Creepy - Madeline

Episode Date: July 15, 2024

Do you remember your almost first?***Written by: B.A. Ries***Bonus Episode: "When the Door is Closed" Written by: RJ Taylor and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content warning: Death of a child, a dog, a gecko, and a mouse. Grief. ***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.

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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, not simply, fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Madeline. Written by BA Rise.

Many people go through a mopee. Nobody wants to date me, phase. I was in the midst of mine a few years back. when I was a junior in college. There's nothing particularly dramatic about it. I had no interest in romance in my teens when plenty of people around me were going through such formative experiences. I hardly socialized either.

So, unsurprisingly, when I finally acted on the feelings I started to develop towards certain members of the opposite sex, I was clumsy and awkward, and I met with no success. I recognized that it wasn't too big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, even if it felt catastrophic to me at the time. I was downcast, but not self-pitying.

I realized that I had a lot of personal growth ahead of me before I'd have much to offer to another person, and I felt a little lonely and insecure as a result. That insecurity didn't stop me from opting for a semester abroad. It's something I'd always seen as a valuable learning opportunity, and, thank you. thanks to my school's strong ties with the Danish educational program. I soon found myself on a plane from the States to Copenhagen. The first couple weeks went smoothly enough, I explored plenty landmarks from ascending the round tower's iconic helical corridor

to touring the gigantic Fredericksburg Castle. I also made progress in a basic-level Danish language course. Learning the language in detail was hardly necessary, though, as virtually every resident there would rather practice their English than try to decipher a foreigner's rudimentary Danish. I first saw her at a crowded bar on a Saturday night. My roommate and I were sipping Carlsbergs when I spotted a woman by the door. She had red hair and pale skin, and there was a peculiar kinetic energy about her that caused her to stand out from the crowd. For a moment, we made eye contact.

nervously I averted my gaze to the floor my roommate announced that he was turning in for the night no sooner did he leave then she approached me when I started mumbling a basic greeting in Dana she smiled and quickly cut me off like most Danes she spoke fluent English in a Nordic accent she told me that she'd noticed me looking at her and to my surprise asked if I wanted to buy her a drink I, yeah, sure, I sat gesturing for another beer on tap.

She introduced herself as Madeline, and at her suggestion, we got ourselves a small table. She asked me a lot of questions, and she seemed to listen intently to my responses. We talked at first about basic subjects, such as my hometown and my reasons for studying abroad, and how she'd grown up nearby but recently returned from traveling through Switzerland and Germany. Before long, we were discussing more personal topics. I explained how my father had passed when I was little, and she shared how she'd recently broken up with a longtime boyfriend. As our conversation stretched into the early morning,

I realized that I felt more comfortable around her than I did around, well, just about anybody else. else. I found her extremely attractive too, which contributed to my excitement. Eventually, she suggested that we depart. You gonna drink that? I asked, motioning to the stillful beer I'd ordered for. She laughed and shook her head. She told me that she didn't really drink and just wanted to see if I'd ordered it for. She added that I could have it if I wanted. I took a deep gulp from it as I left payment on the table before following her to the deserted cobblestone street outside. She leaned into me until her face was just inches from mine and asked if I had ever kissed a girl before.

Yeah, I lied, embarrassed by my inexperience. She whispered another question. Had I ever done more than that. Uh, yeah, I responded, the smirk on her face showing me that she likely didn't believe me. If she sensed I was lying, it didn't seem to bother her. She drew away from me. She asked if I had plans for the next night. She explained that she'd be attending a gathering with some friends and family. Afterwards, she said with a wink, we could spend some time together.

just the two of us. My heart fluttered. Oh, yeah. Okay. I stammered nervously. Sure, I'll be there. That seemed to please her. She proceeded to describe the route I'd need to take to get there.

I typed each step into my travel flip phone. As we parted ways, she called to me. Vesasina. Danish for see you later. I practically skipped. with a joy as I made my way home. After so many self-doubt and restless nights,

a charming, gorgeous woman had shown interest in me, of all people. My mind flooded with thoughts of what was to follow. Maybe the event would be awkward and little would come of it. Perhaps I'd say or do something foolish

like I had so many times before, and I'd never hear from her again. But just maybe, this could be the start of something. something meaningful, or at a minimum, something validating and fun. When I got home, I realized that she'd left me with relatively little specific information. Madeline hadn't given me her last name or even her phone number. I had an address, but I had no idea what sort of building I was looking for,

or the kind of neighborhood I'd be heading into. Her mention of family struck me as strange too. Who brings someone to a family event on a first, or if last night counted, second date? My mind didn't dwell on these peculiarities for long. Instead, I replayed the wink she gave me when she'd referenced us being alone together. It was more than enough to silence any uncertainties. I spent the next morning preparing. I showered, shaved my face, and picked out a nice shirt.

I tried to think in advance of the question. questions or friends and family members might ask me and practice my responses before a mirror. My roommate, sensing my purpose, wished me luck as I stepped outside. At first, the journey was unremarkable. The metro station had its usual glossy, spotless appearance. When the fully automated train arrived, I took a seat near a chated group of teens, and numerous passengers embarked and departed over the next few stops. Things started to change when I reached the nearest station.

According to Madeline's instructions, I needed to switch to a train on the silver line. However, I couldn't find a platform for such a line, nor did one appear on any of the maps throughout the station. I spotted two metro employees and asked him for assistance. They exchanged a quick glance when I mentioned the silver line. The first, a pale-faced man, asked if I was certain that I wanted to go there. I nodded, trying to make sense of their grim, concerned expressions. In response, the second, a short, well-built woman with a gray ponytail, beckoned me to follow her. She led me up a small staircase that I otherwise would have assumed connected to a custodial closet or maintenance hatch.

At the top, she took me down a shadowy corridor. In contrast to the polished, pristine look of the rest of the station, the walls and floor in this area were rugged and dirty. We stepped into a cavernous room. A weak, flickering over headlight partially illuminated an empty train platform in its center. A large sign above it displayed the Danish word for silver. In contrast to the other platforms, there appeared to be no ticket booth or electronic indicator of when the next train would arrive. When I asked about this, I found, to my surprise, that the woman who had brought me there was already gone.

I was alone. I considered leaving. This all made little sense. The absence of any silver line from the map, the platform's dingy appearance, and the reaction of the employees. The air had a rancid, foul smell to it, too, and the temperature was much higher than in the rest of the station. but I'd come this far, and it had all accorded, more or less, with the instructions Madeline had left me. I reminded myself, too, of why I was there in the first place. I thought about how comfortable and warm her presence had made me feel last night.

I imagined the smile that would spread across her face when she saw me. The feeling of her lips pressed against mine, doing more than kissing. perhaps quite a bit more. Eventually, two harsh red lights punctured the opaque darkness and approached like the eyes of a hunting predator. As they grew closer, I discerned that there were the headlights to an older, shabbier train than the one I'd used to get here.

This smudges across its glass windows and the graffiti that covered its metal exterior reminded me much more of public transportation in the U.S. than what I'd seen elsewhere in Copenhagen. Even though the train seemed to be at the end of the line, no one who'd arrived on it exited. Instead, the handful of passengers in the car I stepped onto remained eerily silent as I took a seat. An empty glass bottle rolled across its dusty floor as the train jutted back into motion, reversing direction into the black void from which it had emerged.

I checked the directions Madeline had given me. seven metro stops and then a five-block walk until I reached my destination. I'd be there soon enough. I tried to relax as the train sputtered along. At the first two stops, no one got on or off. By the time the train approached the third stop, I noticed a peculiar stillness among the passengers in my periphery. Neither the lanky man by the door nor the mother and daughter in the matching red jackets

and the seats ahead of me had moved an inch since I'd gotten on board. As far as I could tell, everyone around me remained completely emotionless. I shifted my gaze to the window on my right as a train approached the third stop. Between the back glare against the dirty glass and the outside platform's minimal lighting, I could barely make anything out. The doors opened, and again I discerned no movement onto or off of the train. Staring deep into the shadows outside, I noticed something else odd. The vague outlines of figures, all as still as those in my train car.

At the fourth station, I observed the same thing. I couldn't identify any details of the distant spectators, beyond that they just seemed to be standing there, doing nothing at all. It perplexed me. Why were they there? As far as I could tell, there wasn't any other train on this track. As the train departed, I picked up on another detail. Pairs of tiny neon green dots of light.

They were hard to make out at first, but once I noticed them, I couldn't ignore them. Each hovered above the ground, right around where the obscure figure's faces would be. The fifth and six stops were the same. Now that I knew to look for them, I detected no fewer than a dozen pairs of these glowing lights, all gazing at the train like eyes that never blink. As we approached the seventh stop, I wasn't sure what to make what I'd been seeing. The distant figures spooked me, even though I had no reason to think I was in any danger.

I reflected on just how alone and isolated I was. After all, I was a foreigner traveling to an area I knew nothing about on a line. that didn't appear on maps, all to see someone I'd only just met. I hadn't even told anyone where I was going. But I had to exit the train at some point, even if only to turn around. So, I mustered my courage and approached the screen doors, praying that whatever lay in the void ahead of me met me no harm, and that I'd soon be happily reunited with the gorgeous woman who choned so much interest

in me. As the doors began to open, my hands shot impulsively to my eyes to protect them from an unexpected and intense wave of what felt like blisteringly bright light. As my eyes started to adjust, I squinted to find before me a fully illuminated train platform. To my relief, it was bereft of any skulking figures or anyone at all, for that matter. Sounds of my footsteps echoed through the vacant train station as I made my way through it. There was nothing odd about its structure or layout, but the absence of other people left me uneasy. I remember the giggling teens and hand-holding couples I was used to seeing at places like this.

Everything around me, by contrast, felt artificial, mechanical, and joyless. The street outside had a similarly ethereal aura to it. It possessed all the qualities of the vibrant sense. cityscape I'd spent the last few weeks exploring, cobblestone streets, occasional baroque churches, crooked houses painted in warm hues of yellow, red, and orange. But it was all quiet, so quiet, and the air carried a suffocating staleness. As I passed by a restaurant, I found myself fixating on its chairs and tables, all uninhabited, like everything else around me.

Their design and layout in general were identical to that of an upscale Italian place not far from my dorm back in the States. My mind flashed back to the night I'd taken Audrey, a girl from my chemistry class out on a date. Her conversation over the meal had been... awkward. She'd acted friendly towards me earlier,

but that night she'd been guarded and withholding. When the check arrived, I had tried to pay it in full, but she insisted on splitting the expense. As we stepped outside, she confessed that she thought we were hanging out as friends and hadn't realized until she'd arrived at the restaurant that I'd asked her on a date. She apologized for having not said anything earlier, as she hadn't known how to best navigate the awkward situation. When she told me she didn't see me that way, I said that was. okay and I'd apologize for the misunderstanding. I felt terrible, though I tried not to show it. I dismissed the memory quickly. As I continued towards Madeline's address, a distant noise caught my attention. As I got closer, I recognized it as laughter. At first I found this reassuring.

It was the first sign of life I'd encountered after traversing so much seemingly abandoned cityscape. but I steadily picked up on an unwelcome undertone to the shrill giggles ahead of me. There was a piercing meanness to them. They recalled the specter of a group of people, young people by the sound of it, basking in a purest humiliation. It was a sound I knew too well. When I'd summoned my courage to ask a classmate out the prom, a fellow violist named Maria I'd shared a stand with an orchestra,

for over a year. She'd laughed at me like that, and her friends had quickly joined in. Do better, I told myself when I'd cried into the mirror that night. Nobody owes me anything. I'd do better tonight, I told myself. Everything was going to change. Madeline and I made a connection so quickly.

She really liked me, and I liked her too. Maybe I'd just grown up. on the wrong continent. The laughter got louder until right as I reached the alley from which it seemed to have been emanating, it stopped. And there was no one there to be found. Just keep moving, I told myself. Adding it to the list of abnormalities I fought to keep buried in the back of my mind. I'm almost there. Finally I reached a sign that displayed the name of Madeline Street. The first few buildings were businesses, the deli that served distinctly Danish open sandwiches, a barber shop, a camera store.

At last I found myself facing a brick structure with the number of the address Madeline had given me a fix to its front door. The sign next to the entrance displayed several words that I hadn't yet learned in my Danish language course. Was this a restaurant? If so, it was a fancy one, judging by the black suit worn by the man by the ornate front desk inside. incidentally, the first person I'd seen since the train station. I expected to feel some sense of relief at seeing another living, breathing person, but his emaciated appearance and grim expression brought me little comfort. He said something to me in Danish. I think can I help you, but he spoke a little too rapidly for me to be sure.

I just stated Madeline's name, hoping he'd understand that. I was looking for. Madeline, he repeated back to me. He nodded solemnly and then beckoned for me to follow him. We arrived in a large plain room occupied by at least two dozen people. The first thing I noticed about them was how formally they were dressed. My patterned buttoned-down shirt looked outright casual compared to the suit jackets and plain dresses. All muted shades of black and gray worn by everyone else.

Naturally, I felt out of place. Nobody said anything to me. But I sensed, truthfully or not, that I was being judged. Why hadn't Madeline told me this was a fancy event? I wondered, too, where was Madeline? What kind of event had she invited me to? The absence of any food or silverware laden tables confirmed that I was not, in fact, in a restaurant. as I'd inferred. Rather, the attendees were standing and chatting quietly with each other

in voices no louder than a whisper. Nobody really seemed to be doing anything in particular. I approached an elderly man standing alone. Excuse me? I said meekly. I'm looking for Madeline, a puzzled expression formed on his face. As he looked me over skeptically, my face turned rad with a mix of nervousness and embarrassment. I felt so hopelessly lost and confused. He slowly raised his arm and pointed towards a far end of the room. I thanked him before nudging my way through the small crowd in the direction he'd indicated. My jaw nearly dropped when I saw the wooden casket,

which was decorated by an array of lilies and roses. Madeline lay underneath its open head panel. Her eyes were closed and she was perfectly still. She wore the same clothes I'd seen her in the previous night. A display next to the casket red. Madeline Larson, December 12, 1994, September 7, 2019. It was too much to take in. My legs grew weak and I began feeling busy.

My mind raced to process what was happening. Steadily, it dawned on me that somehow, as impossible as it sounded. Madeline had invited me to her own open casket. Something else stuck out to me. Last night, when I had met Madeline, was September 14th. One week after the date listed as that of her death, none of this made sense. What was I doing here? How is any of this possible?

The old man who directed me shuffled past me and stood next to the casket. He turned to face the rest of the crowd, which quickly grew silent. I realized he was giving some kind of speech. Was he a relative or a priest, perhaps? He spoke in a coarse, raspy voice. My mind was too astounded for me to grasp a word of what he was saying. I wasn't even sure that it was Danish. The reaction from the crowd baffled me even more.

They were laughing. Again and again, the man-made comments, comments that I could not understand, and the rest of the room chortled and giggled in response. All I could do was watch, embarrassed and dumbfounded as I wondered who tells jokes at an occasion like this. Suddenly all eyes turned to me. Michael, the man hissed, somehow knowing my name. It's time. Time for what? I replied, exasperated.

I looked around the room, at the dozens of people staring intently at me. What's happening? What do you want from me? The man responded that it wasn't him or us who wanted something from me. No, he said, gesturing to the casket. It's her. I stood frozen as Madeline's corpse sat up.

Madeline opened her eyes and placed both hands on the caskets mahogany surface, pulled herself slowly upward and hopped down to the floor. She said my name. Her voice sounding weaker and coarser than it had last night. I knew you come from me. I just knew it. She wobbled towards me, her legs seemingly straining to support her. I froze, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.

Are you? Are you? I stuttered. They're going to bury me, Michael, she said as she continued her approach. As she got closer, I recoiled at her rank putrid smell. Impulsively I backed up, only for the speaker to grip me tightly, holding me in place. I don't want to be alone, Michael, said Madeline. There's room for us both down there.

No, I gasped as I struggled to get free. No, please. There's so much that I can show you. It'll be just the two of us, and we'll have all the time in the world. Isn't this what you always wanted? To never be alone again? She stood right in front of me now. My stomach churned his rotting smell grew even more pungent.

The world spun around me as panic set in. I remember tearing the man's hands off of me, losing my balance and slamming my head painfully into the casket before I hit the ground. When I came to, my head was throbbing, and I was being dragged outside by two men. Graves littered the surrounding landscape. A crowd of people, including Madeline, had assembled by a deep pit a short distance away from me.

Next to it was a coffin. a much larger one than I had seen before. Large enough for two bodies, I couldn't make sense of anything that was happening, but I knew with a sense of absolute certainty that I was about to be buried there. I figured my best bet would be to act before they realized I was awake. Throwing all my force into it, I lunged forward, managing barely to pull myself free. One of the men dived for me, grabbing my legs and sending me, me toppling over a headstone. As I scrambled in my feet, I noticed a long metal shovel

laying atop a pile of dirt. As one of the men charged at me, I picked up to shovel and frantically swung it. The blade slammed into his cheek, sending him sprawling. Madeline cried out, demanding to know what I was doing. I didn't respond. My attention was fixed on the man I just hit. The force of the blow had somehow fractured his skin. Cracketland. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. spread over his face, which then shattered into small pieces that fell onto the ground, revealing the raw bones of his skull and a pair of unblinking, unnaturally bright green eyes. As he got to his feet, seemingly unbothered by the visceration of his face, my flight instinct kicked in.

I remember climbing a fence and ignoring the pain of my ankle when I hit the ground on the other side. I remember the sounds of dozens of footsteps pursuing me and being too afraid to look back. Madeline's voice brimming with a sense of betrayal begging me to return. I ran on instinct, retracing my steps as best I could. Figures filled the once deserted streets around me. I ignored their missing faces and the green glow they emitted. I ignored the ones who called for me, who said they wanted me, who resembled Audrey, Marrude.

Maria and so many others whose rejection haunted my mind every time I closed my eyes at night. By the time I reached the platform, I was breathing rapidly and drenched in sweat. Thankfully, a train was already there. I could hear voices resounding through the station behind me. They were getting closer, louder by the moment. I could tell that the train's doors were about to close. With my last bit of strength, I dashed forward and dove between them. Pain shot through me as my body.

body thudded onto the hard surface inside. When I awoke, my body ached all over. I was laying on a couch in some kind of office, and a woman I recognized as the employee who had led me to the silver line stood over me. She asked if I had found what I was looking for. I was too perplexed to answer. What? Where am I? She told me I was in her office in the station,

where I'd begin my journey. I don't understand. She shrugged. She told me I didn't have to. That I should go home. But, but, I stammered. What about the silver line and the things I saw? She replied that the silver line was closed for repairs and repeated this time,

in a firm enough voice that I understood to be a command, that I should go home. I've never fully understood what happened to me that day. I never saw that employee again, nor any mention of a silver line having ever even existed. Nor could I find any reference in an atlas to the part of town it had brought me to. When I looked up the words displayed on the building Madeline brought me to, they translated to Undertaker or Funeral Home. Once before returning to the States, I ran into the bartender who'd been on duty when I'd met Madeline.

When I asked him what he remembered about that night, he responded that he recalled me sitting alone, talking to myself for hours. My physical wounds, bruises and a sprained ankle, healed relatively quickly. But inside, I felt shattered. I became reclusive, focusing entirely on my studies and after graduating on my work. A few weeks ago, my brother sat down. me up on a date with a friend of a friend who he insisted was a good fit for me. Understandably, I'd spent the last few years utterly detached from the dating scene and

avoiding any perceived advances. But I eventually caved in to my brother's persistence. Her name is Clara, and, well, my brother was right. She and I formed an instant connection, and so far, we seem to be a person. perfect match for each other. The other night, we even exchanged a kiss. The first of my life. We were sitting together in my apartment's living room on a rainy Sunday afternoon when I heard

a knock at the door. I opened it to find a bouquet of lilies and roses sitting on the doormat. Did you order these? I asked Clara. She shook her head. Her expression puzzled and concerned. A small card pinned to the bouquet displayed a short handwritten message in black ink. I took a deep, nervous breath before reading it to myself.

Death is the great equalizer, Michael. When it comes for you too, no one thing. I will be waiting. Visei Sina, Madeline. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. when the door is closed, written by R.J. Taylor and narrated by Michelle Kane. The timer starts now. Two minutes and 18 seconds. It takes nine seconds to open the door, step into the room, set down the watering can, close the door, pick up the watering can,

and walk to the window. Only my right hand is free. My left hand is free. My left one is busy clutching the cross that hangs from my neck. Lacey tree philodendron only needs to be watered every seven days. Snake plants never need to be repotted. The window behind me lights this room like a movie set. I can see every crevice of this space with tragic detail. A cobweb is forming on the corner of my son's crib. I should bring a feather duster next week. I stick out two fingers and feel the soil. Dry. I steady the watering can over it and pour.

One minute and 56 seconds. The philodendron needs to be pruned. I have to lift a brown leaf with my thumb to get the spout of the watering can in position. The sunlight refracts through the water to create tiny unicellular shapes that crawl over the soil. And then I stop pouring in the water. vanishes. Looking at the surface of the dirt, you'd never know that the water was here at all. I placed the watering can on the window cell. My fingers pinched the handle of the scissors, but my hand trembles and they slip soundlessly onto the carpet. Before I pick them up,

I have to reposition myself so that my bag is not turned to the closet. It comes out of the closet. There is a brass bell fastened over the top right corner of the closet door. I have never seen that bell ring. I have only heard its chime from the other side of the wall. I keep an eye on that cream-colored door while I bend over and pick up the scissors. That kills an extra four seconds. I feel a crunch on my thumb as the blades of the scissors cut through the flesh of the stem. The dead leaf at the base is the first to go.

There's a blade at the top that is still green, but has a brown hole at its center. It gets snipped, too. I set down the scissors on the sill, placing them in the exact position from which I picked them up. Then I gather the clippings and put them in my back pocket for propagation. Maybe plants are its kryptonite. Maybe if I fill this room from wall to wall with

pepperomias, and zizi's and aloe, that closet will burn from the inside out, and my boy will be avenged. I checked the timer, one minute and 25 seconds. I grab the scissors and lean over the bonsai. There is an erroneous limb beginning to sprout near the roots, but my hands are shaking too violently to make the cut. I put the scissors back down and ease myself onto the rocking chair. This chair faces the lemon-colored dresser, where Teddy's clothes would have been kept. On top rests three frames with three pictures, the only pictures I have.

Two of them were given to us by the hospital, one of him in a pale blue wensie, the other a stamp of his tiny footprint. The third photo, shows him in my arms, his father leaning over the hospital bed, resting a large palm on each of us. The flat seat of this chair presses into my backbone. I dread this day of the week, the day that I force myself to enter this room and close the door behind me. The carpet is drenched with that smell that sets into a place where something inexplicable,

explicably horrifying has happened, something that should never happen to a child. This room makes me a coward every seven days. My hands shake and my pulse lives in my throat, and I can never make it to two minutes and 18 seconds, no matter how hard I try. The plants were supposed to help me past the time. I chose plants that only needed tending to every week or so, but could keep me busy pruning. But I never get more than a few snips in before I give up and watch the seconds take away, sitting in this chair that should have been used to rock my son to sleep.

52 seconds. My eyes roll over the sky blue paint on the walls. White clouds hang below the trim of the sun. the ceiling. In the corner a semi-circular sun that his father painted. Below that yellow sun sits a wooden crib. I imagine his tiny point of view, lying in that crib and looking up at that sun. It could have been the last thing he ever saw. Teddy was 49 hours old the last time his eyes were open. He was 18 months old when he died. The doctors said he was gone long before that. His father was the one who signed the papers. They let me hold my son after they gave him the final

shot. And my thumb was resting on his heart when it stopped beating. I have relived that moment so many times that my mind is numb to the memory. My eyes don't even think to form tears anymore. I walk through my daily routine, submerged in apathy, drinking wine by the box as I wait for my nerves to build, ready to die but not ready to kill myself. 33 seconds. That's 12 seconds longer than my previous record.

I stand from the chair and grab the watering can. I walk to the door, sat down the can, and grab the knob. It doesn't turn. The doorknob is stuck. I take a deep breath and check the timer again. 26 seconds left. Darkness begins to spread across the wall from left to right, pressing against my left shoulder. I let go of my necklace and use both hands to grip the knob. I bend my torso using my weight to twist. It won't budge. A soft rustling comes from within the closet, as if invisible tree branches are swaying in the wind, scratching against the wooden panels in the dark. I shake the knob violently. I mount my foot on the door and pull with everything I have. My eyes are beginning to water. Clumps of hair, fall from my ponytail and tickle the goosebumps on my neck. Beneath the sound of my panicked breath, I think I can hear the faintest chime of the bell above the door. It could be in my head.

Nine seconds left. I throw myself against the knob, lifting it, pressing it toward the floor, jerking it in every direction. My forearms are burning. My cheeks are hot and there is a hysteria in the sweat on my face. I don't know how much time is left. I only sense the pressure mounting behind the closet door with every passing second. There is a wild animal inside that is almost hungry enough to come out. The bell chimes softly. This time there is no question of whether I imagined it. The shine of the afternoon sun has been vacuumed out of the window. The room is completely dark. I am about to concede defeat and turn to watch the closet open.

When I feel the knob turn, as if someone has let go from the other side, I pull backward and the door shoots open, light bursts in from the window, I am flung from my feet and cold metal slices through my ankle. The sprinkler topples over and water spills across the hardwood floor. The air is still. I inhale deeply and press my fingers against my watery eyes. Just as I catch my breath, a harsh chime splits my ears and my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and turn the timer off.

I have never had such a close call. I roll over onto my stomach and look across the room at the closet door. Even the bell looks relieved. Its mouth appears wider from this angle and look at it. like it is letting out an alleviated sigh. If that mouth could talk, it would say, He gave me quite a scare just now, Lo. Ever thought about taking up yoga or painting, or any hobby other than tempting death every weekend? I stand up and limp down the hall to the bathroom, staying on my tiptoes, trying not to leave a trail of blood. I pull back the shower curtain and

slip my leg under the faucet. The cut is deep and steams when the water hits it. It stains the towel red when I dry it off, and I barely have time to tape it up before the blood seeps through the gauze. I change clothes and run a brush through my hair. I don't bother with makeup. I don't want to look in the mirror. Before I leave the house, I stop in front of Teddy's open door. I tell him that I'm going to visit Billy, that I'll be back soon, and that I would die for him. Billy is looking worse every day.

He barely resembles the man I met over three months ago, when I stepped out my front door on bare feet and found a man in uniform standing on my porch. My memory of that day is nothing more than a viscous puddle of gray, but I remember Billy's face very clearly, his eyes wrinkling with his cheeky smile, his forest green hat matching the t-shirt that tucked into his cargo pants and hugged his gut.

He had a well-kept beard with a naturally ombre color pattern, nearly black in the mustache and entirely white at his chin. There was a deep dent in the bridge of his nose that made his forehead hang over his nostrils. Now he looks like a rotting version of himself. His skin is loose and his hair is getting thinner. His eyelids are sunken as if the sockets beneath them are empty. Teddy had similar features after months of this comatose state.

He had the yellowish skin and the vascular forehead. The stillness that makes you certain the body is inhabited by nothing. But Billy was so much older than Teddy when he entered the room, his cells so hesitant to regenerate. He gives an energy of rapid decomposition. It looks like if he were left in his bed much longer, he would disintegrate under the weight of the blankets. Billy is the only person other than Teddy,

who has been in that room for longer than two minutes and 18 seconds. He is the reason my experiments began. His inspection company was hired to test Teddy's old room for radon and mold. Before he stepped into Teddy's room and closed the door, Billy covered his face with a respirator. I guess that didn't protect him from the thing in my son's closet. It was 103 days ago that I found Billy unconscious of the floor of the bedroom. Since then, Billy's comatose state has matched teddy's exactly.

It is only a matter of time before he is euthanized, too. I drink wine out of an opaque water bottle and stare at Billy. I wonder where his consciousness is. Is he still in my closet? Is he with my son? If he is, I hate him. The bottle is empty, and I feel wobbly when I stand up. I lift the blanket and lie down next to him,

the tread of my shoes getting caught on his silky gown. I slip a hand up under his sleeve and dig through his chest hair. Then I pick the skin flakes out of my fingernails and eat them. I lift his breathing mask, and shove two fingers into his mouth and under his tongue. I swing my leg around so that I am directly on top of him, rubbing my face against his, sliding the tip of my tongue into his nostrils. The taste is salty and his nose hairs tickle.

Maybe I will catch the germ. If it is a virus that I can infect myself with, then maybe I'll see Teddy again without staying in that room There is a bag of Billy's urine hanging beside the bed, and I am emptying it into my water bottle when the nurse walks in and screams for security. As they escort me to the parking lot, they inform me that I will no longer be welcome to visit. And I have been locked out of my last remaining reason to live. When I get home, I go up to Teddy's room to soak up the water that I had spilled earlier. I leave the door open while I do this.

It only comes out when the door is closed. Sunday comes again, and it is time to re-enter the room. But I have decided that this Sunday will be different. This time, the timer will not stop at 218. The gash in my ankle has scabbed over and the pain has subsided. I sit on my back porch with my phone in my lap. The conversation lasted less than 30 seconds. I asked him to come, and he said he was on his way.

It is a cold morning. The sunlight gleams off of the frost that coats every blade of grass. In the center of the backyard, three makeshift crosses stand over three graves. One, the size of a toddler's. The other significantly smaller, and the third smaller still. These are the graves of my first three. experiments. I named the dog Skip, because he was small Jack Russell with a white coat and a brown face. He looked just like the dog from that Frankie Muniz movie that I used to love when I was a kid.

I wonder if Teddy would have liked that movie. Skip followed me eagerly into the bedroom, his tail wagging and his lips curled into a smile. When I stepped into the hallway and closed the door, he cocked his head to the side. One ear perk. and the other flopped inside out. I started the timer, and Skip began to whine. He whimpered quietly for one minute and 45 seconds, and then the light beneath the door began to darken. The dog pawed softly at the door,

politely asking to be let out. At two minutes, Skip let out a single bark and scratched several more times. Ten seconds later, he began barking wildly and clawing at the the door. The room became dark, and Skip let out a soft, squeaky whimper. At two minutes and 18 seconds, the bell rang violently. Skip scratched desperately at the bottom of the door. Afterwards, I would find shards of wood beneath his nails and blood on the floor. At two minutes and 24 seconds, the floor shook. Skip yelped and then became quiet. At two minutes and 32 seconds,

the bell rang again, and I heard the closet door slam shut. Light leaked into the hallway from under the door. I had set a video camera in front of the window facing the closet, but the video showed nothing but blackness. Skip's eyes were glazed and his mind was absent. He breathed shallowly. I dragged him into the backyard and dumped a bottle of Benadryl down his throat. I named the gecko Roger because he was originally supposed to be.

a rabbit, but the pet store didn't have any. The bell rang at two minutes and 18 seconds, and later I found Roger on his back with his pallid belly to the ceiling. This time, I had placed a teddy bear with a nanny cam in the room so that I could watch a live stream. But the video froze just as the closet door began to open. I stabbed Roger between the eyes with a fork. When I got Roger, I also picked up a mouse. I didn't bother. naming it. I duct-taped its tail to the floor so that it couldn't run away. This time I bought a CCTV security camera and hardwired it to the Wi-Fi modem. I was determined to catch footage of this thing. At two minutes, the live stream went black. At two minutes and 18 seconds, the bell rang. I felt a rush of

air pressed the door against its frame. At two minutes and 45 seconds, the video came back on. But the room was empty and the closet door was closed. I found the mouse lying flat on the floor with its black eyes closed. It was lying a couple of feet away from its tail, which was still taped to the floor. It must have chewed through it. When I picked it up, the thin shelf of skin beneath its eye was wet, as if it had been crying. I took the mouse out back and stepped on its head. I pray over all three graves every morning that guilt never comes. I have learned that there is a point of heartbreak that empathy can't survive. I used to feel bad about what happened to Billy, and then I felt bad about not feeling bad.

But when the universe mistreats you to a certain degree, you allow yourself to mistreat others. So the motivation behind my next move is not culpability or even justice. It is a need for a resolution, or maybe an urge to self-destruct. After the mouse, I tried plants. I put them by the windowsill three weeks ago, and so far the only thing that has harmed them is my ineptitude for horticulture. Maybe it can only hurt things that breathe. Today is my final experiment.

I answer the door and it is Mark standing on the front porch. The bristly hairs on his cheek resemble tiny needles. His shoulders are broad and his eyes are low. He is at least six inches taller than me, but I feel like I'm looking down on him. Somehow I know Teddy would have looked like him if he had gotten old enough to look like anyone. I flash a weak smile at Mark as I close.

the door behind him. Then I wrap my arms around his neck and allow him to squeeze my waist. It's the least I can do. He doesn't ask questions when I tell him to open the door after exactly two minutes and 18 seconds. He doesn't even flinch when he sees the gun. I think he's just happy to be here. He hands me the watering can and hugs me by the shoulders. It has been years since I've kissed him, and I assumed it would feel different, but the sensation is exactly the same as it always was, from the depths of his lips to the grip on my jaw. I have just woken up from a coma of my own,

in which my greatest fear has tormented my subconscious. I am in the comfort of my husband's arms, and my son is sleeping undisturbed in his room. But then his mouth, withdraws from mine, and my eyes open, and I find a pistol in my hand. I take a deep breath and step into the room. This time, I don't bother holding my crucifix as I close the door. The timer starts now. I walk to the windowsill and set down the gun. Two minutes and 11 seconds. The tallest leaf of the snake plant has grown at least four inches since I got it. It is beginning.

to lean toward the window, and its pointed tip is bent at a 90-degree angle. It actually looks like a pale green serpent with its tongue out, sniffing the air, planning its escape. I water both plants. One minute, 57 seconds. The philodendron is healthy, but I clip off a leaf anyway. I just want to hold it. What if my theory about plants turns out to be true? As I trim, I try and I trim the bonsai tree, I lean against the windowsill and turn my back to the closet, daring it to come out early. The scissors don't shake in my hands this time. I am calmed by the finality of this day. No matter what happens, this will be over. I will never have to fear this room again. The bonsai is especially shaggy because I didn't trim it last week. I start by rounding the branches at the top into a perfect

half circle. I use my left hand to stabilize my grip on the branches. I take care of the sprouting lamb that I was too nervous to get last time. Then I carve the bottom branches into a picturesque canopy floor that lults upward ever so slightly on each end. The bushy leaves are glowing in a sunbeam, and the little tree looks like thin mushroom made of gold. I am admiring my candy work when I remember the timer. An entire minute and eight seconds have passed since the last time I looked. I can hear Mark's feet shuffling anxiously in the hall. I set down the scissors and pick up the pistol.

I practiced with it at the shooting range a few days ago. I'm not a great shot, but good enough for this short range. Plus, it helps study my nerve. It's impossible not to feel powerful holding it. It makes my dainty hand look tough. My thumb is pressed against the grip. There is fading black polish sprinkled over my fingernails. I sit in the rocking chair facing the closet and take a few deep breaths.

41 seconds. The blue wall above the closet door is beginning to darken. I look at the bright yellow dresser with the three picture frames that stand on top of it. The picture of Mark and I hold it. tutty. Our eyes were tired but happy, unaware that they would soon lie on our dead sun. I stare at the picture at my two lost loves, and the serenity that I have felt all morning starts to fade. This does not feel like calm, and it doesn't feel like fear. This feels like anger. The darkness is covering half of the ceiling. There are 26 seconds left. My thumb runs up the grip of the pistol

and slides the safety down. Soft scratches come from within the closet. What is left of the morning sun shimmers around the lip of the brass bell. I wonder if things would be different had that bell hung above the door on that night. Maybe my son's soul wouldn't have gotten lost in the shuffling bureaucracy of the cosmos. I turn the flashlight from my phone on as the curtain of darkness reaches the window behind me. Eight seconds left.

Mark calls from the other side of the door asking what is going on. I can sense his hand gripping the knob on the other side. The bell emits a faint chime and I aim the light at it. The round clapper hangs from its stem, shuddering, a golden uvula

in a metal mouth that is about to scream. If it could talk, it would say, please don't do this low. This room would be perfect for an easel and a yoga mat. Five seconds. Another deep breath. I point the gun at the middle of the door. Two minutes and 15 seconds have passed. Sixteen. Seven. The bell swings upward and lets out a jovial chime. The door creaks open slowly and automatically. The creature is outlined by blackness. The closet itself swallows the beam from my flashlight. It is a stout gray shadow with limbs like tree trunks and long glass shards for fingers. It is so tall that it has to duck its head to step through the frame of the door. Now I see its eyes, emerald slits that glare through the darkness.

unmoving and inanimate. Its mouth, a round hole that seems to go through the back of its head. I can see the flash of my phone carved into a perfect circle on the wall behind it. Mark calls my name from the hallway. His voice is made of pure panic. I can hear him shaking the doorknop, but the door is not opening. A small divot of my brain is not surprised. I am wondering why I even bothered asking him to come. The long limbs don't move, but the thing whooshes toward me like a giant gust of wind, and now it stands over me with its arms hanging at its sides. Its pupils are black squares outlined by pools of glowing green.

The carpet beneath my feet is rippling like the surface of a pond. The chime of the bell is still reverberating off the walls. I remember the gun in my hand and my finger forces itself against the trigger. My shoulders press against the back of the chair and it swings backward on its rocker. My ears ring and my wrist aches, but the monster doesn't falter. My phone slips from my hand and falls to the floor. The flashlight casts a circle of white onto the ceiling.

I can vaguely hear Mark's voice from the hallway, but only for a moment before the gun fires again. The bullet flies wildly to the corner of the room, but I steady my grip and the next shot But aims true, and the next. They should have hit the monster in the center of the torso, but it stands unfazed. My chest begins to heave in hyperventilation. The gun falls to the floor, but my hand doesn't notice. It remains outstretched. Both of the gray arms reach out and translucent fingers intertwine around my waist.

My skin goes numb. Glass knives are cutting into my gut. and the pain makes me shiver. The O of the thing's mouth presses against my collarbone, and I can feel myself falling into it. The fingers of my left hand dance across the leathery edges of the leaf in my hand. I feel slimy ropes swimming up my spine, squeezing my lungs. My breath is caught in my chest.

My heart is trying to climb out of my mouth. In the hall, Mark is throwing himself against the bedroom door. I can feel his weight shaking the room. Somehow the feeble door is not breaking under his force. In my periphery, I see a small shadow emerge from the closet, walking slowly. If I were standing next to it, its head might reach my hips. It is moving timidly towards the bedroom door. The monster seems unaware of the movement behind it.

It only stares at me as I feel the pressure building in my temples. The hungry animal is ready to consume me, and I am ready to let it. The small shadow reaches the door and extends a slim arm toward the knob. Through watery eyes, I see the gleam at the picture frames on the dresser. There is a bubble at the top of my throat. that is pressing on my tongue. At the height of my vision, I can make out the rounded shapes

of the clouds on the wall behind the monster. There is a black border forming around my eyesight, closing fast. With my last thought, I pray for my son. The soft screech of the doorknob sounds like the squeak of a mouse.

The door swings open. The pressure in my chest evaporates. My hand comes free, and light erupts from behind me. I aspirate desperately just before my lungs burst. The thing has exploded into fragments of esteem.

I watch a silky piece billow to the floor and disintegrate. Mark pulls me into his arms and I soak his shirt and tears and saliva and I fight to catch my breath. For the first time since we moved in, I see the inside of the closet. It is empty,

except for one cardboard box that never got unpacked. The paint on the walls looks pristine and fresh, as if its final coat had just dried. I can see every brushstroke of the clouds that hang from the ceiling. The yellow of the dresser is brighter than I can ever remember. The painted sun in the corner gleams over the crib, as if it is actually giving off light. I jumped to my feet, covered in sweat,

and still catching my breath. I swing the bedroom door closed. I heave my exhausted body across the room and close the closet door. I pick up my phone and look at the timer, which is still running. Mark is asking me what happened. Why did I take so long to open the door if I am sure that I'm all right? I ask him to wait. Please just wait for two minutes and 18 seconds.

I collapse in his arms and we fall to the floor. gripping each other tightly. I recognize his smell as I watch 138 seconds take away. The door creaks open. The bell chimes delightfully. And there he is, peeking around the edge of the door, wearing a bashful smile. He is about three feet tall

with a striped t-shirt and cargo shorts that don't quite reach his knees. His hair is a blonder, longer version of Mark's. He has the flat nose of my father, and his green eyes are replicas of what I see in the mirror. He barely resembles the infant in the photos above the dresser, but I am sure it is him. Mark's eyes follow my gaze until they land on his son.

Then he climbs to his knees and chokes on his tear, He recognizes him too. Teddy meets me in the middle of the room and jumps into my embrace. Mark crawls to us and now we are both wrapped in his sinewy forearms. We are drenched in the tears of our family. It has been four minutes and 56 seconds since I entered this room, childless. It has been two weeks since the day my husband and son returned. In that time,

This room has transformed. The plants still stand in front of the window, but next to them are two beds, one large enough for two adults and the other child-sized. The yellow dresser is filled with clothes and two glass cages sit on top of it. In one cage, a mouse runs eagerly on a hamster wheel. In the other, a gecko sunbathes on a plastic perch.

The empty crib has been replaced by a disorganized corner full of toys, puzzles, and a TV for video games. We open the bedroom door as little as possible. He only comes out when the door is closed. My son is shrieking with wild joyfulness, holding a ball above his head. Skip runs tight circles around him and leaps for the ball. I have never loved a room so much. On the day Teddy came back, I got a call from Billy's wife.

She said that Billy had woken up just long enough to say goodbye. She said his suffering was over. She has no idea how right she is about that. Mark calls saying he has arrived, so I hugged Teddy goodbye. I tell him that I will be back soon and that I would die for him. I opened the door just long enough to let Mark in, carrying bags of takeout food and three plates. I closed the door behind him.

He barely has time to set the bags down before I leap into his arms, kissing his stubbly neck. While he plates the food, I sit in the rocking chair and watch the closet door. The timer starts now. Two minutes and 18 seconds. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-like licensing

or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.