Creepy - Mr. Chatter Would Love To Tailor You

Episode Date: July 1, 2021

How badly do you need new clothes?***Written by NicNoc246 and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer***Content Warning: Body horror***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.

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Creepy Presents. Mr. Chatter would love to tailor you. Written by Nick Knock 246 and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. If you see a new story from Samuel Singer, pop up here. You might suspect that all is not well in Habitsville. and you would be right.

It started with good news. The stories that I've written for the Habits Bill Gazette have actually gained a bit of popularity about town. Because of this, I've been invited to speak on our local TV station, WHVTV. I know it may seem insignificant. Being a guest on your own hometown's tiny station,

when you already rank for the newspaper, doesn't look like a big step up. But I've been through some tough stuff, as you've no doubt read. I am unabashedly excited about this. Let me have this one thing, although it might be a bit vain. I wanted to look good on the big screen. So I'd gotten myself a new outfit, pants, shirt, jacket, even a new pair of shoes. though I wasn't sure they'd actually show my feet on the program.

The problem was, not everything fit perfectly. There's a tailor shop in Habitsville, and since I've never been given a reason to go, it was completely uncharted territory for me. But this was my big break, and I wasn't going to spare any expense. So a few days ago, I made my way to fit and trim tailors.

in downtown Habitsville. It was a modest building, nestled between two other shops, a butcher and, oddly enough, at children's daycare. When I walked inside, garment bag draped over my arm, I was immediately greeted by a very excited man. Welcome! He said, in a bright, too loud voice. My name is Mr. Chatter.

How can we get fit and trim tailors help you today? It took me a moment to answer. Not because I didn't know what I needed, but because I was too distracted at staring at the strange figure in front of me. First of all, he was an indecipherable age. He had shoulder length, slicked back, gray hair, but his face was perfectly smooth. Perhaps a view of his eyes would have given me a clue had I been able to see them. He wore eyeglasses that reflected so brightly. It was impossible to see what lie beneath.

And any attempt at eye contact merely reflected the image of the shop back to me. He was garrishly dressed in a lavender suit and green striped tie. I offhandedly considered that perhaps I shouldn't trust this man with my clothes. But like I said, this was the only tailors in town. Hi, I'm Sam. I wanted to get fitted for these, I said nervously, motioning to my garment bag. I was unsure of how the entire procedure was meant to go. But Mr. Chatter clasped his hands together in delight.

Although he was a rather slim man, his hands were strangely thick and meaty. Perfect! Right this way! He started, leading me towards a curtain-fitting room. But before we got there, another man entered from the back. While Mr. Chatter was fashionable, animated and ageless, the man that entered the room was the opposite. He was sort of hunched and short,

with a large, unkempt mustache that seemed to take up the entire bottom half of his face. He wore some sort of loose-fitting grape. tunic that hung all the way down to the floor and was chained with a variety of different materials I couldn't place. His eyes, like Mr. Chatters, were invisible, shielded by small round-lens spectacles of the same reflective surface. Pindu's tunic was a small rectangular name tag, surprisingly shiny, that clearly read the name Nestor.

Ah, yes, Nestor. Take it next door, quick as you can, Mr. Chatter said. But we're continuing towards the curtain room. But my feet refused to follow him. And it wasn't because I was stricken by Nestor's strange appearance. No. It was what he was holding that gave me pause. It was a metal bucket.

Slightly rusted. It looked well used. Inside was a substance that seemed oddly familiar, although I was unable to immediately place it. It was thick and gelatinous, and there was a lot of it. It was a bit translucent, but I could see that its true color when gathered together was a sick yellow. I could tell by the sheen off its surface in the light of the shop,

that there was moisture to it. It hit the two-thirds mark of the bucket, full enough to make my stomach turn. And then, Nestor took it away, towards the front of the shop and then out of the door. I tried to watch where he took it. But before I could, Mr. Chatter had taken my hand and was dragging me towards the fitting room. Go ahead and change into the garments you brought. And we'll get started. I stepped into the enclosed space, but before I drew the curtain a new shape appeared.

All right, I'm ready. A curtain drew back from the fitting room next to mine. A young man emerged. Unlike myself, he looked like he actually should be on television. He was handsome, with the glowing confidence of someone who's used to having attention turned on him. Wonderful, Derek. Go ahead and step on to the platform. in front of the mirrors.

Mr. Chatter watched the young man do as he was told, before turning back to me. See you soon, Sam, he said, a glass over his eyes glinting along with his teeth. Then he pulled my curtain shut. By this point, I didn't have a great feeling about this place, although it was hard to say exactly why. It was like I was getting bits and pieces of something on

settling, without being able to see it as a whole. And then I pulled my curtain back, a bit, just enough to peek out at the events unfolding in the main store, without Derek or Mr. Chatter spying me. Derek had stepped onto the platform, and he was admiring himself in the three trifold mirrors that stood in front of him. His outfit of choice was far fancier than mine, who was a jet-black tuxedo. And as far as I could tell, it fit perfectly. As he flexed for himself, Mr. Chatter circled him, measuring tape in hand. After a few minutes of measuring, Mr. Chatter rolled the tape up and smiled. I think I see where we can make a few changes. Too tight in the torso and too long in the leg. Yes? Derek, still admiring himself nodded. Yeah, I think he's a little. Yeah, I think

I think you're right. I mean, I look good already. But I just want to look perfect, you know. It's not every day you get married. Mr. Chatter smiled wider. Absolutely, sir. He sent the measuring tape down with the thick hands. But then he did something strange.

I expected him to reach for pins, to make the adjustment to the clothes and then sell them later. But instead, he walked to the cash register, bent down, reached his arms back, somewhere I couldn't see behind the desk. Are you ready, man? Derek asked, leaning back on the podium to see what the tailor was doing. Let's get this party started. Then something strange happened. There was a loud click, like a switch being flipped. In that moment, the three mirrors in front of the door.

Derek all flashed, one simultaneously bright light. I saw another flash in my peripheral vision, but I couldn't tell what emitted the light. I had to blink a few times after it was done in order for my eyes to readjust. But when they did, I saw an odd sight. Derek had stopped posing, and now was standing completely and utterly still. not as if he was trying to hold still for the work the Taylor was going to do. It was as though he was no longer a human. Instead, now, a mannequin.

There was a sound of a door opening. And through my gap in the curtain, I saw Nestor joining Mr. Chatter in front of the statuesque Derek. Is the bucket empty? Mr. Chatter asked him. To which Nestor's silent. slid the metal container over to him. Mr. Chatter made a small tisk of disappointment. Well, this is no good at all, he said. Stepping once again around, Derek. There's just hardly any meat on these bonds. Not much to work with. We've got another one in the dressing room. His mirror

should have stalled him, too. I anxiously turned to look at the mirror against the wall of my dressing room. That must have been the flash in the corner of my eye. But since I was watching Mr. Chatter, I didn't get whatever treatment port Derek was currently under the spell of. We'd better get going, Mr. Chatter said. Then he pulled out a pair of small, delicate scissors. Nestor silently slipped onto the podium with Derek and then he did something else odd. Here move the man's jacket, shirt and pants. A young man didn't so much as blink as a stranger gathered up's tuxedo and carried them over to a clothing rack in the back of the shop.

Then Mr. Chatter stepped on to the podium. He held the scissors aloft. The cold point of the metal pressed against the warm-blooded skin of the being before him. Nestor? The bucket. The little man scuttled back over and picked up his rusty bucket and held it up to the tailor. Then, Mr. Chatter began to cut.

I saw it again. The substance I had seen when I first arrived that filled Nestor's bucket up to the nearly two-thirds capacity. And although there was much less than there had been before, it was mixed with something tougher, stringier, redder. There it was. Piling up in Nestor's bucket was a collection of human fat. The sick feeling in my stomach gave a sudden lurch.

I feared I was going to get sick and give away my voyeurism. I pushed what rose up back down and willed myself to keep watching. It was strange. Even though Derek had to be amassing huge wounds, there wasn't any blood. It was as though that whatever frozen state he was in stopped his blood too, making it impossible to spill. Mr. Chatter didn't stay on Derek's torso very long, but then again his shirt and jacket hadn't been that tight. He left bits of skin hanging loose and open. Derek's ribcage and thumping heart exposed like a vivisected frog in high school biology.

Mr. Chatter moved on to the next problem. Lex, do you have the samples? Mr. Chatter asked, and Nestor nodded. He sat down his bucket and reached somewhere within his cloak and pulled out what looked like odd little red and tan discs. Are those the twos or the two and a halfs? Mr. Chatter asked. Derek needs twos.

Nestor nodded, putting the discs back into the folds of his garment. He brought out his hands again in this time with two slightly smaller circles. Thank you, Mr. Chatterson. Then he did something so horrible, it's difficult for me to even write. He took the scissors and cut, clean through Derek's leg, right below the knee. A little help, he said. And with Nestor's help, the two tilted Derek's top half back, creating a small space between his body and the newly severed leg.

Then Nestor gingerly placed one of the flesh discs into that space, and the two heed the man back up onto the modified limb. They clumsily did the same for the other side, and there it was. Derek was two inches taller. It didn't take long for Mr. Chatter to whip stitch the young man back together. He had a large sewing needle and a long piece of thread that I heavily suspected was made out of organic materials. Mr. Chatter moved about Derek's body quickly and expertly until he became still. He snipped the end of his thread.

Mr. Chatter looked to Nestor, who was holding his bucket? We didn't get much, did we? Nesta remained silent, but he shook his head solemnly. Mr. Chatter sighed again. They aren't going to be too happy about that. He looked over Derek for a moment, as though admiring his handiwork. No matter, you may redress him. I wondered who they was, but my main suspect only made me feel sicker.

As I watched, Nestor put Derek's tuxedo back on him. I could see it, the way his shirt and jacket fit his body perfectly, and his pants hit right at the heel. Modifications had worked. But there was no way in hell that was happening to me. I counted to three and then burst out of my dressing room. I left my garment bag behind and sprinted straight for the door, not daring to steal one more glance for what bits of Derek remained piled in the bucket. Thankfully, I was too fast for them to stop me.

I ran all the way across the street, my heart pounding into my throat, until I burst into a little cafe. And yet, strangely, I couldn't go home. There was something that I was curious about, something that bothered me immensely. I sat at a table near the front window and watched. Only a few minutes later after I left, I saw Derek leave the shop, smiling and carrying his tuxedo over his arm.

I wonder if he would even begin to understand the strange things that happen to him and fit in trim tailors. I wondered if I ever would. And then I saw it, the small hunched figure of Nestor, emerging from the front of the door shop. In his hand, swinging on its rusty handle, was the bucket full of human fat and flesh. He walked out of the shop, and then he entered the establishment directly next to the tailors. But it wasn't the butchers, as I suspected. and Esther walked through the front door of the neighboring daycare.

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