Creepy - Mr. Caligo & The Itch You Shouldn't Scratch

Episode Date: December 16, 2021

Mr Caligo***Written by: Paul Caseley and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Content warning: Homophobia***The Itch You Shouldn't Scratch***Written by: JamesNTheGiantLeech and Narrated by: Rissa M.***Content warnings: graphic depiction of mutilation and body horror***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. 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 not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions. of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Mr. Caligo. Written by Paul Casily and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. I was nine years old when Mr. Caligo first came to me. You know the cliche. Fighting parents that you could hear arguing and yelling downstairs. A child feeling neglected and anxious over the future of the fair. family. This is nothing new, and I'm sorry for that. But the reason it is such a cliche is because

it is often the truth. Mr. Calago and his kind, wait until a child is at their lowest ebb. And that's when they start to integrate themselves into a child's life. I remember lying on my bed, crying, another cliche. when Mr. Caligo unfolded himself from the shadows. He seemed to push one hand and arm out of nothing. Take himself, and, like a shirt or a pair of pants, unfold himself into existence. I didn't know his name at that point, and I didn't ask. To be honest, his sudden appearance freaked me out.

Mr. Caligow was at least seven feet tall and pale. his face non-descript with his eyes fully black. When he opened his mouth, it showed off a gaping maw of poorly kept razor-sharp teeth. I could see maggots squirming between his sharpened and dingy paws. The stench from his mouth was almost visible in the darkness of my room. For the whore, that was his mouth. Mr. Calago tried to make up for it with his clothing. He wore it would look like a formal suit, but what I learned later was a morning suit.

Black pants, black jacket, white shirt, black tie with black patent leather shoes. There was not a hair or a mode of dust on Mr. Caligot's clothing. If I saw him on the street now, I always say he was resplendent in his dress. His face, however, terrified me, as did his sudden appearance in my room. I shuddered in the dark, and he peered at me, then vanished. From then onward, he regularly appeared to me. You would gaze upon me until I awakened and locked eyes with him, and then he would vanish. At first his appearance is regularly and negatively affected by sleep.

Although, to be fair, the constant fighting between my parents did so anyway. Through the years, I began to get used to his appearances and almost took a certain comfort from him. He was a strained nightly all pair, to be sure. But he didn't seem to mean me any direct harm. As the years passed, and the yelling and fighting progressed into punching and slapping, not just between the warring two below, but also towards me, Mr. Caligo's appearances became more and more frequent. Finally, when I was starting high school and entering my teens, he did something he hadn't done

before. He came closer. In all the time, Mr. Caligo had visited my room. He had always kept a respectful distance from me, almost as if he knew a closer proximity. would unsettle me. Now as I entered my awakening into adulthood, the creature started to come into my personal space. Looking at him, I knew that he wanted to speak with me. That would also be a first.

In seven years of appearances, I had never heard his voice, knowing there was no hiding from this monstrous creature I turned to address him. What? What is it that you want? My youthful voice tried to take on a false bravado, which anyone would have seen through in an instance, as every letter I spoke seemed to quiver with my present fear. The wretched display of his trenchant teeth as he twisted them into a gruesome grin

only served to terrify me even more. For a moment I was worried that I would lose control of my bladder. Then, when I was sure of my own imminent doom, Mr. Caligo spoke. His voice was even and calm compared to his visage. It was gentle and kind. There was an undertone within it that almost purred like a kitten, causing my fear to start to dissipate. I am Mr. Caligo, and I'm not here to hurt you.

I'm here to deliver you. He trilled. Deliver me. Deliver me from what? I asked. Incredulous, despite my youth. People often believe young people, children, are stupid, that the majority of them can't see through deception. For the most part, children are pretty good judges of character.

And it is only when adults the child trusts muddy the waters. Go ahead. Give Auntie a hug. She's your aunt who shouldn't be afraid of her. That their natural ability to judge character goes away. Current situation. You're susceptible. Your unfit parents.

The list goes on and on. I can take you away from all of it. I can make you so you never have to worry about them and what they will do next again. came his gentle reply. The voice did not match the face. The words did not match the teeth. There was something wrong with him in his offer, and I knew it even then.

But still, I was captivated. I needed to know more. What's the catch? I asked. One thing that my dysfunctional upbringing had taught me is that everything has a price, and I knew one would have to be paid. Unlike me and leave this world, you become a cautionary tale, a nightmare, a reflection of the world, of humans that shows them all their darkness and hate solidified into form.

You feed, you feed off the fear of others, which let me tell you. is growing into a banquet, and will only grow larger with the hate and tribalism that is festering in the current world. Would I look like you? I asked. Yes, eventually. It takes time, but what I offer you is a chance to leave the pain of this miserable world behind. I thought about it for a second. My life was fairly awful, and I knew I wasn't like the other children in my age. I had no interest in the opposite sex, for example. Even as I passed into puberty, I found the body shape and musculature of the people I was supposed to be attracted to repellent,

and instead found myself desiring those of the same sex. This, coupled with the fact that I did not have a support system that I could trust, caused me to withdraw into myself and focus on things I could control. As a result, I was doing extremely well in school, even when my secretly abusive upbringing said I wouldn't. I was shy in my own way, unless someone could get me talking about things I knew and understood. Then, hiding behind my knowledge and natural intelligence, I would find my voice.

My teachers decided I was gifted. My peers decided I was weird. I was often lonely and alone, but I also knew that my scholastic ability could lift me out of my present situation. And perhaps when I was an adult, I would be accepted, have some kind of future. Things are miserable now, I responded. But they won't always be. Someday I will be in a world of adults, and I will see kindness, tolerance, and understanding. Thinking of my response now, I know it was naive, but you have to understand the world of a child.

For the most part, the adults are the arbiters, the protectors, the ones who preach forgiveness, redemption, and hope. They promised an eventual world that would include all the things I felt I needed to thrive. I was a young teenager. I had no experience with the world of adults except for the regular belligerence of my parents and the regular rose-colored glasses caused by the world's secondary classrooms. I will never forget the response that was immediately hissed out by Mr. Caligo, and how it repelled me at the time.

Goodness, compassion, or redemption. And hope is just a tawdry, perfume, sprayed on a rotting corpse. He spat. Here they you continue, because if children knew the truth, They wouldn't want to inherit the ever-growing cesspool that adults have left for them. You will find no acceptance in the world of human beings, unless you can somehow shut off your natural intellectual curiosity and sexual desires. Do not misunderstand me.

Your desires are natural, but you will always find those, who will directly or more often indirectly, persecute you for them. This world is not what you have been taught. It is. It is not what you think. I let that process for a minute and considered it. But Mr. Caligo was asking me to turn my back on all my years of instruction.

He was asking me to leave the world I was comfortable with and knew. He was asking me to leave a future that I promised to it and some hope. He was asking me to leave my parents. Yes, they were abusive and deeply flawed, but I still love them. It was a lot to take in, too much, actually. It was too big of a decision to make so quickly. It was all too overwhelming, and for that reason, I refused. Mr. Caligo took it well.

He stared at me for a moment longer, and I thought I saw some sadness in him, as he slowly nodded. Be easy for you. You'll have some measure of success, but you will also suffer bigotry and pain. I don't usually make this offer. But if you find the pain becomes too great for you, call for me. And with that, Mr. Calago vanished and I never saw him in my room again. At the time I remember thinking I was free, as my life progressed, however, I increasingly came to believe that the greatest confederate I ever had was lost through my own

error and judgment. One of the many that would plague me into my adult years. Life progressed. I completed high school and university. I moved into the work world and started to settle in. I experimented sexually and did things I know I shouldn't have due to my confusion and curiosity. I still always felt apart from others and uncomfortable making close connections. I kept waiting for things to fall into place for me.

As life progressed, the world progressed too. Laws became more liberal in terms of sex and sexuality, and it seemed that people would too. But in many instances, it was just a facade. I still remember joining a company that touted being discrimination-free no matter race, religion, sexual orientation, you know the drill. I sat through the orientation and learned that the proper behaviors were supposed to be, and I felt hope starting to rise in me once again. I enjoyed the job.

The policies seemed progressive. Everything finally seemed to be falling into place. I felt hope for myself and for my future. I felt hope about the person I could finally be. Then, several months in, I had lunch in the lunchroom. It was about five minutes into the midday meal on some of the worst homophobic jokes I had ever heard started, and they were being spewed by some of the very same people who had confirmed the discrimination-free workplace when I started my position.

I was gutted, and my hope died a little in me. I withdrew into my shell and moved farther away from fully embracing who I was that day on the days that followed. There would be no honesty permitted here. There would be no chance to be true to who I was. All the same cliques and artifices that existed in high school, university lived here too. Adults were no different than children, except they were better at selling the big lie. Their public face was a good deal larger than their private one.

My hope withered. That night I felt like calling on Mr. Caligo, but I resisted. There had to be more. It had to get better. The years went on, and then the decades, and as I started to approach my retirement years, I finally started to feel more comfortable with who I am. There were various instances that I tried to embrace my full self,

but something always seemed to get in the way. There were various instances that I tried to embrace my full self, but something always seemed to get in the way. By the time I was in my late 40s and early 50s, I could finally admit that the thing that was the most in my way was myself. I cared too much about what other people thought. I finally started to come to terms with my homosexuality, and I finally found myself starting to enjoy my life.

I had friends and I could see that the thing keeping me from having friends had been my own fear. I edge closer to telling my family who I really was. I finally felt like there was some happiness around my corner. Something had been elusive my whole life. When my life was finally turning around, and I was finally becoming the person I wanted to be. And that's when it all came crashing down. It started with a knock on my door that involved two police detectives who took me into custody for something stupid I had done 15 years earlier.

I hadn't heard another person and I knew that. But there were fears on their part that I could have. I understood that and tried to cooperate. My sexuality came up again and again. And they asked me to confirm it again and again. That became the central part of everything. Not the crime. Not the time that had passed.

Not the way my life was affected. In an instant, my life flew to pieces as newspapers took hold and spread their version of my story far and wide. They made it sound like it happened yesterday instead of a lifetime ago. It made me sound dangerous. In the so-called enlightened world, they harped on my sexuality. Hope died that day, and I knew that it would not be rekind. Every friend I had ever had fled when I needed their help and support the most. My family pledged support, but it often seemed strained.

They didn't want to know the details. They didn't want to really hear how I felt. My job was lost, and I knew that the chances of ever getting another was slim to none. I gave up and pled guilty. What's the point of fighting? I wasn't offered support for my defense so I could burn through my entire retirement fund when I needed it the most. or just bite the bullet. In the end, the judge was the only person who acknowledged that the crime was minimal,

gave me the least in terms of a sentence that she could. She even praised the fact that no further offenses had ever been found. None of this found its way to the accompanying news articles, of course. The ancient Greek author Aishulus once said, It is the nature of mortals to kick a fallen man. The same is still true now, as it obviously was, over 2,500 years ago. The only difference is how easily the kick is now transferred via the internet. There's no escaping your past in the modern world, no matter how reformed you are.

With a click of a mouse, all your past misdeeds are laid bare. I knew that every time I would try to get work and every time I would try to get work and every time I would try to move on, it would haunt me. Don't misunderstand me. I know that all past misdeeds leave a debt that eventually has to be paid. And this is my time to make that payment, but at what point is one's debt finally paid off? Is it really necessary to make someone keep paying for past misdeeds forever? I finally left the city I was living in and moved elsewhere, far away.

to start over and as fresh as I could. Mr. Caligo's words began to ring in my ears. There's no redemption in the world. Redemption is a word for high school English classes when you study Shakespeare and has no practical form or function. Forgiveness is a subject for a pulpit that evaporates as soon as most of the parishioners leave and start their regular day. All human talk of goodness,

passion, redemption, and hope. It's like a tawdry perfume sprayed onto a rotting corpse. I finally fully understand those words, and my hope was exhausted. I was tired, and I saw no way ahead. There would be no coming back from the humiliation and destruction that I had wrought on my own life, and that others had picked up and hurled back at me. I felt like a waste and purposeless. I felt alone and spent. I felt the darkness start to fold in on me. I called on Mr. Caligo. I fully believed that he would look smug and condescending when he appeared.

After all, Mr. Caligo had told me so. Instead, his terrifying visage only conveyed a certain sadness and sympathy. I knew in a second he had hoped that I was correct about the direction my life would take. But over the eons he had seen it all before. For the first time, since he left my life, I felt acceptance and warmth from another being. I felt like I could be part of something. A feeling that I had never had before. All in a look and a gesture.

As Mr. Caligo reached out his pale white hand, it was conveyed to me that I would finally belong. Not a word passed between the two of us. I took his waiting hand. Not a single word was necessary. I'm not sure what my future in Mr. Caligo's world will be. I'm not sure what my life will be like. The only thing I'm sure of is that it can't be worse. I'm leaving my...

Creepy presents. The itch you shouldn't scratch. Written by James and the Giant Leach, and narrated by Rissa M. I felt itchy all over. Yes, at the side of the incision beneath my shoulder blade where the surgeon cut me open to remove the cyst. But everywhere else, too, all over my body. Like there were these tiny bugs, hundreds of them,

scuttling beneath my skin in search of a way out. I was told the incision would itch after surgery. nerve sends signals to the spinal cord that the skin is being touched, even while it's covered by a bandage. The surgeon called this a phantom signal. It's like a tickle from a ghost, he said. Soon the skin would fuse together again and the wound would heal. So long as I didn't scratch the itch, nature would run its course. I smiled and thanked him for the advice. He asked if I'd like to see the cyst he removed from my back. I declined. You've seen one, you've seen them all, I told him, taking off my hospital gown to reveal the surgical marks that covered the length of my body. The first cyst came on my 12th birthday, a pebble-sized orb that appeared on my kneecap seemingly overnight. At that age, you're aware of every change your body is undergoing, so I became a little obsessed with it, rolling my finger over it all hours of the day.

My mother caught me one time fiddling with it at the dinner table. She was surprised I had not told her earlier. Sists are not a normal part of development, she said. I felt ashamed for having developed one and told her I was sorry for not telling her sooner. But later that day, while my mom scheduled an appointment with the family doctor, my finger returned to it. As I rolled the growth around, I remember wondering what, else might be lurking beneath my skin. By the time I graduated high school, they had removed

38 cysts from my body. My parents were exasperated and burdened by debt from the hospital bills. But more important to them than all that was the chance at a normal life for their only daughter. Though the cysts were benign, they grew quickly and were extremely visible, sometimes mounting to the size of a golf ball before they were cut out. Kids thought I was contagious and mostly kept their distance, which triggered my parents' alarm even more that I would one day develop into a hideous, friendless creature. Alligator Girl, that's what they called me at school.

My parents took me to see specialists of every variety. The furthest anyone got was that I had some rare genetic condition. that created a breeding ground for cysts. No one knew what sparked their growth, or how long into life I would produce them. Left with few other choices, my parents decided to continue to cut the cysts out of my body as soon as they appeared.

It was painful, sure, but not nearly as much as the life of a social outcast. I carried on their practice through college, and into my early twenties. I wore jeans and long-sleefe shirts to cover the many scars, worried someone might assume the wounds were self-inflicted, which in a way I guess they were. But whatever, it worked.

I had friends, a successful career in marketing, even a committed partner, and no one was even remotely aware of my condition. The only thing I struggled to control was the urge to scratch the itch, after every surgery. Sometimes I'd have to sleep with my hands bound, so I didn't accidentally peel back the bandage and dig my nails into flesh.

Even still, I'd have these vivid dreams in which I'd scratch the itch so feverishly that my skin would come off in chunks. It felt amazing. My boyfriend once woke me up in bed saying that I was moaning so loudly, he thought I was having a sex dream. I lied and told him that's exactly what it was. The fear of becoming the alligator girl still alive and well in me. No amount of invasive surgery

could cleave her out. When my boyfriend moved into my flat, I could no longer hide my condition from him. He caught on to my regularly scheduled appointments pretty fast and would no longer accept my vague answer of, it's just routine medical stuff. He told me he felt the bandages beneath my clothes when we hugged, and the ridges on my skin when we slept together. Always in the dark. He hoped someday I'd bring it up on my own, but it was starting to drive him crazy. I told him all about the cysts and why I'd hidden it from him for so long. He held me close and told me he was relieved it wasn't something more serious. Let them grow, he said to me.

There was no need to keep harming myself like that. He wanted to get to know my true form. That's the advantage of being with a burgeoning social worker, I thought. They're naturally empathetic people. We held each other for a while longer. Then, with some reluctance, I promised I'd cancel my upcoming appointment. One had already started to bud along my collarbone.

My boyfriend first tried to ignore the massive bulge growing on my chest. He'd keep his eyes on mine when we talked, and below my waist when we fucked. But when it grew to the size of a lemon, I thought it was time to address the cyst in the room. Are you still okay with this? I wanted to know, sitting naked across from him in the bathtub. Finally, he looked at it for a solid minute, just staring at the bulge on my collarbone.

It's not dangerous, he asked at last. It looks pretty severe, like it might pop or something, he added. Do you want it to go away? I asked. His eyes fell back on the cyst. He started to cry, then vigorously nodded his head. Yes. They had to put me under, due to the size of the cyst. I woke up with the surgeon hovering above me, giving his little discharge speech about not scratching the itch. I smiled and thanked him for the advice, still loopy from the pain meds. My partner drove me home. He held my hand the

whole way and assured me that we did the right thing. It felt as if I had just aborted an unwanted child. That was the kind of energy in the car in the drive back to our flat in the hills. Later that night, while my boyfriend slept soundly beside me. I rose from the bed and stumbled my way to the bathroom. My heart palpitated much faster than usual. I threw cold water on my face and tried to catch my breath. I was thinking about the itch on my collarbone, obsessing over it actually, which made the rest of my skin feel as though it was crawling.

I tried scratching my feet, thighs, back of my arms, but it wasn't enough. So I took off my shirt. Then the gauze taped over the surgical wound. It wasn't long before I unwound the stitches and pulled out the nylon strings. The flesh barely clung together, pursed like angry red lips. I was struck by how easy it was to slide my fingers in, peel the skin back and expose the open wound. I caught my reflection in the mirror,

but I no longer recognize the woman staring back. Skin dropped at my feet in messy clumps. It all needed to come off. Maybe the pain meds were still working, or maybe something else had taken hold. But I didn't feel any of it. If anything, I felt a warmth in my gut, a calmness in my chest as I continued to peel my flesh off when it was all stripped away, including my face and scalp with its color-treated hair.

I ran my fingers over my body. There were bumps everywhere, most small and nascent, like the first one I found on my an e-cap as a child. The alligator girl. I would have spent the rest of my life trying in vain to remove what would always be a part of me. I stood above my partner while he slept, naked in my true form. I didn't want to startle him, so I decided to stay there and wait until he woke up. I was unsure how he'd respond. If he really meant the word, he said to me before the surgery. But one thing was clear.

I scratched the hell out of that itch. For even more from Creepy, 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 used under license and may not be rebroadcast or distributed without the express prior written consent of the story's author. Please contact us at CreepyPod at gmail.com for further information on obtaining the rights necessary to rebroadcast or distribute a particular story.