Creepy - Memento Mori

Episode Date: June 24, 2024

I got a story for ya...***Written by: P.D. Williams***Content warning: descriptions of dead children***Bonus Episode: "The Fantastic Mr Barnard" Written by S.J. Budd and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content warning: child abduction***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 creepypastas 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 explicitness. Language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Memento Mori. Written by P.D. Williams. That's a good story, all right. But I can do you one better. Maybe even two.

I, sir, am a photographer of distinction. You see, unlike my colleagues here in the Southwest Frontier, I don't take pictures of sunsets, soldiers, or weddings. I take pictures of the dead. I often include live individuals in the photographs along with the departed, but mainly it's the deceased whom I am there to serve. In their grief, the bereaved want to have some kind of memento to remind them of happier days when everybody under their roof was alive and well.

They don't much care if it's an illusion or not. And here in the age of miracles, when most folks have never seen, much less heard of a camera, that creates a highly marketable demand. Taking photographs of anyone can be difficult. Just you try getting unruly children, sullen natives, or the unsophisticated folk who litter the planes to remain motionless for long stretches at a time. Ah, but the dead. they're easy to work with

they're compliant and calm and can sit for as long as necessary without complaining oh don't look at me like that I'm not a ghoul I know some folks will find my profession a tad dubious distasteful even

but death art has been around for quite some time statues pottery and coins have depicted images associated with deaths since the 16th century. Memento Mori is what it's called. The objects provide equity among the poor, the rich, the proud, and the humble. An immutable reminder that deaths will come for us all at some point.

They've translated the term into many tongues, but essentially it means, remember, you must die. As for the art of post-mortem photography, the regal Victorians begin to be able to and engaging in this sort of business a while back in merry old England. Some of those blue bloods brought the custom with them when they came to our sandy shores. After a few years, everybody wanted in on it, myself included. Now I have to admit, there's bad times when my dark work has overwhelmed me. As I snap photographs of each smiling corpse, I catch myself wondering about the tragic series of events that had led to their demise. Yes, sir, every customer has a story. And I've got a couple I'll share with you. But I warn you, they are tragic, dark, and gruesome.

I'll start with a one about Ellie Webb. It was about 1847 when I set aside my work in standard photography to pursue a more lucrative career doing post-mortem work. My first job was for a married couple named Edgar and Vera Webb. They lost their little girl to disease, a most gruesome and cruel disease, especially for a child. Ellie, who was ten at the time, had died of rabies. Pretty awful stuff. I was told hers was a long and painful demise. I promptly arrived after her passing.

She'd only been dead a day or two, but she was already putrefying. The smell made me gag, and had to keep reminding the mother that if the whole point of the photograph was to convey one big happy family, then she'd have to stop bawling. But in fairness, could you blame her? For the webs, it must have been difficult seeing their deceased child propped in a chair, with her alabaster skin and eyes painted on her closed eyelids to make them appear open. In a situation like that, how in the world do you create an illusion at all is well? Normal. Then again, that's what they hired me to do. As a child, Ellie had likely thought that she'd live forever.

Unfortunately, the raccoon had had something to say about that. Her parents had warned her many times not to wander too deep into the woods. But the call of her curiosity was too strong, so venture into the woods she did. The raccoon had probably looked harmless enough, cute even. I suppose Ellie couldn't resist holding him. Well, I don't have to tell you what happened next. Even though she'd likely known that something was wrong with the raccoon, she hid the bite mark on her lower arm from her parents and kept the attack to herself. My guess is she didn't want to face the consequences of her disobedience.

What child does. I don't know what kind of parents the webs were that their daughter feared their punishment over rabies. I've never had children in my own, so I can't say them fit to judge their parenting. But that's not important to the story. The girl had kept the incident in a secret for a couple of weeks by wearing long-sleeved shirts. But by the third week, the symptoms had become obvious. She experienced a fever and felt disoriented. The sight and sound of water agitated her.

She'd bark at it like a dog. Fearing the worst, webs loaded Ellie in the back of their wagon and took her to the town doctor. Thoreau, I think his name is. The doc had a difficult time examining Ellie at first. She became aggressive and had to be held down. Once they'd restrained her, the first thing he did was remove her shirt to check for sores or ticks. That's when they saw the bite mark. By that time, the area around the wound had become red and angry.

Puss was oozing from the raised rotten flesh. Smell must have been awful. By then, the disease had progressed through her brain. The doc said there wasn't anything he could do for Ellie and advised the webb to take her home and make her as comfortable as possible until the end. Oh, yes. The end. A better place where pain dies and mercy lives.

But for those poor parents watching Ellie's suffer on and on must have made him feel closer to the beginning than the end. As Ellie's condition worsened, she became significantly violent. When she wasn't screaming in agony, she flopped. wrapped around, whimpering like a sick animal. He said it took that girl almost a month to die. But before that happened, she did some terrible things. One night, Webb's noticed the conspicuous silence that had fallen over their house.

They looked at one another, wondering if the worst, or in Ellie's case, the best, it happened. Perhaps a compassionate God had allowed her to die at last. Mr. Webb told the Mrs. to stay put while he went to check on Ellie. As soon as he entered the girl's bedroom, he was startled to find that she'd broken free of her restraints and climbed out a window. He went to it and hollered Ellie's name repeatedly. Here in the ruckus, Mrs. Webb brushed into the room to see what was happening. The stained, empty bed, and the ripped strips of cloth tied to the bedposts told the story.

The Webb's ran outside, hoping to find her. They checked the barn first. Empty. They walked a short distance into the woods at the back of their property calling for her. Nothing. They reckon they needed some help, so Mrs. Webb drove their wagon into town to recruit the sheriff, Danny O'Hurleyhy, while her husband fetched a lantern to search the rest of the property. Mrs. Webb told me she flew into town as fast as she could make the horse's gun.

When she got there, she burst into the sheriff's office so forcefully he must have thought that a train had jumped its tracks and made a beeline to his front door. She said after she explained her quandary to Sheriff O'Hurley, he told her he'd need to assemble a search party to scour the deep woods, but that it takes some time to put a group together. They also needed to wait for daybreak, he said, his woods were too treacherous to navigate at night. that did nothing to ease her mind. Mrs. Webb returned home and relayed Sheriff O'Hurley He's planned to her husband. Like his wife, he was impatient and frustrated. Throughout that long night, Mr. Webb paced the porch, cursed in the sheriff's lack of urgency and praying for Ellie's safe return.

Mrs. Webb stayed inside, distracting herself with her knitting. When Don finally got around to show, showing up, Sheriff O'Hurley, he arrived with a ten-person search party. He instructed everyone not to venture too far away from one another, lest they get lost in the thick woods. When everyone was ready, Mr. Webb led him to the edge of the woods, and the search began in earnest. After a couple of fruitless hours, a woman's scream penetrated the muted woods. She wasn't difficult to locate.

She never stopped screaming. The mutilated corpse of an unlucky husband. hunter horrified the group. Several deep jagged bite marks covered his body. His missing face had been ripped off, grew quiet. They must have been thinking of the savage animal that had once been a sweet little girl who picked daffodils and sang in the children's choir. Some of the group had it back home.

They didn't care to end up being eaten alive by whomever or whatever devoured the hunter. I can't say whether any of them had been. felt relief or shame as they scurried back to safety. Probably a little of both. While Sheriff O'Hurley Hugh was directing the remaining volunteers, they heard gruntin and shuffling in the distance. O'Hurley He whispered everyone should remain in place while he went to investigate. Mr. Webb accompanied him. Mrs. Webb stayed behind.

I guess she didn't want to come across her baby acting like a hungry wolf. and gnawn its helpless prey down to its bone. Mr. Webb said he and the sheriff cautiously followed the sound, like hundreds stuck in their prey. When they came across Ellie devouring a rabbit, guts and all, he vomited as quietly as possible. He didn't want to ruin the sheriff's opportunity to take her. Oh, Hurley, he took off his jacket and stretched it out like a net.

He crept as if you were sneaking up on an angry bear. Mr. Webb heard the man's breathing from where he was standing. He said he'd never seen a man so scared. When O'Hurley, he was a few feet away from Ellie, he accidentally stepped on a stick, causing it to snap. To him, it must have sounded like a firecracker going off. Nellie spun around, catching him right-handed. She dropped the rabbit and lunged at him, knocking him flat on his back. Now, keep in mind that this fellow was a good six-foot and heavy to boot.

as Mr. Webb told it. Still, he said, Ellie flew into the lawman's chest like a cannonball, knocking him flat on his back. A hurley, he thrashed around, holding her off, keeping her from ripping him to pieces. She latched onto the fingers of his right hand with her teeth and shook her head back and forth

with an alligator doing a death roll. Mr. Webb said it literally scared him stiff as he watched the wild girl chew off some of the sheriff's fingers before going for his face. The man's shrieks were so shrill. Webb couldn't tell if they were coming from O'Hurley He or Ellie. Finally Mr. Webb overcame his paralysis and assisted the sheriff. He picked up a large rock near his feet.

He said he knew if he didn't do something. O'Hurley would die an awful death. He hesitated at first. After all, She was his baby girl But looking at the savage before him And thinking about the slaughtered victim And the other soon to come

He ran to the child And swung the rock at her head He said that he'd never forget the sound That rock connecting with her skull Like a sharp crack of a whip Mr. Webb said he wasn't sure If you ought to be thankful that she was still alive Or grieving because she hadn't died

Before becoming a violent beast He took off the shirt and used it as a tourniquet for what was left O'Hurley's hand. He was relieved when the search party found him. The posse tied up Ellie with some rope that somebody had been wise enough to bring. Then they each took turns carrying the unconscious sheriff out of the woods. The doctor ended up taking what remained of O'Hurley's hand. Worse, he couldn't do much about the infection that was coming his way.

I wonder if the heroic man ended his life before becoming like the thing who'd mulling. him. As for young Ellie, they took her back home and restrained her securely. Dr. Thoreau prescribed laudanum to ease her pain and to keep her semi-conscious, instructing her parents to administer the powerful drug regularly. By the end of the ravaging sickness, a child looked like a twisted skeleton. Despite her body's condition, the web's desire to final and fitting momento. That's when they heard about death photography. About me. Oh yes.

My best salesman has always been word of mouth. The mortician they'd hired took great care to make Ellie as presentable as possible. Lembering her joints, fixing her hair, applying rouge to her sunken cheeks. Mrs. Webb provided him with Ellie's favorite Sunday dress. She wanted everything just so. After they delivered the body, Mrs. Webb and her husband arranged the corpse on a lovely maroon velvet chair in the drawing room. That's where I first met Miss Ellie.

She was sitting up straight and proper, looking for the world like a living soul. My heart broke from Mr. Mrs. Webb. But after you've done this work for a time, you treat it like the job that it is. Make it professional, not personal, I always say. So I did my job, collected my feet. and moved on down the line. I started with the sad tale about the Webb family to prepare you for the more interesting tale. The wish you'd never told me tale.

You're probably not going to believe me. You must already think I'm some old drunk at the end of a bar shooting off his mouth. Well, let me assure you, my good man. Everything I'm about to tell you is as real as this whiskey in our glasses. One dry summer day, a prospective customer day, a prospective customer. Mr. Thomas Teach telegraphed me about a job offer in a small town nestled in eastern Nevada called Whitford. This would put us about two years ago. Seems a close relative of his recently lost his wife while she was given birth.

Her baby haven't died inside her. Seems a close relative of his had recently lost his wife while she was given birth. Her baby haven't died inside her. I replied that I'd take the job and then gave my... rough estimate of what my services and expenses were total. He promptly responded that money was of little importance and asked that I traveled to Whitford in my earliest convenience. I let him know to expect my arrival in a few days.

Mr. Teach met me at the train station. With his tailored suit and meticulously styled coal-black hair, he struck me as a well-to-do and refined intellectual. A bon vivant. courtesy of what my mother used to refer to his old money. He was erudite in both appearance and manner. He exuded confidence, a man unwaveringly in control of the things around him. No, these attributes created a measure of intimidation.

His face held the visage of kindness and warmth that I found soothing. Turned out he was an amalgam of a amalgam of a large of a momentary of. all those traits. It was literally a pleasure to meet him. I presume that with my luggage and small cases of equipment I'd be easy to pick out. He came to me and shaking my hand, introduced himself. I, of course, returned the courtesy. After some brief pleasantries, he guided me to his wagon. As we were loading my gear and luggage, he filled me in on the particulars. Some years earlier, his brother, Arthur, had fallen hopelessly and helplessly in love with a pretty strawberry blonde named Margaret Felton, whom everyone called Meg for short. Whereas the bloom often falls

from the rose not long after consummation, Arthur's and Meg's love had formed a beautiful garden. They'd been married for about a year when they decided it was time to have a baby. Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to be. Meg had been with child, for six months when one day something felt wrong in her stomach. She collapsed in pain, dropping into a puddle of her own blood. The husband had summoned a midwife. By the time she'd arrived, Arthur Teach was a childless widower. Thomas told me that the corpses were being kept on ice in a basement of the town's only

funeral parlor. He said he'd like me to accompany him there to determine if Meg was in good enough condition to be photographed. He never mentioned the child. I wondered about the omission, but decided it would be inappropriate to ask questions. I felt correct in assuming that the infant was likely to underdeveloped demerited place in the photograph. After agreeing to visit, I asked him to take me to the nearest hotel where I get checked in and acclimated before heading to the funeral parlor, which he did. The Harrington Hotel was a tasteful affair. A small brass plaque mounted beside the entrance bragged that the governor in Nevada had once stayed there.

I figured if it had been good enough for him, then it should be good enough for me. Besides, outside of a questionable-looking Bordenhouse further up the dusty street, it seemed like the best choice for comfortable accommodations. Once I settled in, we took Mr. Teach's wagon to the funeral parlor. I hope I'm not being untoward when I say that even in death, young Meg was a beauty to behold. She was a small, delicate thing. There was something about her face that made me think that she'd been kind and pleasant.

I told Mr. Teach that with some care and artistry from the mortician, she'd turned out fine in the photograph. The mortician assured as he'd properly embalmed. apply makeup and glue her eyes open. After finalizing the funeral arrangements, Mr. Teach and I left the man to his craft and took our leave. He dropped me off in my hotel, then said he talked things over with his brother about the photo session.

I told him to help his brother decide when and where he'd like me to take the picture and pose the body as they saw fit. He assured me that they'd be ready to go before my arrival. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, shook hands, and parted ways. I woke early the next morning, went downstairs, where I joined a few other guests in the dining room for one of the most scrumptious breakfast I've ever partaken. I was scraping the last remnants of my scrambled eggs onto my fork when the desk clerk came to me with a note from Mr. Teach concerning his brother's wishes for the session.

The widower had requested that I arrive around noon to see. set up my equipment in the front parlor. Ahead of my arrival, the undertaker, would deliver the body and pose her suitably. Mr. Teach finished by informing me that he would pick me up in front of the hotel just before noon. The noontime hour worked well for me. I found Whitford quite charming, wanted to see more of it. Folks, they were cordial and reasonably well-educated. With its treeline streets, lovely town square, and a bevy of inviting shops,

It was reminiscent of a career-knives print. The town was big enough to be interesting, but small enough to traverse in a few hours. I was ever the eager tourist, so I asked the hotel manager about points of interest I could visit when we're within walking distance. He kindly complied. With my itinerary planned,

I thanked the cook for the wonderful meal and set about my way. I enjoyed my stroll around Whitford. So much so that I lost track of time. Walking at a brisk pace, I made it back to the hotel early enough for a quick lunch before keeping my appointment. At the agreed-upon hour, I was waiting in front of the hotel with my photography equipment. Just as he said, Mr. Teach collected me, and we journeyed a short distance away to the widower's house. The small wooden house was lovely and simple. It was a white two-story Victorian-style home surrounded by a narrow,

wrap-round porch. A bright trail of flowers lined a short stone walkway that led to the front porch steps. Beside the dark wooded front door was a large stained glass window depicted in Jesus kneeling. He was looking heavenward, as if you were long in for either a touch from God or the splendor of heaven. Mr. Teach unlocked the door, then turned to me and said, I gave you warning, sir. My brother is a devout Lutheran and tends to be a tad austere. I assured him that I take no offense to his brother's behavior. He unlocked the heavy door and we went inside.

Upon entering I realized how clean the house smelled, like soap and flowers, but not overpowering. Tasteful furniture dotted the small entrance. Expensive rugs and carpets, covered tidy oak floors. Pictures and portraits adorned a wall that followed the staircase upwards. I assume the images were of family and old friends, both living and absent. Mr. Teach touched my elbow and asked me to follow him into a room directly to our right,

a parlor. The spacious room was a wash and a kaleidoscope, a colorful afternoon light filtering in through the ornate stained glass window. Something, as a photographer, I was pleased to see. See, seated on the settee to my left was lovely mag. The mortician had wrapped her strawberry blonde hair in a loose bun. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips straight as a plum line. He'd think the undertaker would have given her a smile.

She wore a formal white dress with match and panting leather shoes. Overall, the undertaker had done his job well enough, I decided. The other corpse was a different matter. Nessled in Meg's folded arms, wrapped in a blood-red blanket, was the dead baby. Unlike its mother, nothing looked natural about it. Its eyes were open and peering up at its mama. They were enormous and completely white. No irises or pupils.

Its nose looked like a wolf's muzzle. I cannot be certain. but I believe the thing had teeth behind its curled lips. Its mischapen head was a size of a large cantaloupe, perhaps bigger. I don't mean to offend, but it resembled a monster more than a child. I shivered as I imagined that perhaps a mother had died not from the rigors of a premature childbirth, but from the thing and her shifting belly ripping its way out. I felt guilty about thinking how the couple was better off not bringing that abomination into this world.

Teach must have noticed a look of revulsion on my face. He apologized for not informing me of the addition of the baby for the session. According to him, it had been his brother's idea. He'd tried to talk him out of it, but the grieving man had insisted on a final picture of the family that would no longer be. The infant's appearance notwithstanding. I reminded myself that I was there to take a picture or two and nothing more. But I have to say, of the dead bodies I've seen and touched,

I don't recall being as repulsed as I was then. I was in the midst of setting up my equipment when I heard another person enter the parlor. Standing next to Thomas was his bereaved brother, Arthur. He was a tall one with a slender face and a black, clasp. close-cropped beard. Those features, coupled with the scout body, put me in mind to Abraham Lincoln. But better looking. I stood and went to Arthur, extending my hand in courtesy.

I introduced myself and told him all sorry I was for his loss. The bland expression on his face didn't waver as he ignored my handshake. Oh, are you now? Was all he said. I didn't know how to respond to his lack of manners other than. to attribute it to his melancholy and austerity of which his brother had warned me. I chided myself for expecting the poor man to be in a mood for cordiality. Thankfully, Thomas broke through the awkwardness by asking me to show him my photography equipment.

Except in his cue, I said, of course. As we picked absently through the camera's apparatus, Thomas whispered his apologies. I'm very sorry for my brother. brother's rudeness, he said. I'm sure you can understand he's been through a lot recently. No offense taken, I assured him. I'll take my pictures as quick as I can so your brother can get back to grieving in peace. Thomas thanked me for my thoughtfulness, then joined his brother.

Okay, Arthur, he said to him. Let's move you over here in the corner to watch. Thomas jerked his brother to a far corner of the parlor and eased him down and a large wingback chair. It was like watching a store clerk arrange a mannequin. The solemn man's mouth held its scowl, and his eyes their cold emptiness. He said nothing. Didn't move an inch. Once he'd taken care of his brother, Thomas didn't seem to know what to do with himself, so I asked if I could trouble him for a glass of water. Once he'd left, I settled in under the black cover at the rear of the camera obscure.

Then I inserted the glass plate, focused the lens, and held the flash wand out and up. I was just about to begin the countdown to prepare Arthur for the bright flash when I stopped cold on my mother's sweet green eyes. I swear that devil baby's head was facing me instead of Meg. And if that image doesn't make your skin crawl, Meg's emotionless face, was now smiling. I know what you're thinking, so don't even start. I agree, either I hadn't paid enough attention when I first seen them or hadn't noticed Thomas or Arthur arranging the bodies in a more suitable pose

when I was setting up to camera. But, Mr. for the life of me, I'm pretty darn certain I would have noticed something as important as that. Anyhow, I took the picture and a couple more for good measure. Once I'd finished, I quickly packed up my gear and thanked the gentleman for their patronage and patience. I told him I'd developed plates back at the hotel, which thankfully had an indoor bathroom that would double nicely as a dark room. I added that the photograph would be ready the next morning.

We said our thank yous and goodbyes, then Thomas led me outside. After paying me, Thomas was kind enough to assist me and load my gear back onto his wagon before dropping me off in my hotel. Once there, he thanked me again and was about to leave when I said something I hadn't meant to. Perhaps the disturbing thought, which had been squirming around in my head since I'd left his brother's house, caused it before I could catch the words, I asked him about the poses. I don't want to keep you from your business, Mr. Teach, I said, but I have a question for you. Did you or your brother rearrange the bodies before I took the pictures? He gave me a curious look. No, I figured you had.

Is there a problem? No, sir, I said. It's merely that I can be a tad forgetful at times. I just want to make sure that you and your brother will be satisfied with the finished product. He smiled and said, I'm confident you'll provide us with a quality product. Mr. Leopold. When the picture is finished, leave it at the front desk, and I'll retrieve it first thing tomorrow.

Do enjoy your stay. Then he was gone. I had an early dinner, then proceeded to my room to develop the photographs. Once the pictures had dried, I picked out the better one, set it aside, and went to bed, though I don't know how I slept after my scare earlier that day. Now, normally I would have left the picture to be picked up, paid my hotel bed, and been on my way. But there was something about Whitford that I liked.

It felt more like home than my actual home. I figured it wouldn't hurt to stay an extra day. Who knew? Maybe some more business opportunities would fall my way. As I said, my best salesman has always been word of mouth. And I knew the teachers would be satisfied with my work. The next morning I came back from a pleasant walk through the town and found that Mr. Teach had been by to collect the picture.

The desk clerk said that Mr. Teach had been delighted with the product. I was pleased that he was pleased. Another happy customer. Good for both of us. The following night, I was at a local saloon tip in my elbow and enjoying a steak and potato when Thomas Teach wandered in. I say wandering, because he looked lost and thunderstruck. shuffling more than walking.

He sighed a lip to the bar and ordered a double shot of brown liquor. He threw it back and one thirsty gulp then ordered another. Thomas Teach had struck me as a man of prominence and refinement, a man not given to frequenting such establishments. His presence and odd behavior perplexed and concerned me. I rose from my table and joined him at the bar. He seemed completely unaware of my presence. Mr. Teach, I said.

He didn't answer, but looked ahead at something that only he could see. It isn't so. It isn't so. It was what he kept mumbling. When I touched his shoulder, he yelp like a frightened dog, as he teetered on the edge of falling off his barstool. He was huffing, as though he'd run a mile uphill. Well, his eyes darting around the room before locking with my own.

Took him a moment to recognize me. Uh, Mr. Leopold, he stammered. Sorry I didn't recognize you. I'm quite distressed, as you've no doubt surmised. That's putting it mildly, I told him. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you'd like to talk about? He looked down at his shaking hands.

You know, Mr. Leopold, I don't believe I ever want to talk about this to anyone. I assured him, look, your business is your business, I said. But I'll be leaving tomorrow. I doubt our paths will ever cross again. Your worry is safe with me. Think about it. Who am I going to tell?

Well, thought about it he did. I suppose you're right, Mr. Leopold. After all, you're the one who brought this about, so I might as well tell you. That statement brought him my full attention. How was that again? I asked. The next thing I knew, he had me by my collar, panting. His eyes looked desperate and terrified. His face was so close to mine, I smelled the bourbon on his breath.

Where did you get that camera, Mr. Leopold? Where? I told him I didn't know what he meant. Why is that important? I asked him. He let go on my caller, then said, That's no typical camera, sir. It brings the dead to life.

What was I supposed to say to that? The dead brought back from the great beyond. I needed no more. Where was he going with this? I have to say he'd piqued my interest. After all, I'd never talked to a madman before. But I also considered his condition, horrified and confused with wild eyes like an enraged animal. I felt a bit of guilt for being the source of his anguish, his terror.

I figured I owed him my audience, so I indulged him. I told him I'd purchased the camera obscure a few years back, from a reputable seller. I added that I'd taken many photographs and had no supernatural experiences with it. Still, he was anxious. Wouldn't stop glaring at me with those wide, frightened eyes. And you've had no issues with those people after they received their photographs? I assured him again that, to the best of my knowledge, none of my clients had spoken of any unusual

occurrences. You're lying to me! Stop lying to me, he hollered. The other patrons were looking at us, wondering what the ruckus was about. I guess Teach realized he was the source of their curious stairs, so he settled down. My interests further wedded, I asked him to tell me what had happened, to give him the idea that my pictures had resurrected the dead. What I'm about to share with you is nearly word for word what he told me.

He said, As you know, I retrieved the photograph you'd taken of my brother's wife and child. I went to the general store, purchased a tasteful frame, and returned to his house. Soon after I got there, I tucked the photo into the frame and placed it on the mantle in his study. When my brother entered and saw it, he began crying. I'd never seen him that distraught. Even after he lost Meg and the baby, I fully believe. I believe that was when he fully accepted that the photograph was all he'd ever be able to see of them.

At that moment, I was glad I'd hired you. I comfort him as best I could, then returned to my home. Later that evening, my brother's housekeeper, Caroline, showed up in my door, visibly shaken. She was pale and shivering, as though she'd seen a ghost. I invited her inside, but she refused. when I asked her reason for her distress, she said it was my brother. Teach stopped his story, threw back a shot, then ordered another. He sat quietly for so long.

I wondered if he had the courage or desire to continue. He pulled in a deep, shaky breath before returning to his tail. Apparently, he said, Caroline had been cleaning upstairs when she heard people laughing and talking. She didn't recall seeing any visitors when she first arrived, so she was curious. As she was making her way downstairs, she said she distinctly overheard my brother and a woman conversing. By the time she reached the door to Arthur's study, she realized to her horror that the voice of the woman was Meg's. She'd heard it a hundred times. Despite her reluctance, she knocked on the door, and the voices ceased.

She said that Arthur opened the door and demanded to know why she'd interrupted him. She looked past him and saw the photograph of Meg and the baby on his desk. She didn't look at it for long. The mere sight of the monstrous child unnerved her. She mentioned to Arthur that she thought she had heard voices inside the room. Her observation annoyed him, so did not surprise her when he told her to mind her own business and leave him be. she said he slammed the door so hard the floor shook. Caroline returned upstairs to continue her cleaning.

That's when she heard the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. Only it wasn't quite right. Abnormal was how she described it. She compared it to a combination of an infant and a hissing snake. Despite her apprehension, Caroline returned to the study as quietly as she could manage. She was going to knock again but decided against it. She wanted, needed, to know what was going on in that room. She summoned her courage and eased the door open.

Teach paused the second time, as if you were deciding whether to continue as a count or forget it altogether. Please continue, I prodded. He got that faraway look again and then resumed his story. In her effort to recount the event, Caroline became adjutant. and increasingly delirious. She vacillated between a childish giggle and a cackle of a lunatic. When she finally spoke, her voice was high-pitched and infantile, a baby's jabber.

She said that when she stepped into the room she was horrified at the sight of... I was on pins and needles at that point, eager to hear the rest about what the babbling housekeeper had seen. So I asked, what? What did she see, Mr. Teague? each. Man turned white as sugar. Arthur wasn't alone, he muttered. Joining him near the fireplace was Meg,

just as she'd appeared in the photograph right down to her wide eyes and unnatural smile. The sight had been enough to freeze Caroline in place. But what had terrified her beyond words was the baby Meg was holding. It wasn't dead, but alive. Terrifyingly and inexplicably, alive. It peered at Caroline and licked its purple lips. All she remembered after that was fleeing from the house like a horse escaping a burning barn.

After telling her story to me, she began weeping and shrieking. I begged her to come inside so that I might attend to her. But she wouldn't stop wailing. I insisted that she allowed me to take her to her home. It was quite some distance and she was without her horse, which she left back at the house's barn. No, she bellowed. Then took off running into the night, screaming.

My word, the screaming. It was the sound of madness and horror. Teaches silence returned. It looked terror-stricken. He waved the bartender over to refill the shock glass. Then he threw back his fresh shot of bourbon and allowed it to calm him before he continued. soon after Carolyn left. I went to Arthur's house and found the front door open, something I attributed to Caroline's hasty retreat.

I wandered in and called out to Arthur. When he failed to respond, I called again, this time louder. The house was silent as a grave. Uneasiness blanketed me. I damned the creaking floors I ventured cautiously to his study and looked inside, a statue was and as still as teach was in that moment. appearing into that parlor must have been like looking into hell and having hell looking back at you. Judging by his behavior, I couldn't help but think about how fitting it would be if you were wearing a straitjacket.

It was as if some terrible force had sucked his soul from his body and tossed it into a hellish hole. I wanted to know what had happened next. What could have brought about this much blind horror to a sane and reasonable man? Once more I prompted him. What happened next, Mr. Teach? When he continued, I had leaning close. In a weak whisper, he finished his ghost story. I walked into the study.

Arthur wasn't there. As I moved further, I noticed the framed photograph resting on the edge of his desk. I went to take it and return it to its spot on the mantle. Without warning, a cold phantom wind blew through me. It felt like an icy hand had invaded my stomach, tearing away at my bowels. I inched towards his desk. I picked up the photograph and looked at it. I was shocked to see Arthur seated on the set.

He was Meg and that awful child. I couldn't understand how he could have possibly gotten there. As I peered at that frightful photo, I noticed something else. something less sinister but chilling just the same. Arthur had always been a dour man. But in the picture, he was smiling more brightly than I'd ever seen him do before. So was Meg. You would have thought it was a perfect family photo if only the creature cradled in her arms

weren't leering with its bulging white eyes and bearing what looked like dogs' teeth. I was tightly walloned like a coiled spring, so it didn't help. when I heard footsteps descending the staircase. I believed that I was only soul in the house. I called out, hello! But I only heard those slow, heavy footfalls coming toward me. My rational mind told me to investigate the source of the sound, but my deepest sensing sense, danger, and horror.

My primal mind bellowed at me to lock the door to the study. I tried to lock it, but my quaking hands were so slippery with sweat that it took a couple of frantic attempts to engage the lock. Deep paused, licked his dry lips, then drew a couple of quick breaths before going on. Ominous footsteps shuffled down the hall, stopping at the study's door. I heard a high-pitched growling, something between a baby's coup and an angry cat. I was grateful for the door, which is serving as a barrier between whatever horror waited on the other side of it and me. I felt the ghost nearly leave me, as I watched the door knobs.

slowly twisting. I backed away from the door until I bumped into Arthur's desk. The mild force was enough to topple the terrible picture resting on it. Though a large part of me did not want to, I took hold of the frame and lifted it to my face. Something had changed. Teach closed his mouth so tight I saw his jawbones clenching through the skin. The words to describe what had happened next seemed trapped in his mouth with fear. I took care not to rattle him, as he was on edge to the point of running screaming from

the establishment. Softly, I said. What was in the photograph, Mr. Teach? His head wavered as if it was on the verge of disconnecting from his neck and plummeting to the floor. I've never seen a person's lips turn blue who wasn't at a point of hypothermia. But his was as blue as the sky. They trembled when he spoke.

Nothing. Nothing but an empty city, he said. They all had disappeared, but I knew where they were. They were gathered at the study's door waiting to be let inside. I have no recollection of feeling my body or emotions at that moment. Then, as if against my will, I stepped to the door and opened it. They were reaching. They...

Teach said no more. I waited for him to finish, but the look of lost rationality was all over his blank face. He said all he was going to say, able to say. We sat there in an uncomfortable silence until the bartender inquired if he'd enjoy another drink. I'll recall for all my days the next moment. Ignoring the bartender. Teach rose from his seat and turned to me. He was grinning, but it was.

It wasn't natural, human. It was as though Thomas Teach had left his body, bequeathing it to a demonic replica. He lifted his regal chin and said, Remember, you must die. Then he casually adjusted his gentleman's tie and plotted solemnly out of the bar, as if you were a pallbear escorting a casket to its eternal home in the dirt. The next morning I took the train back to my home here in Mesa. During that troubling journey, I couldn't get teach off my mind.

I distracted myself, reading, like conversation with my fellow passengers, forcing my thoughts elsewhere. But as night settled over the land, the other folks slept tranquilly, leaving me alone with the frightening memories I collected in Fair Whitford. Here it is, over two years later, and I'm still pondering. Still spooked The sheriff of that quaint little town sent me a letter a few days ago That's why I'm here tonight In this fine establishment

Where good times are celebrated And bad ones forgotten I'll explain Morbid curiosity got the better in me one day I had to know what had happened to teach After his dance with the devil So I wrote to the sheriff In his letter to me

He shared the details concerning Thomas Teaches' state of being. According to him, Teach had moved into his brother's house, leaving his own to fall into a state of disrepair and decay. Because he seldom ventures out, no one knows how he finds food. He likely lives off the rats, or so do I say. Occasionally he walks the streets of Whitford, whistling an indecipherable tune that has no structure or melody. His meticulously quaffed black hair

has grown into a long, unkempt tangle That is now in a bullion white A stained made of beard conceals the handsome face That now exists only in my mind's eye I'm told he still wears the fancy tailored suit I last saw men Though now it's ragged and filthy His fingernails are long and cracked His hands like skeletal claws

As for Arthur Meg and the demon child No one knows where they disappeared to And no one ever will Except for a deranged housekeeper Poor old Thomas And me And now you, I suppose The sheriff stops by to check on the property from time to time

And he's a long since stopped checking on Thomas Teach He says teach is always inside that terrible terrible place, scuttling down the dusty halls like a lost spider, mumbling that final line over and over. Remember, you must die. Remember, you must die. Remember, you must die. That letter chilled me, all right. But it's the last part of it that makes me afraid to be by myself sometimes.

The sheriff told me that whenever anyone walks near the teach house, they always. was here the same thing. Thomas is mad babbling in the laughter of other people. That, and the bone-chilling sound is something snarling and crying. Well, my good man, I think this last drink does it for me. I'm sorry if I bored you. My goal was to entertain you. Maybe frighten you a smidge as well.

Either way, thanks for listening to my odd stories. Now, if you'll give you. me pardon, I have to get on home and grab a little shut-eye. I'm leaving from a real old tomorrow morning to take pictures for a family who's dog recently passed. You see, I don't do people anymore. The money isn't as good, but it gives me peace of mind. I've never heard tell of a dog or cat coming back from the dead.

For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, the fantastic Mr. Barnard. Written by S.J. Bud. And narrated by Rissamontanez. I always thought we were so lucky to have Mr. Barnard as a teacher. We all loved him, as did the children, invigorating them with a thirst for knowledge and a desire to push themselves further into the throes of life. Through him, they saw the world as infinite, waiting to be dove into headfirst. My son, Billy, came home each afternoon itching with stories to tell. He held my hand tight as we walked down Black Horse Hill towards home. Mr. Barnard, Billy said, was born in South Africa, and he'd lived all over the world. He'd spent time in America,

Italy, France, Australia, Peru, Colombia, literally anywhere you can think of. Mr. Barnard defied mathematics. The way Billy described Mr. Barnard, you'd have thought he'd lived many lifetimes. I only got to see him at 3 p.m. when he opened the door to the classroom and dismissed his year three class one by one with sparkle and pizzazz. The other teachers were worn out, pale, and drawn, but not Mr. Barnard.

He was fantastic. My son was always the last. last to come out. He'd take his time finding his water bottle from his tray and his Minecraft lunchbox from the rack. They would have one last chat before saying goodbye. Whenever I asked, Billy would never say what they had been talking about, but he would talk about other things. On the way home, Billy showed me his left knee from under his shorts. That day during lunch, he had performed a career-defining save in a game the football, but his knees were rendered inoperable. Mommy, there was skin hanging loose, and my leg was about to fall off.

A kindly playground supervisor had taken a quick glance and swooped him up into her arms, but she never made it to the school nurse. Mr. Barnard appeared beside her. He took Billy from her, holding him like a little bird, and carried him back inside the classroom. My son told me that his teacher said some words and to look at what he did. I smiled and ruffled the tufts of his hair. He sounds magical. He smiled up at me in agreement, telling me that he was. He really was. Often, he would take them away for a trip. There would be a message on class dojo informing us of what to pack for their trip.

Mr. Barnard was never short on imagination. It never ran out, just like his stamina and enthusiasm for the craft of teaching. One day, they had been to Peru for the day, trekking the mountains looking for a red-flowered plant that Mr. Barnard needed for his other work. When my son got home from school, he told me they were there for three months. He knew, because he counted the sunsets and got 87. All in one school day? He slyly smiled and whispered that he was magic. The school year wound on, and I began to worry about the impending summer holiday.

Billy didn't know yet he would only have Mr. Barnard for one year. By September, he'd be in someone else's class, and I knew that not just his schoolwork, but his outlook on life would diminish. He would mourn for Mr. Barnard. like he mourned the passing of Rufus, our beloved Jack Russell. One May afternoon, Billy came bursting out of his classroom holding a coveted slip of paper in his right hand. There was to be a school trip to Botany Bay.

Mr. Barnard was going to pay for it himself. School funds were at an all-time low. Mr. Barnard said it was the very least they deserved for all their hard work. I was the first parent to offer help with this trip. I wanted to be just like him. I wanted Billy to think I was the most magical person in the world. Secretly, I had been very jealous of the devotion served to him. Mr. Barnard duly accepted my offer.

The coach car was hot, and I worried I would be sick, but within moments of settling off for Botany Bay, Mr. Barnard had us all singing. He stood at the front of the coach, waving his arms like a conductor. He was mesmerizing, and his eyes twinkled like I imagined Santa's wood. He was so hypnotic, I didn't realize it first. I was singing songs without knowing the words. They were in a different language, but the kids had no problem singing at the tops of their little lungs.

Some of the children sang high, and some sang low, and the effect was orchestral, each part working together to create a force that left me dizzy. My eyes then began to feel very heavy, and Mr. Barnard clicked his fingers together when he saw me falling under. I woke up on the sofa, in my home. My head was still ringing with the sound of the children singing,

but I was not on the coach car making its way to Botany Bay, nor was I on the beach. But at home. I ran to the school, but it was a wasted effort. The coach wasn't there. The coach never made it back to the school. For a few hours, it was a mystery. Then it darkened into a tragedy.

An entire class of children disappeared into thin air. I began to rethink the stories Billy had told me about Mr. Barnard. I thought about it for years. We rebuilt our lives in the only way we knew how to. My husband and I had more children. Two more, but they were both girls. We ran out of time for a third. I cherished Marnie and Mirabelle,

but all I felt when I looked at them was my darling Billy. I ached for him with the pain of severed limbs. If you don't have kids, it's impossible to describe that pain. There are circumstances. is much worse than your own death. The police did everything they could, but they were never found.

Mr. Barnard had gone missing, too. A warrant was issued for his arrest, but efforts were futile. He had disappeared along with our children. But then, 30 years later, I saw him in Whitechapel, only appearing slightly older, he stood at the center of a crowd of people dressed rather like Sherlock Holmes with a

houndstooth deer stalker hat and a black pipe that emitted a noxious smoky air. I moved closer and closer to him until I was engulfed in the group of people surrounding him. It appeared he was now a guide. His specialty. As Jack the Ripper, he beckoned me over, calling me by name and asking me, me to join them. He even remembered my name, as if it were only yesterday, that he had seen me. When the tour concluded, I remained beside him. He coldly asked me if I was still wondering about what happened to Billy. I shot back my answer that he had taken him from me.

He smugly stated that he had never took Billy, but that Billy followed him willingly. I was done with this conversation and reached for my phone, venom spilling out of my mouth as I told him that I was calling the police. He waved his hand dismissively at me, and made a patronizing face while saying that I would never know what happened to him if I did call. I eyed him suspiciously. Know what? I asked. He got up and motioned for me to follow,

telling me that he could take me to him right now, but this time I can't fall asleep. I followed him. There was no choice. He walked slightly ahead of me, raising his arm high as a marker when the crowds began to surge. We walk through the unknown streets casting long shadows. The buildings ahead of us changing into spires and domes of alien architecture

I had never seen before in London. The people here wore thick black coats with their chins furrowed in their collars, just to catch the slightest comfort of warmth. They did not talk in the streets, which fell silent as we walked. They hurried everywhere, burrowing deep indoors and locking the doors and windows. We had crossed through somewhere. The skies turned red and cold. Bitter winds lashed my face, scouring my cheeks.

There were no sunrises in this place. Only a deep, lasting, twilight. Everything was gray, and my eye searched for any hint or hue of color, but soon the cold drew me to keep my eyes down on my feet. I had come so far. I could only follow just a little more. Mr. Barnard came out into a square. He motioned for me to carry on, stating that he would go no further. Where's my billy? He gestured to this new cityscape. He whispered goodbye to me, raised his hat, and went away, and now I was one of the disappeared. This new London was cold and red. The sun in the sky seemed completely unreachable. It was London, but not a London I had ever known.

And I never found my Billy. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherrillite licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.