Creepy - Mommy Loves You

Episode Date: April 8, 2021

A mother's gotta do...***Content warning: animal abuse, suicide, teen death***Written by Walter Kwiatkowski narrated by Michelle Kane***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain. graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Mommy loves you. Written by Walter Quarkowski and narrated by Michelle Kane. My husband bought this property a year before he died. He had intended to turn the old warehouse that came with the land into a studio and gallery for our daughter, who at 15 had already produced what a number of art experts called masterpieces.

It was put together with three levels of faded red brick. The front door, in fact all the doors, were dark green, and the front and back of the building had iron-stepped fire escapes. Inside, the rooms were lofty, empty, and dead. The walls had long suffered from structural and water damage, partially due to a small sinkhole, which I had filled up shortly after my husband's death.

I also spent most of my savings reinforcing the walls with strong metal bases. Now, I know what you're thinking. Poor little thing. Her husband went and died and left her to fend for herself. Save it and stick it. I don't need nor want your pity. Save it for people who deserve it. I'm alone because my husband killed himself. He placed the gun barrel into his mouth and blew out the back of his skull. The bullet came out of his left eye after ripping through all that gray matter. I found him a few hours later on the kitchen floor.

I'll admit, I hated him for a while, but I understood why he did it. Coping can be hard. Yeah, but what about all that money? He had been a rich man and had a large insurance policy that would surely keep me set for life. Just in case you've been living on Pluto for the last century or two, insurance companies don't pay out for suicides. True, he left me something in his will, but he also left something for his siblings.

It was really just a pittance. Not that the money was important to me. I spent it all renovating this place. Some people might say it was a stupid thing to do. Maybe so. but I have my reasons, and that's an issue for another time. This property is off some rural road along the Sunshine Coast. I'm not at liberty to tell exactly where, but on a clear day, you can see Mount Drew.

Often, before the incident, I would go out for a walk, a steaming hot coffee warming up my hands. Now the wheels of my chair find it difficult to move over uneven ground and gravel. Instead, I'm in my wheelchair behind a large desk with banks of TV screens that look like a flies compound eye. Each section of the eye shows me a different part of the building. You can probably hear the dogs in the background. They are savage, and their bite is far worse. than their bark. The dogs, mainly pit bulls, rotweilers, Alaskan Malamutes, and Caucasian offcharcas, keep this place intruder-free when I'm not around, and which, unfortunately,

I don't feed a lot. These beasts have free roam of all the floors, and I've built tunnels and sliding doors that allow them quick access to every room in the building. But the muts normally tend to prowl the main floor. The only entrance and exit is there. There are cameras on each floor, with the fewest cameras covering the top floor, because there isn't much up there, some of my daughter's final paintings, and several incomplete studios. At the moment, most of the cameras show me the basement or lower floor, which can only be accessed by elevators. There is, of course, an emergency exit, which can only be opened with a code that I have written on a piece of paper. I've had trouble remembering things since the incident,

so I keep that piece of paper on me at all times. I sound like one of those down-south American, wacko, religious, gun-fanatic survivalists, don't I? The basement is the home of one very large room, which I call the mother room. Several smaller ones branch off from the smother room. Three, precisely. Two are unused. The other, at the moment, house me, my wheelchair, and my coffee. The walls of this basement are made of three feet, thick, concrete on metal foundations,

and reinforced by eight inches of stainless steel. The wall to the left, however, is made of metal and slides open and closed with the press of a button. A one-way mirror stretches across the south wall, behind which I sit my coffee. It tastes wonderful, strong and black,

and with a touch of tequila. My eyes move away from the TV screens to the center of the one-way mirror and then focuses on two metal chairs in the middle of the basement. An unconscious body slumps forward in each chair. Each body is shackled to the chair by metal plates. One plate secures each foot to the cement floor, and another set confines each arm

to the metal arm of the chair, although the hands can move freely. The two figures have burlap sacks over their heads. I glance at my watch any second now. Groggy stirrings, muffled groans from beneath the burlap. One of the bodies, the female, suddenly sits up an alarm. She tries to move and quickly realizes she is confined to something. She says something, but the words are muffled by the burlap. This seems to rouse the man. His head rises and slowly looks left and then right. I can tell the rusty mechanisms inside what he calls a brain are trying to figure out what's going on. He turns his burlap covered head in the direction of the woman. He recognizes her voice. Good. He says something, but like the woman, the words are muzzled by the sack over his face.

I open the mic and blow into it. I haven't used it before. Forgive my rudeness. I would offer you food and drink, but I have none. Besides, that's not why you're here. I wait for a reaction, but all I get is the expected swiveling of the head as they try to figure out where the voice is coming from. The last thing you remember, I'm sure, is the accident. Both of you snuggling up together in that once lovely silver Lamborghini, one of two, I believe, paid for by something more than the comfortable salary you get as an immigration lawyer, no doubt, Mr. Robbins. An angry, muffled groan comes from within his burlap bag. I sigh. Oh, where? are my manners. My finger depresses a small button, two tiles on the ceiling spread open, and two

mechanical arms, like the ones in those old carney machines where you drop in a nickel and an arm digs out a prize and fishes that up for you. It was a task finding someone who could put something like that together. Most thought I was crazy, but it didn't matter. Money talks, right? The mechanical hands reached down. I can control them from right where I sit. I can control them from right where I sit. I have a replica of the machine. All I have to do is stick my hands in it like I do with gloves. I use these hands to untie the sacks and then rip off the bags, making sure there is a little bit of discomfort that comes along with the freedom. The man and woman shake their heads as if they're waking up from a dream. They look around their eyes adjusting

to the brightness of the environmentally friendly lights. After all, we all have to do our part, don't we? Chuck, what's going on? The woman says, sounding nervous. Her face is spotted blue with bruises, and there are cuts on her forehead and arm. There are two large gashes, both of which I had left open and unattended to. I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Such bravado, I say. Who are you and what's going on? I brought you here. He looks around, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from.

After the accident, I add. Accident? Chuck says, trying to remember. The blonde does, however. She tries to grab his hand with hers, but fails. We were going to the cottage. You were driving. His eyes widen.

Yeah, now I remember. everything went black. We must have smashed into a tree and careened into the lake, I interrupt. His head turned sharply toward my voice and he yells, How do you know that? I wait a moment before answering. I was following you. The blonde again attempts to grab his arm.

I told you someone was following us. You, he says, yelling towards my voice. You ran us off the road. Again, I pause. No, you. did that yourself. What? The blonde screams. Why were you following us? I wanted to see you crash. Chuck's eyebrows knit. You knew? How? I'm scared, Chuck. The blonde says. It's like that Stephen King novel. I can't remember the name. Misery? No, I say. Although I have been a nurse, I'm definitely not

Chuck's biggest fan. And to answer your question, I knew because I planned it that way. You remember the coffee? Chuck's eyebrows dip, and I could see they were straining to remember. It amuses me, and I titter like a schoolgirl into the microphone. Hi there, folks. What'll it be today? I say, mimicking the voice I used when they pulled into the drive-thru. The drive-thru! The coffee we ordered. Remember, you said it tasted funny. He thinks for a moment. The look on his face, telling me the strain was too much for him. But that's crazy. Why? I told you, I know everything about you. I know you always go to the cottage this time of year, and I know you stop at a little joint called the fast and cheap along the way. So I got to. a job there. You put something in the coffee. I nod, forgetting they couldn't see me. Indeed I did. It's called madazelam. It's used primarily with children, so I had to increase your dosage. I noticed that clever Chuck has seen the glass wall directly across from them. I continue.

After the crash, I pulled you two out of your car and put you in my car. Not an easy thing to do, but my wheelchair is motorized. Adding a hook and chain to it made the task less strenuous and was, if I say so myself, a stroke of genius. I then used my car to pull your car away from the tree.

Opened the door and after a sputter or two started the engine and sent it off into the lake. You'll never get away with this. The police will be looking for us. Doubtful. I was listening to it.

the news an hour ago. The police think you drowned and your bodies drifted out to the ocean. The blonde starts to cry and tries pulling her arms out of her steel bindings. Chuck begins rocking to and fro, trying to tip the chair over. I underestimated his cleverness. When I get out of here, I'm going to fucking kill you. You tried that once? I whisper into the microphone. He stops rocking. The blonde looks at him. What does she mean? I don't know. What are you talking about, you crazy bitch?

Not crazy, Chuck. I'm a balloon filled with hate. Hate you put there. A balloon waiting all these years to burst. No reaction. The Madazalam must have eroded his memory. Why don't you tell your fiancé your real job? The blonde starts struggling in her chair again, but she gives up after a couple of attempts.

He's an immigration lawyer, you bitch. He helps people. I hear myself laughing snidly. That's not his real job, fiancé. Ask him what his real job is. Her head turns in his direction. Her hair, which was silky and beautiful, whips into her eyes. What's she talking about, Chuck? His inability or refusal to remember makes me angry. Tell her, Chuck, how you made all that extra money.

What money? I smile when I suddenly noticed realization bubbling up on the surface of his face. That was a foolish mistake, he says, an error in judgment. How many of those poor bastards did you cheat? promising them a good job and good pay for a large fee, which you shared with the employers who made the poor suckers work like slaves without paying them. That's what this is about? He yells at the glass window.

I noticed he was rocking again. I paid for that mistake. I laughed. Five hundred bucks? That barely made a dent in the hundreds of that. How soon you pull in? I stopped laughing. You knew that your victims wouldn't open their mouths because they were here illegally.

His swinging is gaining momentum. Soon he'll tip over, but no matter. He can't escape unless the metal binds are removed, and that can only be done electronically. But not everybody. Three of your victims live together as roommates in a homestay. The homestay convinced them to, to go to the police. You got wind of that information. I'm not sure how, but you did. You couldn't let them do that.

So you paid to have them killed. What? Chuck, is that true? He was wriggling frantically now. How the hell do you know about this? I pressed a button on the control board in front of me. The wall to my left began to slide, like one of those curtains in a game show. Oh my God! The fiancé screams. Chuck turns his head. As the wall pushes its way open, it reveals two men bound to chairs just like they are.

The only difference is that where their eyes should have been, there are bloodied, black gaping holes. There were two large squares cut into the wall behind the men. The boys were reluctant to talk, but they changed their minds. After I showed them what a sharp spoon could do. I was right, with a final heavy push, Chuck's chair crashes onto his side, causing his head to slam against the concrete floor. Fiancé throws her head back and screams for help, her words bouncing harmlessly off the three inches of reinforced concrete.

Chuck's face strains of color and cheek against the floor, he begins to cry. I let her go. She's innocent. She knows nothing about this. I reached to the front of the desk and lift a framed photo of a girl. Brown pigtails hanging down from both sides of her face. Adorable freckles and smiling a mouthful of braces. I turn on the projector to the right of me. My daughter's smiling face graces the far wall. You ordered those thugs to kill the students and made sure they understood that they were to leave no witnesses.

And as you know, money talks. They attacked the homestay. The three students were executed. On the control panel, there was a small switch. The newspapers said there were three victims. Actually, there were five. I still have one of their bullets buried deep in my skull. I flicked the switch.

The bands made a small grinding sound as they loosened and pulled away from Chuck and his fiancé's wrists. I'm going to give you more of a chance than you gave my daughter before her brains were blown out the back of her skull and onto the wall behind her. Chuck pushes himself out of the chair. He lays there for a moment. and then slowly gets to his feet, rubbing his arms.

He then runs over to fiancé and helps her up. During that time, his eyes never leave the glass. There's only one door out of the building. It's on the first floor. You can only take the elevator as there are no stairs. If you can reach that door, freedom is yours. I don't think Chuck is listening. Instead, he's picked up the chair he's been bound.

to for the past few days and is smashing it into the window. The glass is fairly strong, but eventually it will break, and then he'll discover that I lied. That there is a second door, and I can't have him knowing that. After all, I am in a wheelchair. I pressed another button on the control box, which causes the two small box-shaped panels from behind the hitman to flip open. Protect, I said into the mic. Barking sounds and seconds later, the dogs swarm out of the two openings in the wall. Their eyes are wide, tongues out, drool flies in all directions. Half of the dogs bite into the two thugs ripping at their skin and pulling them over and down onto the floor, driven into a frenzy by the bloodied eye sockets and not having been fed for days.

The other dogs fight to get a piece of the fallen, restrained hitmen, but failing to do so, turn their attention to Chuck and fiancé. But she makes a fatal mistake. She looks at them. Smelling the blood from her open wounds, they charge. The offcharka plow into her and amid a flurry of panicked screams, bite into her neck. The malamutes follow suit, each of them ripping into the side of her. her face. She tries to beat off the Afcharka, but it is pointless. Her last words are lost as the

Afcharka clamps down on the poor woman's throat with its teeth. Chuck the hero makes a beeline for the elevator. He presses the up arrow and waits, nervously looking over his shoulder as the dogs enjoy their meals. Then he begins banging on the elevator door. This draws the attention of the pit bulls who race toward him. The elevator bell rings, the doors open, and Chuck throws himself in. The doors close a moment before the dogs can stick their snouts in. Protect, I say again. The pooches stop, turn, and dart back through the open spots in the wall, back to the first floor.

I wait. When I hear the screams coming from Chuck, I smile. I turn off the projector and take the photograph of my sweet daughter and kiss it, saying, Mommy loves you, aloud. I look at the cup of coffee, which I had filled with poison earlier in the day, and take one last sip. Then set it down again on the coaster, not wanting to leave an unsightly ring on the desktop. I checked the cables attached to my chest. They measure my heartbeat.

The other end is attached to a wireless timer set to detonate three bombs I planted in the building. One on each floor. When they go off, the sinkhole, which I never really filled in, will reopen and swallow what remains of this place. I hold the photograph to my heart, lean back in my chair and wait. For more information, including pictures,

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