we returned home,

I was possessed by the kind of fatigue that two pills and three glasses of wine more than explained. I decided to take one more before bed. I wanted oblivion to be completely taken out rather than taken away. It was an easy thing for Luke to say that he didn't want me to feel guilt. to experience the same doubts which must have clouded his mind after the incident with Kate.

I swallowed the pill with a fistful of water, pulling down the cool, sweet drink, alongside the residue of the mint toothpaste from my freshly clean mouth. The toothpaste I'd spat into the sink was tinged purple from the wine, which had lingered in my mouth. But the color was reassuringly blue and cool, in comparison to the blood which had so recently covered the scene. I dropped into bed, barely registering loop climbing in beside me. I think he kissed my cheek,

but my eyes had already closed in a drunken exhaustion. I woke from a dreamless void. I woke to a similar darkness. I was not laying down anymore. Instead, I was crouched on the bed, my feet on the edge with my heels hanging above nothing. My body was tensed and poised, watching Luke's sleep and waiting. The baseball bat was beneath the bed.

I could already feel the warmth of my hands gripping the metal handle, feel the way the impact would resound, as the hardness of the bat connected with the hardness of his skull. It would take a few swings, but the reward of blood and brains would be worth every blow. Did he know just how long? many years I had watched him sleep, first lovingly, then tenderly, then with a kind of suspicion that was unfounded, that I chastised myself for, that I confessed to my unseeing, unhearing God in the hours of midnight. That was, until the day I'd found a strand of long, black hair on my pillow,

and smelled a trace of Jasmine that I could not explain. I'd never bought something with Jasmine. I'd always hated it. My hands itched for the bat like someone stranded in the desert itches for water. It was as though his very breath infringed on my own. But the time was wrong. I'd had three glasses of wine and three pills over the course of the day. My thinking was confused, and I was over tired and weak. I laid back down, wondering how on earth I would occupy myself in the house tomorrow. I'd been spared cooking that day, but I knew it couldn't last. I'd make something simple, but it would be a nice gesture, a show of appreciation for Luke's patience with me. There were still those cookbooks Kate had left behind, and there must have been something

easy there. Nothing that would take more than 20 minutes, I said to myself with a small smile. Luke should know that I understand. The next morning, I awoke with a heavy head. I drank down the glass of water which had sat untouched on my nightstand before setting it back, ignoring the way the trickle of water would leave a ring on the bedside table. The rest of the day ticked by just as uneventfully and slowly. I avoided taking another pill. Sure that there was some way in which the medication was messing with my mind.

It wasn't something I could pin down, but the relaxation always gave way to hallucination and paranoia. Still, I was sure I could make use of them, as ridiculous as it might sound. I wasn't ready to relinquish the one release which remained entirely our own. My own. I found a package of spaghetti and a jar of mariner in the pantry, so that evening I boiled the pasta and poured the cold sauce onto the freshly drained spaghetti. It was left lukewarm, so I heated it until the sauce bubbled and popped around the pasty spaghetti. I made a small side salad of lettuce and tomatoes. I wasn't exactly proud of the dish.

I'd leave through a few cookbooks earlier, and I knew that what I had sitting on the counter was far from photographable. But it would have to be enough. I poured myself a glass of wine, sat down at the kitchen table, and waited. I checked my phone after about half an hour to see if Luke had texted, saying he was going to be late, but there was nothing. I went into the bedroom and grabbed the pills. I had gradually begun to feel better and was ready for another round. It was a good sign that I'd begun to put the paranoia of yesterday behind me. I placed the pill on my tongue before realizing that I'd finished the water earlier.

I stuck my tongue out and rushed to the kitchen, trying to be able to. to keep a little white pill as dry as possible, but it still left a chalky residue on my tongue by the time I'd washed it down. Another hour went by, and another pill went down. I moved from the kitchen to the living room with my glass of wine, dropped onto the couch, and switched on a sitcom. I barely watched as I relax, happy and melting into the overstepped cushions beneath me. I was nearly asleep by the time Luke walked through the door. "'Honey, I'm so sorry,' he said. "'I got held up at work and my phone's dead.

"'The charger is somewhere in my car, "'but when it wasn't in the front, I just gave up. "'I hope you didn't wait to eat. "'I smiled, still happy and bleary. "'I haven't eaten yet. "'I made spaghetti and salad,' I said. "'I could hear a touch of pride in my voice, "'even if I didn't feel it.

That sounds wonderful, he said. Do you mind if we eat in front of the television? I think I'm all talked out for the day. I nodded, and we loaded up the plates with the now cold pasta before sitting back down in front of the TV. We watched for an hour or two before getting ready for bed. I was still in a daze, still catching glimpses of something. Perhaps another life lived in the corner of my eye.

I had heard about past life regressions, and I had the sense that the pills had opened some kind of doorway for me to see my past life, to experience something beyond the doldrums of my new day-to-day. I'd forgotten to refill my water glass, but I realized this after I was already in bed. I looked at the empty glass, sure that I could crack it against the side of the bedside table, and shove the shards into Luke's neck. Good night, he said. Night. He paused, his finger on the switch of the lamp beside him. Is everything okay? Sure. Why wouldn't it be? I asked, trying to exercise the bitterness from my voice. He shrugged.

I don't know. There's something to the way you look at me. It feels familiar, but in a way that's scaring the hell out of me. I sighed. I'm just tired, and I kind of wish you'd called. I know your phone's dead, but why not call from your office phone before you left? I was waiting kind of a long time. Honestly, honey, I don't know your number, Luke admitted sheepishly. It's just under favorites, so I've never thought about it.

You're right, though. I'll learn your number first thing tomorrow, he said. He kissed my cheek. then I'll repeat it back to myself all the way to work. Instead of listening to the radio, I'll just listen to your number until there's no way I'll forget. I kissed his lips gently. That sounds good.

Sorry if I'm in a mood. He switched the lights off and I waited. Poised in the darkness, my elbow digging into the too firm mattress. I could only make out this silhouette, but I traced the line of a sleeping form with a blunted, attentiveness. He was here, too close, and just close enough, in reach of my fingertips, in reach of my fist. I spent the entire next day looking for it, turning the house over and barely noticing

the destructive path I left in my frantic search. I finally found it, in a wooden chest in the garage, under a blanket. It still had the evidence tag attached. The ammunition was easy to find, and I hid the shells all around the house. By the time I was done, there was a few in the cabinet, in the refrigerator, in the TV console, on the bathroom shelves, in my bedside table, and under the bed. I was starving. All that had passed my lips that day were the pills. Three of them this time. I knew it was needed, but I required courage to take those final steps. Under the bed. That's where I decided.

to wait for him. I lay on my stomach, the shotgun tucked against my side. Hours passed, but this time I did not sleep. Instead, it was as though I had entered a half-sleep, dazed and patient, silent and still. Finally, just as the daylight was beginning to dwindle, I heard his key in the front door, and his footsteps in the hallway. Honey? Where are you? he said he was hanging up his coat in the hallway that's what he always did i watched as his feet moved in front of the bed

i held my breath as i realized just how close he was it seemed he did not detect my presence because he walked back into the hallway i crawled out from under the bed the rug muffling the sound of my exodus he was still in the hallway though nearly to the kitchen when i joined him The gun loaded and ready. My back was to the open bathroom door when I tucked the gun against my shoulder. Luke turned around, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening. Honey? He said.

He reached his arm out. Give me that. I adjusted the gun and my finger found the trigger, just as Luke searched forward and tried to wrestle the gun from my hands. I felt it slipping from my fingers. but I clung to it as though my life depended on it. Perhaps it did. The gun went off, and I felt a white-hot, searing pain erupt across my forehead and scalp.

Luke dropped his hold on the gun in surprise, and brushed forward to help me. I kicked him in the chest as I fell back, still gripping the gun, into the bathroom. I threw the gun to the ground and closed the door, locking it. Luke was knocking on the door, as I reached into the cabinet and reliant. loaded. He didn't know I'd stored ammunition in the bathroom. Otherwise, he wouldn't be so close

to the door. I raised the barrel and fired. Wood splintered and a body slumped in the hallway. I wanted to look through the hole, but I could barely see anything through the blood which was streaming down my face. I sat down on the edge of the bathtub and pressed my hand to my split scalp. The blood was so red. I smeared my coated palms. over the sink and mirror, painting the vivid colors as they had been, as I had never truly seen them. The police would arrive at some point. The neighbors would have heard the altercation. We got him, though. We finally got that son of a bitch. They'll take me away. Who knows for how long.

But my God, I'm going to miss those pills. 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 common share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be re-rebelts. broadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.