Creepy - Last Meal & Storage Unit

Episode Date: July 18, 2024

Last Meal***Written by: MN Wiggins and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Storage Unit ***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing 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. Creepy Presents. Last Meal.

Written by M.N. Wiggins. And narrated by Heather Thomas. The old woman checked her oven. Almost ready. She shuffled into the dining room and placed a china plate on the tablecloth. The wooden box creaked as she opened it. She withdrew a silver knife and fork, arranging them carefully on the table. Making it back into the kitchen, she placed a hand on her back as she bent down to retrieve the butter and jam from the icebox.

Journeying again to the dining room, she placed these in the proper position on the table. She returned to pull the coffee off the stovetop burner, fill her blue and white porcelain cup, and ferry it by its saucer to the dining room. I can smell those biscuits now. Isn't it lovely? When I woke up to that smell as a little girl, I couldn't wait to get out of bed. She paused to catch her breath along her well-worn path before opening the oven door.

Her bifocals fogged as she withdrew the baking sheet. Now I don't mean to be telling tales out of school, but these may be the best I've ever made. The woman scooped the first biscuit with a spatula, her weapon of choice. A clap of thunder sounded outside, and she nearly dumped the fresh-baked goodness during a its transfer to a white serving plate. The woman peered out the kitchen window and called out. I haven't seen clouds that dark since the day Donnie passed. Did I tell you that story? We were just kids playing in the creek out behind the house. He slipped and hit his head. By the time I fetched Mama, he was drowned. She beat me. Oh, did she beat me for being in that creek?

and for Donnie. I was only five, but I'll feel that tanning until the day I die. The old woman smiled, scooped the other two biscuits, and arranged them on the serving dish. She turned off the oven, ambled into the dining room,

and placed the serving dish sporting three thick homemade biscuits. Surveying the table, she smiled again, and shuffled over to the china cabinet. She pulled a pistol from the drawer and placed it to the right. of her dinner fork.

Pulling back her embroidered chair, she sat and carefully placed a cloth napkin in her lap. Are you sure you won't have anything, preacher? The man shook his head. She stabbed the first biscuit with her fork. I made three and can't eat more than one. It's a shame to let others go to waste. It's Mama's recipe. She may have been a lot of things, but she knew how to cook.

Getting no reply, the old woman shrugged. Suit yourself. She sliced the biscuit in half and watched the steam rise. Skidding her knife across the container, she watched the butter curl. I miss the sticks of butter you used to buy. My grandmother used to churn butter as a little girl. That was a time. I remember her old privy out behind her house.

I was scared to death to pee because of spiders. Thunder roared again. Sure is dark out there, she said, reaching for jam. Now, I'm not trying to put on airs, preacher, but this is the finest raspberry jam in the country. It's a shame you won't have any. I usually buy whatever's on sale, but today's special. Of course, there was a time when I had the finest of

everything. She mixed the jam into the butter on the top half of her biscuit in a swirl. Leaning over her plate, she took a bite and closed her eyes. My whole life, I've eaten the top half first. My grandmother believed that said something about a body. Top hafers were go-getters, she'd say. Always seen what could be. Bottom halfers just accepted things as they were, never trying for more than they had. The old woman snickered. A lot of folks used to say my grandmother was nuts. She sipped her coffee.

Sure you won't have some? Aren't you worried you'll hurt my feelings? The man shook his head. Well, heaven's be. What kind of preacher are you? The old woman finished the top half and prepared the bottom. She took a bite and said, I have a confession.

My last name isn't Westfield. It never was. I changed it to protect my boys, but they're dead now. One drank himself to death, and the other smoked until cancer took him. Never had any grandchildren. My oldest married a harlot who got pregnant by another man. She and that man died not long after. They say God works in mysterious ways, but he was clear on the that one. Her cheating turned my boy to drinking. But I forgave the Jezebel long ago. She took another bite. Truth be told, I can't cast tones. Once upon a time, I fancied a young doctor, even though I was married. When he came Colin, I butted his biscuit, gave me my firstborn. I never admitted that to anyone. I suppose it doesn't matter now. "' Feels good to unburden myself.' She glanced toward the window. "'The storms passed.

"'Might turn out to be a nice afternoon.' She reached for another. "'I feel embarrassed to go for seconds with you not having any. "'Why don't you eat this other one?' "'It'd make me feel better,' the man shook his head. "'She sliced the biscuit open as precisely as the first, "'applied butter and jam in a measured fashion, and bit the top half.

My last name used to be Narsusstankowski. The old woman watched his eyes sharply, but the man's expression didn't change. Her eyes narrowed. I suspect you've heard the name, the man nodded. She bit her lower lip and took a breath. Then, you know all about my husband, Robert.

He nodded. And what he did. The man nodded a third time. Her hand trembled as she took another bite. I'd ask if you plan to tell anyone. But I'm the last of my line, so I don't care. She pointed at him. Tell whomever you'd like, but set the record straight if you do.

Some say I was the brains behind it, some sort of Madame Bovary. Nothing was further from the truth. The man raised an eyebrow. Her countenance fell. Fine. Truth is, he would never have amounted to anything if it weren't for me, stuck in a lab somewhere, working on piddly things. When he discovered that drug, yes, I pushed him.

I told him that all the testing he wanted to do was a waste of time. And I may have questioned his manhood and ridiculed him into falsifying results to get it to market. But preacher, there was no way I could have known how many would die. Oh, but the money was sweet. Mercy alive, I had to have it. Her head dipped. And when they came for Robert, I abandoned him, took the boys, the only thing he ever loved.

She looked away. I knew where he was hiding when he got sick. I didn't lift a finger. Just let him die alone. Preacher, I'm sorry for what I've done. She covered her eyes. Goodness, the sun's come alive out there. She sipped her coffee and took a bite of the bottom of her second biscuit. I'm glad you dropped by on today, of all days. Being new in town, I'm still unsure how you knew to visit. Are you sure we haven't met?

I can't shake how much it feels I know you. The man sat motionlessly. You sure don't say much for a preacher. She finished the biscuit and reached for the last one. She sliced it and brought the bottom half to her mouth. After her bite, she said, I don't know why I did that. Maybe I'm feeling a little more satisfied today.

She stood, worked her way over to the window, and closed the curtains. Have you ever known the sun to shine so brightly? She returned to the table, finished the bottom half, and then the top. The woman tidied her mouth with her napkin. I can't believe I ate all three, but I tell you what? This was the best meal I can't remember. She patted the revolver.

It's time, she examined his eyes. I suspect some will judge me for this. Say I took the coward's way. When they learn how I was, some will say good riddance. But preacher, you tell them I've had a hard knife, did the best I could, and this was my choice. I stopped taking the pills a few weeks ago, and there's nothing more the doctors can do for me. I know what's coming and don't particularly care to stick around for it. She shook her finger.

And don't try to talk me out of it. I don't want any Bible thumping about fire and brimstone. The man stared back blinkly. She looked at him with bewildered eyes. Aren't you going to try to stop me? He shook his head. Well, I declare, What kind of preacher are you?

He shook his head again. The old woman's eyes. widened. You're not the new preacher? She rose and pointed the gun at him. Then get the hell out of my house! She used both hands to cock the trigger. The figure rose and turned to the wall behind him.

A door appeared. The old woman shielded her eyes from the light as he opened it. The figure extended a hand toward her. She turned and saw herself sitting in the chair, hand clutched to her chest. She put down the pistol and passed on. A white serving plate with two untouched biscuits watched her leave. Creepy Presents Storage Unit, written by no one of consequence,

and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. For as long as I can remember, my apartment has been cluttered with all of the crap that I own. Seriously, for some reason, I own way more stuff than I ever need. I don't consider myself a hoarder or anything like that, but I do have trouble throwing stuff away. You never know when you're going to need something that you thought you didn't. It's happened a bunch of times over the years.

The sheer randomness of my possessions astounds me sometimes, and since I only have a one-bedroom apartment, space is an issue. The problem is getting me to throw things away, so a few years ago, I came up with a solution. Storage units are a lot cheaper than getting a bigger apartment. Now granted, it is in my plan to buy a house one day. but I'm nowhere near financially sound enough to afford that. Plus, HOAs are a freaking nightmare, and trying to find a decent place without one these days is nearly impossible.

In the little over a year since I've had the storage unit, I've had to upgrade to a larger one. I thought a 10 by 10 was going to be big enough, But I keep getting new stuff. When it comes to clothing, I'm a little on the simple side. Since I was a kid, I've primarily gotten my clothes from a mega-chain store. They carried the brand of jeans I've worn for the last 20 years, until about a year ago. It took several months for me to find something new that I liked,

and they cost twice as much as my old brand. I didn't come across those new jeans by accident. I have a friend who works at a department store, and she's the one who suggested them to me. After buying a few pairs and wearing them for a few months, I fell in love and dropped a few hundred on several pairs. It was about six months after that that she informed me that the company was going out of business.

It was devastating that my newest jeans brand was going under. But because of the heads up, I'm not going to be short on them for a long time. It hurt my accounts, but I dropped a few thousand dollars and bought nearly a hundred pairs. I've got four or five plastic tote boxes in my storage unit filled with those jeans. A good pair of worn-in jeans are hard to replace, but I recently had an incident in my oldest and therefore favorite pair. I went hiking with some friends and accidentally fell off the trail.

Aside from the bruises in normally unseen places, my jeans took most of the damage. I ended up sliding down a less than smooth rock face for about 20 feet. The ass of my jeans got torn up, so there's no salvaging them. That's why I'm at my storage unit today. I need to replace the now trashed jeans. As I pull up to the three-story building, I roll down my window and punch in the seven-digit access code. The gate rises up and I drive through, glad that I decided to wait until dark to come here.

On the weekend, there are always cars parked around the two entrances to this place, and I really didn't want to have to deal with other people. My experiences with people here have been less than pleasant. Moving things in or out of a storage unit is a pain in the ass for everyone. Each entrance has an elevator, and there are six wheeled flat carts for the building. Getting one of those when you need it

is almost as hard as winning the lottery. Though I don't need one today, that's not always the case when I visit my unit. People tend to be self-centered assholes, and even though the rules are, that a group can only use one flat cart, they'll use all they can carry, regardless of other people's needs.

I get it, but that doesn't change the fact that that's a douchebag move. Parking close to the door, I get out of my Jeep and double-click the lock button on my key fob. Walking up to the sliding doors, I punch in my coat again for them to open. These places have gotten a lot more security conscious. I have to enter my code once again, once inside the elevator, to get to the top floor.

The elevator only lets you go to the floor that your code is valid for. It lowers the risk of people getting into units that don't belong to them. I was once told that a lock is only there to keep honest people, honest people, honest. For someone that's up to no good, a lock is just a minor obstacle, and criminal types have so many ways to get around them. This building has only been around for a couple of years. Until recently, this whole area was undeveloped land, full of trees and underbrush that only the really determined ever got into. Our city isn't really all. that big, only a few hundred thousand live here, but like most population centers, the numbers

increase every year. The amount of expansion that's been going on is astounding, and I think about that every time I come here. Once the elevator reaches the top floor and opens, I always look out the window in the hall. There had only been a handful of houses, scattered around these woods with miles between them. This particular area was never farmland or anything like that, just a big expanse of undeveloped property. Now, the city's development stretches beyond here, and the edge of the expansion is a few miles away.

Local wildlife still hasn't completely adjusted. I sometimes overhear people with how they're, complaining that they find deer on their front lawn or raccoons pawing around their trash cans. On occasion, I get emergency alerts on my phone about dangerous wildlife. Recently, a bobcat or something was spotted around my apartment complex. Some dumb-ass parent that was less attentive with her five-year-old, let the kid play outside, and passed the time by playing a stupid game on their phone instead of watching them. The kid was attacked by the wildcat,

probably because it thought the cat was a large domestic kitty. Thankfully, I was at work when this happened, but things like this have been happening thanks to the rapid expansion. I believe the term is urban sprawl. The closest thing I've seen to a dangerous wild animal was when I went to the zoo on a school field trip. We don't have one here, so we had to travel to an even larger city. But I'd hardly call those wild animals. The most memorable moment of that trip had been at the tiger habitat.

I just so happened to come to it when a zoo employee was a zoo employee, was in the enclosure with a giant murder kitty. I'd expected her to be timid or even scared, since the tiger was loose, but she appeared as calm as can be. I watched as she walked right up to the cat with a bloody piece of meat and fed it directly to her.

It was the strangest thing I've ever seen. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear those two had some kind of relationship going on, kind of like a person does with their pet. Though, after watching them for a few minutes, I felt like their connection was deeper than that. Not a sexual thing or anything creepy like that, but there was meaning to it. To this day, nature never fails to amaze me. That's how I got talked into going. hiking with my friends in the first place. I'm always curious what I'll find, even if there's

little to no chance of seeing something out of the ordinary. Of course, falling off the trail had been out of the ordinary, and very unpleasant, but it wasn't the kind of thing I was hoping to have happen. Just once, I'd like to come face to face with something in the wild that you don't normally see. Walking down the hallway and turning to the left, I go about halfway down before coming to my unit. I've only got about an hour before the building locks up for the night, but that should be plenty of time to get a pair of jeans and get out of here. Now, granted, that's if I can locate one of those totes right away. I've got so many boxes in there, and my later have a tendency to fall off of the plastic.

Even though this place is climate-controlled, they can never get rid of all the humidity in the air. It's not as bad as storing things in an attic, but in the heat of the summer, it sometimes feels that way. Slipping my key into the lock, a noise makes me freeze. I have no idea what it is.

it had been. But there were no other cars outside when I got here. I suppose there could have been an employee walking around up here, but I hadn't noticed anyone while walking to my unit. I keep quiet to see if I'll hear it again, but it's all quiet. Admittedly, I do tend to get a little bit jumpy when I come here this late. Being alone brings the possibility of something bad happening, though nothing has happened as of yet. Still, it only takes one time. Deciding that I'd like to get this done as fast as possible, I unlock the padlock, remove it from the latch, and quickly slide the door up. Doing this makes a lot of noise, but I'd like to have access to something I'd use as a weapon if some creep decides to make an appearance. I have an old baseball bat near the door inside for just such an occasion.

Once the door is all the way up, the lone light on the ceiling in the unit senses movement and lights up. I see stacks of boxes piled up furniture and various other things scattered around the space. There's a very narrow walkway through the center of my stuff, just barely big enough for me to get through. As I take it all in, I notice a box on the very top of the stack is wobbling. That alarms me. Rolling the door up should not have made a box move, and the ground didn't tremble like someone dropped a very heavy object. I've felt what it's like when someone on the other side of the floor dropped a couch once. I could feel the vibrations through the floor, but it's not enough for a box that's sitting perfectly flat, on top of the floor, on top of the floor. of a stack to wobble.

Besides, I'd never heard of someone dropping something that heavy, and the only noise I heard was the door sliding up. So what the hell caused the box to move like that? I've heard of older storage units having rodent issues, but these new places guarantee that rats won't, be an issue. They even use it as a selling point in their advertisements. A big part of me wants to ignore it and start pulling down tote boxes to find my jeans. But the paranoid part of me wants to know if there's something up there. If rats have gotten into my unit, I'm going to be

super pissed. Picking up the baseball bat leaning against one of my metal shelves, I notice a bunch of my labels are on the floor. At least one of them says jeans, so I know one of the boxes at the front is what I'm after. My luck, it'll be the one on the bottom. I've got these things stacked eight tall, which is above my head. I tried to avoid that for as long as I could, but at this point, I'm lucky to have walking space in the center. If I had a step-ladder,

I'd be able to get myself high enough that I could see the top of my stacks, but that's one of the things I haven't gotten from my aunt and uncle. I've only got the one, and it lives in my apartment, so I can get to the hard-to-reach things in my cabinets. Instead of trying to solve the problem of the random wobbling box, I start in on the task that I came here to do.

However, I do keep the bat close by in case a rat launches itself at me. If that happens, the employee in the office on the first floor would hear my shriek. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I pulled down the first box on the first stack. It's one of those hard black plastic boxes with the yellow lids. Like all the other tote boxes I own. Pulling off the lid, I find my clothes neatly folded inside, but none of them are denim.

It's a bunch of long-sleeve shirts and sweater. I should have known my winter things would be the first thing I come across. I keep a few items like this in my closet at the apartment, but the majority of my winter gear gets put away here every spring. Taking down the next box, I hear what sounds like giggling. I drop the box on top of the first one and immediately take up the bat. The noise was quiet, but it sounded close by. Popping my head outside the door, I look up and down the hall for any signs of life,

but there's no one. The white buzzing lights above show every inch of the hallways, and I don't see any shadows at the ends of the hall. Where had the giggling come from? Ducking back inside my unit, I go to open the box I just took down, but movement from above catches my attention. There's another box wobbling, but it's on the other side of the walking space.

The cardboard and plastic boxes could probably support the weight of a small child, but not anything bigger. That eerie giggling, hadn't sounded that young, which is why I immediately thought it came from outside the unit. Well, that, and how the hell would someone get into my unit, and lock it from the outside? There's a thin space between the ceiling and the top of the metal walls, but it's thin enough that a rat would have trouble squeezing through it. No freaking way a person could fit through there, so what the hell is on top of my boxes?

Did someone that rents the adjoining unit slip a prank soundbox through the slit just to scare the crap out of me? People these days are getting crazier and dumber, so I wouldn't put it past them, but it's still a weird-as-hell thing to do. Not to mention, it doesn't explain how my boxes keep wobbling. I consider closing up the unit and coming back tomorrow, particularly when other people are here.

But the last thing I want to do is come back tomorrow. Besides, whatever the hell is in here will most likely still be here once I lock up the unit, so I'll have to deal with it eventually. I take a step back, the bat in one hand and my keys and the other. when I hear the giggling again. Looking up, I see both boxes wobbling, and there's more than one thing making that creepy sound. Who's there?

I demand with a shaky voice, not expecting a reply. Taking another step back, I see the stacks along the walking space wobble as something moves on top. coming closer to me. It's happening on both sides, and my eyes grow wide as I see things pop over the edge looking down at me.

What the hell? I whisper as tiny faces no more than two inches around peer down at me. There must have been at least a dozen of them, like tiny humans with oddly colored skin. The faces are covered in shadow, since the light is above them.

But I can make out features, two eyes, pointy noses, and mouths. The closest thing I've ever seen to these is from movies and fairy tales. They look like pixies or sprites, tiny woodland fairies, but I don't see any wings. A dozen or so tiny faces look at me with curiosity,

and I'm blown away. Here I am in my storage unit, and I'm confronted with honest to God fairies. Never in my wildest dreams did I think these things could be real. But if I was put my money on it, I'd have thought I'd come across them while on a hike or something. That makes me think of the whole urban sprawl thing. Could this be like deer in people's front yards?

My first instinct is to put the bat down and try to communicate with the tiny fairies. Hi there, I say sweetly, but they change the moment I place. the bat down. The curiosity on their small faces turns ugly, and a few of them leap at me. I'm caught so off guard by this that they land on me, holding onto my clothes to keep from falling to the ground. Their weight was so light that the impact doesn't hurt, but the little bastards sink their teeth into me, and that does hurt. I've accidentally cut myself. I've accidentally cut myself, on a kitchen knife a few times, and that always hurts, but this was so much worse. They must have very sharp teeth, because these things managed to bite me through my shirt

and break the skin. It's almost like if a binder clip had teeth, and someone attached three of them to my chest and stomach. I shriek from the radiating pain and stumble backward as I try to pull one of them off me. The pain is so damn intense, but it gets worse when I try to pull one of the highest up ones on me off. It's got those teeth dug into my skin, and the little shit is refusing to let go. The ones still on top of the boxes are making noise again, but it's not giggling like before. If anything, it's like spectators at a gladiator show, chanting their approval of the violence going on for their benefit. When I can't get the top one off, I change to pulling on one of the others, but the results are the same.

These guys weigh almost nothing, but they've got the jaw strength of a freaking Doberman. I can feel blood dripping down my body from the three points these things are trying to take chunks out of me. With my hands bald into fists, I start pounding on them, doing my damnedest to smash their tiny little bodies enough that they let go. I'm basically hitting myself, but I'm frantic and can't come up with another idea. The one highest up gets four hard hits on its back, and I feel the pressure on my skin let up.

Before it can sink those sharp teeth back in, I grab it by the body and fling it back into the unit. The second one comes off much the same way, thrown against my stacker, of boxes. I watch as it grabs onto the plastic and scurries back on the top with its friends. The third little bastard is harder to get off, taking half a dozen punches before it lets up. When I grab this one up, I don't just fling it away. I raise it above my head and throw it hard against the concrete floor. It lands with a hard splat, like throwing a wet splat, sponge onto the ground with all your might. Dark fluids splatters around, and the little shit doesn't get back up.

The noise of approval from the ones on the top of the boxes changes to something angry, and I can see them preparing to launch themselves at me. I know I can't take them on all at once, so I jump up, grabbing the bottom of the sliding door with both of my hands. My weight brings down the door fast, and as it slides in place, I hear multiple thuds as the bloodthirsty pixies slam into the door. As quickly as I can, I replace the padlock on the latch and move toward the elevator. I can hear tiny fists pounding at the door behind me, but I don't turn around to see if they're somehow getting through. I just get the hell out of there.

On the elevator ride down, I take stock of myself. The shirt is trashed, and there's some blood on my jeans. I really hope that doesn't stain. Who knows when I'll be able to safely get into my storage unit again? I swear, if those little bastards damage my stockpile of jeans, jeans, I'm going to smash them all into oblivion. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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