Creepy - Mimic & My Arachne

Episode Date: May 30, 2024

Mimic***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***My Arachne***Written by: Wailana Kalama and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Content warning: SPIDERS!***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing 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 explicit language. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Mimick.

Written by no one of consequence. And narrated by Owen McCune. This is going to come off wrong, but the pandemic was a godsend for me. I know it's wrong to think something so horrible could be a good thing, but it accomplished something I'd been trying to get done for years.

Social distancing changed everything. and my request to do my job remotely, which would have been easily accomplished from day one, was finally approved. Granted, they had to do it for everyone to keep the company going, but I wasn't complaining. No, that didn't come until they started bringing people back in after the crisis slowed down, but I fought to stay remote. It hasn't been easy, but I managed to keep my boss from forcing me to come back into the office. Between my claims of developing a germ phobia and my online therapist diagnosing,

me with agoraphobia, well, they can't really force me to come back in. Now, if my work output starts going down or isn't of satisfactory quality, then I could be in trouble, but I'm still doing stellar work. She even had someone analyze my output, and since I started working remotely, my productivity has increased by 37.6%. Bringing me back in would only decrease that. Thanks to the Internet and damn near every worthwhile concern. consumer-based business being online, I literally have no reason to leave my apartment.

You'd think I'd have to, at the very least, take my trash out. But my complex actually has a concierge service that brings me my mail, packages, and deliveries, as well as takes my garbage. It's not like they come into my apartment to do this. I simply leave my trash can outside my door with the bag tied off, and someone comes to pick it up. Next to my front door is a small table, and I even had the maintenance crew bolted to the so it doesn't go wandering. This is specifically for any and all deliveries I have coming to me. From groceries and takeout, all the way to mail and packages, it all gets left on that table.

I haven't had to go to the store for anything since the lockdown. I even subscribed to one of those meal box services that teaches me how to make chef-level meals. The only time I have to deal with actual people is when something needs attending in my apartment that I can't do myself. The maintenance crew consists of four very nice people who are paid well enough to accommodate the residents and their personal foibles. Also, when they have to come inside, I tip them depending on how little interaction I have with them. Typically, I'll lock myself in my home office while they're here after I've shown them whatever problem I've been having.

After having my morning coffee, I dress for the day. I don't just go into my home office in my pajamas like a lot of people did during the lockdown. I dress in a button-up shirt and slacks. And it's not just because I have to do a video call with my boss every morning. One of the issues with everyone working remotely was that they were too comfortable, and it slowed down their productivity. They were surrounded by distractions and creature comforts of home. I don't have that issue.

My home office is set up rather similarly to the office I had at work, minus the mini-fridge and coffee maker. I do take coffee breaks now and eat my lunch in my kitchen. but I don't abuse the privilege like my coworkers did. I've even given my boss a virtual tour of my workspace and do so at least once a month. It's always at random and at my boss's request to make sure I'm not doing what so many others did,

anything to make sure I don't have to go back into the office. As I sit at my workstation and make my daily video call, a ping on my wall panel alerts me to someone's presence outside my front door. The panel is the size of a regular digital tablet, and I can see the video feed from my chair. Someone in a blue vest is placing a few boxes on the small table outside. I recently made some purchases online, and if I remember correctly, there should be four boxes. Speaking to my boss in video chat is a lot easier for me than it was when we did this in person. By not being in the same room as another person, I feel less anxious and can compose myself in a professional man.

It helps me open up to my therapist a lot more, too. Dr. Finn likes to think of it as an improvement, though at this point he wishes I was making more strides. The call lasts about half an hour, the usual length. I have my action item points mapped out for my workload today. The first item is getting a fresh cup of coffee. Normally, I'd wait a little longer for this, but I want to get my packages inside. As the coffee maker does its thing, I open a little bit of coffee. in the door and grab up my boxes. There's actually five of them, not four like I initially thought,

which I find odd. I give the labels a quick glance, and sure enough, they're all addressed to me. Leaving them on the island counter, I doctor my coffee and return to my office. It's not like there's anything I'm overly eager to get at in my packages. It's mostly clothes and a new pillow. As soon as I get back to my workstation, I dive right into work. Having an action items list makes getting through my workload so easy. It can take anywhere from 20 minutes to two hours to check off an item, depending on what it is. It's all relatively easy and pretty boring, but I enjoy the work.

Today's list has just over a dozen items, and I blow through more than half of it by lunchtime. As my meal is heating in the microwave, I decide to open my boxes. The plain-colored T-shirts and pants get tossed into the washer, and my new pillow with the new pillow case, gets put into my bedroom. I break down the four boxes and put them in my recycle bin

as the microwave dings at me. After eating, I grab a soda from the fridge on my way back to work. As I turn, my eyes are drawn to the island. Something seems off about the blank granite countertop, but I can't figure out what. Running my hand over the smooth surface, I confirm with my eyes see. There's nothing on it.

So why does it look wrong? I stand there for a few moments, my mind not comprehending. As my hand rests on the oddly warm counter surface, I get hit with a sudden wave of tiredness. It's so odd and immediately causes me to yawn. Out of habit, I take my hand off the counter and cover my mouth as it gapes open. Noise comes from down the hall, and it startles me.

It's the sound of a video chat request, which is really odd. Only one person calls me like that at this time of day, and I can't remember the last time my boss called me in the middle of the day. This can't be good. Shrugging off the weird feeling, I moved down the hall and pick up my phone. Of course, it's my boss, and as soon as she starts talking, I groan, knowing exactly what this is about.

Company policy mandates that every employee needs to use their vacation time. I've always thought that made sense, but for those that actually leave. their home. Since I have nowhere to go, I don't feel the need to take time off. This is a fight I have with her every year, but it usually comes toward the end of the year. Starting at 5 o'clock today, I am officially and unarguably on vacation, which sucks. Vacation is nothing more than a reminder that there's more to this world in my apartment. The problem is, I have no desire to go out there, which is something my therapist has been seriously trying to break me from. He wants to once asked me, if your apartment was on fire, would you flee to safety? Or would you allow yourself

to burn to death because you feared going outside? I told him that I'd go outside. I didn't say convincingly. Not even a little bit. The most I've done since the lockdown is go out on my balcony, but it helps that I'm three floors up. That, and I can't see the balcony next to mine, because of a wall that separates them. When five o'clock hits, I sign off my workstation, and power it down. I go into the kitchen, pull a beer from the fridge, and toss the cap into the recycle bin. After taking a long pull, I pull back the curtain covering the balcony door and open it. The air is significantly warmer than inside, with a noticeable humidity level. Why the hell do people go out in this? It's so much nicer inside. Telling myself that I won't have to interact with anyone,

I step outside. The clouds blanket the sky. threatening rain, but not a drop has fallen yet. I can hear the sounds of people below, children at the pool. I'd wanted a unit on the other side of the complex, toward the back and away from the amenities area, but there wasn't one available at the time. The closer I get to the edge, the more of that area below comes into view.

It takes about a minute, but I finally make it to the half wall. I'm grateful that it isn't just a metal railing like a lot of balconies. have. The most time I spent out here at once was five minutes, and I only managed that because I sat on the floor where no one could see me. It was a remarkable improvement from the first time I ventured out here. Someone was out on their balcony across the way, saw me and waved. It was so unexpected and freaked me out enough that I didn't go back out for a month. Dr. Finn has been encouraging me to do this at the end of every workday, but now that's too much for me. The most consistent I've been about it is every Friday for the last two months.

Seriously, fresh air is overrated. I lean against the half wall with my back to the world and finish my beer. By the time the bottle is empty, I'm drenched in sweat, and little of that is because of the humidity. I'm so anxious that my heart is practically in my throat. Still, I walk slowly back inside, instead of hurrying like I'd like to do. It's times like this that make me wonder why I bother. There isn't anything that'll make me want to go back out into the world. I have no desire for companionship, and I'm not afflicted with a sex drive.

So, what's the point? After taking a shower, I dress in a t-shirt and linen pants, my standard attire. I go into the kitchen and prepare one of those chef-box meals. It takes about half an hour, but it's the best tacos I've ever had. Once all the dishes are in the dishwasher, I relax on the couch and watch some TV. As I sit there, I can actively feel my energy level dipping.

It's a weird sensation, making me suddenly feel like I just did a couple hours on my running pad. When I get this tired, I get irritable. Within moments, the program on TV annoys me for something insignificant, and I click the remote to change it. Only nothing happens. I clicked the home button on the remote for the third time, but again, the TV continues to play the program. My irritability ramps up from this, and I angrily mash the buttons on the remote, but it accomplishes nothing. For some reason, the remote feels incredibly heavy compared to how it normally feels, and I drop it on the coffee table.

It clatters hard, making it sound heavier, too. The last time I dropped it like that, it bounced in the back panel. came off, but not this time. Didn't I just change the batteries in this damn thing a few weeks ago? It takes considerable effort, but I get my tired ass off the couch, and I shuffle into the kitchen. Opening the utility drawer, I find a pair of AAA batteries and trudged my way back to the couch. I reached toward the coffee table for the remote, but it's not there. Looking around, I see it sitting on the arm of the couch. I could have sworn I left it on the table, but with as tired as I am, I can't be certain. I pick up the source of my irritation

accidentally hitting one of the buttons in the process. Suddenly, the TV is muted. Not only that, but the remote feels lighter than it did a minute ago. For some reason, the remote is working perfectly fine now. Turning off the TV, I shuffle my way into my bedroom and plop on the bed. The sheets are so soft and inviting that I don't bother to change into my sleeper. tire. My new pillow is light and fluffy, a cloud in which to lay my head on. I'm out like a light in record timing. I wish I knew why I was suddenly so tired. Dr. Finn suggested that my agoraphobia may be coupled with depression, and that would explain this onslaught of tiredness. My only problem with that is I don't feel depressed. I'm perfectly content in my own little world here, and it makes me

happy. At some point in the night, I turned from lying on my back to my side. The blanket on top of me feels very heavy, like one of those weighted blankets I've seen advertised, but I don't own one. My exhaustion level increases, and I drift off to sleep again, practically passing out. Maybe there was something in those tacos that's doing this to me. It's the only explanation my tired mind can come up with. By the time my body's had enough of lying in bed, I struggled to get up. Never in my life have I been so exhausted, especially after sleeping the dreamless sleep of the dead. The first thing I do is go into the bathroom and take my temperature. It doesn't happen often, but on the rare occasions I get sick, I often feel weak and out of sorts. Not anything like this level of crappy,

but what else could it be? If I was vomiting and nearly crapping myself, I'd think the time tacos gave me food poisoning. My temperature is a little low, but that's about it. I turn on the shower to full heat and strip off my sleep clothes. After a leisurely 20-minute shower under extremely hot water, I actually feel a little better. As I lean against the wall and let the spray cascade over me, I swear I see movement through the open door. Poking my head out of the shower door, I look at my bed through the bathroom door, but it looks no. normal. The top sheet is a little more disheveled than I thought it was before, though.

Once I'm dried off and dressed in a clean shirt and pants, I go into the kitchen, I get myself some breakfast. Coffee, yogurt, and some fruit should help me feel a little more normal. As I dip a strawberry into my Greek yogurt, my phone rings with a new email. I immediately pick up my phone. The only emails I receive that my phone notifies me of are VIP emails. It's probably my boss reminding me that I'm on vacation and warning against me trying to log in on my work computer. This email is from Dr. Finn, and the subject line asks if I received the package he sent me. My brain is still slow this morning, but I remember the four packages I got yesterday were all

from the same retailer. Considering how tired I am and how forgetful I can get in this kind of state, I get up to look at my recycling box. As I start pulling out the broken down boxes, something occurs to me. Didn't I bring in five boxes yesterday? I'm really confused because there are only four boxes here. But now that I think of it, I'm certain I brought in five.

As I put the boxes back into the bin, my eyes catch sight of an anomaly. There's a second label on one of the boxes, and sure enough, it's from Dr. Finn. This doesn't make any sense. That box was from the same retailer as the others. and has a label on it to prove it. Looking at this second label, I see this perfectly affixed to the box like the others. There's no evidence that it was peeled away from one box

and stuck to this one, so what gives? Sitting down on my couch, using a throw pillow to prop up the arm that doesn't have an armrest, I opened the email. I really don't know what to make of it. Dr. Finn says that he's tried every conventional way to get me out of my apartment, but after years of work,

the balcony is the closest I'll get. determined to get me to change, he shipped me something he believes will motivate me to step foot outside my front door, something called a mimic. What I read next sounds like something out of a fairy tale. A mimic is a small creature that can take on the shape of small objects. It disguises itself as something a person is prone to touching. And once someone does touch it, the creature begins to drain their energy. Once it attains a certain level of energy from one person, it becomes more animated.

This means it will desire more energy, and by this point, it will take it more by force. He signs off the email with, If this doesn't get you out of the apartment, then nothing will. I sit there for a few moments, blankly staring at my phone. This can't be real, right? Doctors don't send their patients potentially dangerous things in the freaking mail, especially something that can't possibly be real. Is he trying to screw with me

and get me so paranoid that I'll leave the safety of my apartment by turning it into a hostile environment in my head? Dr. Finn has never played mind games like this before, and even though it explains why I feel so crappy, it can't possibly be real. Pain erupts up my arm as teeth sink into the flesh and muscle.

The pillow I've been resting my arm on suddenly has teeth and is trying to take a bite out of me. I scream, as I try to throw it off me, but those teeth are gripping with a fierce determination. I slam it against the coffee table a few times, and it finally loosens enough for me to throw it against the wall. It hits with the hard thump of something more substantial than a throw pillow. I should have known something was wrong from the get. I don't have any throw pillows on my damn

couch. I lose sight of the pillow once it hits the floor, but I can hear it scrambling along the floor, going into the kitchen. I wrap a hand towel around my bleeding arm and grab up my largest sturdiest knife. My heart races as I flip on the light switches, flooding the entire area with as much light as I can. Some undefinable shape scurries down the dark hall toward my office and bedroom, leaving me the perfect opportunity to flee the apartment. The question is, do I finally do what Dr. Finn has been trying to get me to do for years? Or do I stay and fight? This is my freaking apartment, my sanctuary against the world that's far too loud and full of people, a lot of which don't have enough common sense to look up from their phones when crossing a street.

One way or another, I have to go down that hall. Either I fight the creature and reclaim my home, or I leave. The problem is, my shoes are in my bedroom. And if I'm going outside, I sure as hell am not going out barefoot. God damn you, Dr. Finn! Creepy presents My Arachny Written by Waylana Kalama

And narrated by Cole Burkart That hot summer we both turned 15 My girlfriend Aloni told me She was going to become a spider. She'd made the appointment and everything. I can still see her arched back so clearly as she told me, lifting up from the floorboards of my attic, like she was offering her navel to the sky. She always stretched up before one of our ping pong matches, even though it's been

nearly 20 years. To me, she'll always be the sum of her arches, her angles. People think it's the curves that are the best part, but really it's the angles that get you. I remember a I'd swiped the sweat off the handle of my ping pong paddle and said, great, but what the hell was she on about? It had taken two months before she slipped from the wait list and landed an appointment. They want to make sure you really want it. It's not something you can erase with a few weeks at the dermatologist. Once you jump in, you're in.

You've got to be sure. And Aloney, she was sure as salt. She always had these great ideas like that. There wasn't anyone else like her in town, I knew. We'd been boyfriend, girl friend, for six months by that time. We were the same age, but then again, she had the amount of boots you'd expect a girl twice her age to have, mostly six-inch heels, black military style, knee-high so she could show off her cropped jeans with their blue roses. She loved ping-pong, and after school we'd run to my attic where my parents kept a table and toss off a match.

And she'd practice her swear words real loud whenever she missed because that kind of stuff wasn't allowed at her place, at least when her dad was in town. So, when she told me she was going to be a spider, I was surprised, and I wasn't. It'll make me better at ping pong, she said, and slammed the paddle down hard. The ball went flying with a crack. I can't be sure, but I'm pretty positive that it came from me, the idea. It was that attic. We had a resident cane spider that crawled through. through a small cubbyhole there, probably a couple different ones throughout the year,

but I'd named all of them Raina. Raina was palm-wide, with delicate spindly legs that she wagged about like she was tasting the air. There was something witchy about her, her beady eyes, the ragged velvet of her hairs, the way her legs quivered whenever she spotted a fly, mastido, cockere. She did this dart and dash thing across the wall, like she was invisible so long as she was standing still, and I didn't have the heart to tell her, I could still see her. I'd sit on the green bean bag, sneakers propped up against the couch, and watch her cling to the wall stuck in a spell. I'd keep the VHS on pause for so long, it'd stop and start to rewind.

And when Aloni met her one hot night, the way she followed Rihanna with her eye, traced her stuttled trail, with awe and everything. Well, that nailed me up harder than her lips did. It's not an easy thing, getting spliced with a spider. Aloni's appointment was at the tattoo parlor. The one across from the bridge where girlfriends and boyfriends hung padlocks, love locks from rusted iron gates. There was an old artist there who did things that were more risty, things people didn't want to flaunt, you know? Spine of bear, tooth of tighter, something that enhanced you just a little. It's something I heard rumors about, but it was rare you knew someone personally.

But I'd never heard of anyone wanting to be a bug. splicing yourself with bug jeans. People weren't so daring, at least in those days. Well, still aren't. Sure, your high school, they'll say they're the future. But one sideways glance from a homeroom teacher would quickly tell you otherwise. Gene splicing was the devil's work, etc. Anyway, Aloni and I, we didn't even think about that then. When I asked her, why a spider in particular, she shook her mane and ran a hand down her shoulder, glanced at the frame with my family, dad, mom, and me, saying, wouldn't you? She didn't let me come with her, wanted it to be a surprise. Later, she told me the artist had a twisted beard and knuckles on the thumb like lizards. Because, anyway, why would you trust an artist who didn't practice on himself. That's like trusting a skinny cook. She followed him to a back room with black out curtains, and when she asked him if it'd be painful, he said yes, and his eyes dilated. She had to get it

done over three weeks. First thing he changed were her eyes. It was a subtle change, and you only saw it if you were really looking. But if you did, you did. You did. that deep mirror stare worth a thousand bucks. If she was reading a textbook, I'd glance in her eyes and see the words on the page, read it backwards, as long as she sat, really still. And then her fingers. She said it didn't hurt when they broke her metacarpals in a few places. The opioids were so strong. Her phalanjis were lengthened, and in the end, her every touch. was super sensitive. Each brush of her hand

made a new imprint on her memory, almost like she was getting a tattoo on the brain each time. After the last appointment, we met in the stuffy air of my parents' attic. She wanted to unwrap the bandages there, show off her new arms, legs, like they were somebody's birthday present,

said it was safer than her place. The hair, once peach, Fuzz, now stood at attention coarse and reddish-brown, and with a sheen that drew you in. Slender, sensitive hairs that rippled when I blew on them. She dritted her jaw as I brushed my hand over the erect hairs. Her skin was brand new, after all, raw, almost like she'd been flayed. To take everything from the inside did it shining beautiful on the outside. You looked at into her two eyes and you'd see a whole legion of eyes staring back at you. Of course, we'd had sex before, but this, this was different. Most people don't know. The hairs on a spider.

They can smell, hear, even taste. I ran a finger over her calves and though they were pink like they'd been freshly plucked, it was like the hair there was just a little more stiff, a little more ready. And I was all kinds of dizzy from the way she teethed in her breath. But it was the gap between the hairs that undid me, like an endless invitation, like I was a long-lost key, now found,

now in just the right place. Some things you don't know until your body knows them first. In my hands, They made a bee-line up her thighs, closed into a fist, because after she said, eat me, I couldn't stop. It was hard and hairy and bloody. Which is why, Alonie's sharper gasp struck the air like it did,

split the attic all of a sudden. It was a cry of pain and surprise and a little fear, and it stopped me abrupt. And she turned all those mirror eyes on me, wavering, unsure. I looked down and saw my fist in a tangle of her hair, each the length of an inch, held in place between each knuckle like I'd ripped out some blades of grass from the yard. Tiny prickles of blood were forming on her thighs,

and I said, shit, asked her if she was all right. Yeah, she said. Yeah, I'm okay. I must have raised an eyebrow at that, because she said, It'll grow back, and the hairs in my fist. They smelled like must, I remember. I read it was supposed to be like this, she said.

Overwhelming. she meant. The mood was spoiled, though. There are only so many sorries you can say before you need to just bundle up and forget it happened. She scrambled to the bathroom, tiptoeing so she wouldn't wake my parents. It seemed like she was in there for an hour, and when she'd climbed back up, she'd had her leg done up with a bandage. She wouldn't say much to me then. said she wanted to sleep. She covered herself with the blanket, and though I held her, spooning, for me, this just made it worse. The way when you're thirsty, you can't stop thinking about ice-cold soda,

and I could feel the tension in her muscles like all she wanted to do was sturry away from me. We fell asleep like that. I figured I'd get a second chance. I'd get to touch her again, but things were kind of awkward between us after that, and for the rest of the summer. She never wanted to hang out much anymore,

always seemed to have an excuse. Then her father came back from two months on the oil rig, and it was, That's not my daughter, this and that, but the damage was done. The last time I saw a loaning, She was packing her trunk with cardboard boxes labeled booty boots. Never did figure out if she'd gotten better at ping pong.

Aloni and me, we tried that long-distance shit. Stuff never sticks, especially when you are 15 and one of you is half a spider. It started with one less phone call a week and then puttered down to nothing. In that way, when you're not sure what to do, what to say, and you tell yourself there's always next time, next time. You know how growing up is. Growing apart, lose friends, lose touch. Some days, I miss her. I think about her more than I should, really. I wonder if all dies think about their what-ifs as much as I do. And you try to fill up the emptiness with the normal, like it's a prescription.

almost. I went to community college, married a girl I met there, Janie, had a couple kids. And it's good with Janie and me. What we have is a long-lasting love, the kind you don't have to worry about. The kind that makes breakfast each and every morning, the kind that sticks to the roof of your mouth, glues you in place in the same deadbeat town you grew up in, just down the street from where you used to skate and say, one day, I'll get out. The only thing is, I still dream of thick, musty hair, bite marks. How can you miss something that never really was after years and years? What Aloney probably doesn't know is, I kept the hairs I'd plucked off her that night. I'd stashed them in a little shoebox we used for spare ping-pong balls.

Just a few threads of loose strands. I didn't open that box often, but when I did, that same must was still there, strong as ever. Because I'd never met another spider like Aloni, never met another person as brave as her. I keep the shoebox in a cabinet by the ping-pon table in that same house. I got the house after dad died,

and mom booked a room in the retirement home at the edge of town. But I still kept that same attic, that same ceiling, thank God for that. Though there's a few more beer stains, and we don't have many cane spiders these days.

I got rid of rain. years ago. Nowadays, whenever I see a spider, I throw it out. Humanely, of course, I clap a jar over them, inch them outside, catch and release. And the kids, they call me spider hater. They know I don't let them in the house. I never told them why, though. I don't tell them that whenever I see a spider. I hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the brush of hair on my bare skin. Then again, the kids, they don't talk to me much these days. My son barely calls home. He's too busy at his new job in the city, and my daughter, well, where to start with her. She's got ink-black hair, just like her father, and so skinny, she's all angles. But it's a little. It's a little bit of

It's going to be a good summer. She's just gotten back from her freshman year at college, majoring in biology. She jokes, she's back down south just in time to melt in these humid nights, and I know. I know just what heat she's talking about. Janie's late-nighting it at the office, and my daughter, she's beaming at me from across the Titchin Island, says she has a surprise for me. She says she got some work done. I asked her where?

What kind? I tell her she's perfect as she is, and in that moment, I mean it. She's trembling, a bit nervous to tell her dear old dad, and that's how. I know what she's going to say even before she opens her mouth. I don't hear her say the word arachnid, but I see the she. shape her lips make as they break over the word. And her pupils, man, had they always been such perfect, wet beads?

Had I just never noticed? And when I pace my hand over her calves, those aren't coarse hairlets, I finger, twiddle between my index and thumb. They can't be. She wouldn't do that to me. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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