Creepy - Mr. Krispy & Mother's Room

Episode Date: February 13, 2025

Mr. Krispy ***Written by: Trace McBride and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Mother's Room ***Written by: David Skeele and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***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.

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. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Mr. Crispy.

Written by Trace McBride and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Johann was in his trailer when it happened. Fixing a bulbous red nose to his face. While patrons filled the stands under the big top, always the last to be ready. His sister Katia liked to tease. Those were the exact words she used, last to be ready. Like it was a choice, not a defect.

Never what other people said, mostly about him, but sometimes to him, with a sneer of derision. You're so slow. Yes, he moved with care and deliberation, and yes, some quirk of biology left him unable to speak. but that did not mean he was stupid. This time, his choice meant that when the bombs hit, he was scantily protected by a big metal box,

while everyone else was either outside or under a canvas shroud. And other attacks around the country, those who survived in a similar fashion were described as having been shielded from the worst of the blast. Johann would disagree. Death was not the worst thing. The people who were killed instantly were the lucky ones. At first he thought he was dead.

The shock wave threw him flat, knocked the air from his lungs, rendered him blind in death. He felt nothing, could not move, and for a moment he wondered. What comes next? Heaven? Hell. A great eternal nothingness. Then his senses return one by one. The stink of melting plastic.

Singed hair. Burning flesh. In the distant sirens and screams. And close. Too close. A sinister crack. backle, searing pain, flames. So, hell it is.

His next time, he pushed himself to his feet, throwing off debris, slapping his body where his costume had been set alight. It took time, too much time, stumbling around and search for the door. More precious minutes wrenching and kicking to get it open. at last with a shriek of metal it yielded all that remained of the big top was a few fluttering scraps top half the king pole was missing entirely the lower half ablaze and everywhere bodies many so badly mutilated that they were no longer discernible as human beings just flesh now Just this thought and the crumb of hope that Katya might have miraculously lived drove him forward

Until he saw the hand It was tiny a child's left hand The stump ragged the thumb and forefinger charred In a just world it would still be attached to its owner It would still be sticky with candy floss, or clapping against its partner and delight at the performances, or safely enclosed in a loving parent's grasp, but here it lay,

severed in sawdust, and it stopped Johan in his quest, surely as if it were a great, impassable boulder. His red-painted mouth opened and closed silently for a few months, moments, until his straining lungs forced enough air through his throat to make a sound like a wounded animal. Tears ran down his face and stung the myriad cuts and burns on his cheeks. They dripped pink with blood and grease paint to stain the earth. He might have stood there forever, where it not for the thunder of hooves and the squeal of terrified horse in flight.

It was ORA, Katya's favorite mare, blasted loose from her tether and galloping away. A wide curtain of skin sliced along the horse's ribs, flapped obscenely with each bound, exposing the muscle beneath. She would not run for a long before the blood loss won out over adrenaline. Oura's suffering stabbed him afresh with grief. and the pain propelled him on. He did not have to go far. There, near the base of the kingpoles, sat the remains of a black top hat,

a little singed but otherwise intact. A human-shaped, blackened thing reclined nearby. One hand outstretched as if to recover the hat. It might have been able to convince himself it was not, Katya's corpse but some other unfortunate performer had it not been for the distinctive ruby dress ring a family heirloom on its right finger the pose reminded him of when they were children Katya would strain with grim determination for their father's ringmaster hat where it sat atop the dresser despite her reach being impossibly short the day that the day that the

They both became tall enough for Johann to hoist Katya on his shoulders to claim the treasure. It was the day their circus training had began in earnest. Inside his fractured mind, he screamed her name. While his mouth, his vocal cords, his lungs, all labored to form a sound. He had never wanted to speak more than in this moment, this too late moment. this too late moment where there was nobody left to hear it he would say her name

say her name still uttering his awful staccato lament Johann gently gathered his sister's remains into his arms and rose to his feet he did not know where to go or what to do with her body he swayed and then righted himself his thoughts ricocheting impossible directions.

Maybe Ricardo will know. But Ricardo, the acrobat, was almost certainly dead. And then, an almost vicious idea that he pushed down deep as soon as it was formed. Lucky they're all dead. Now at least there's nobody to blame her. There had been a heated argument before the circus embarked on the season's tour, with almost half the troop calling to cancel. Who will want to go see the circus when we're at war, they said?

And shouldn't we be doing something more constructive, like enlisting or something? And we may as well be painting bullseyes on our backs. The big top makes us such a visible target from the air. Katia had overridden them all. Persuaded some, bribed others. Bullied a few, according to their dispositions, until her will prevail. Here they were.

Johan stood like this until the remaining spot fires burned down to sullen embers. Oura had fallen silent. At last, one thought koalas'd into a driving impulse. Katia deserves a final audience.

He set off on foot for town. He walked with a ponderance. limping gait, hampered by injury in the weight of his burden. Each step on his stronger leg thumped into the earth like a portent. His face makeup, all black and red and white, still clung tenaciously to his face, overlaid with the red blood and black of soot, such that it was impossible to tell where the artifice ended and the pain began. The color scheme repeated

In his red wig Partially melted to his scalp In a congealed black mass In his costume stained With gore and filth Black and white And red The colors of death

Of corpses Of violence Of disease Black scorches Red flesh, White bone showing through where the fire had been especially savage. A few strands of long black hair trailed from its head and floated in the breeze, and with the breeze came the stench.

A chemical stink. Smoke. The reek of burnt meat. And the hint of excrement from damaged innards. As Johan shambled through town streets, Children ran from him screaming. Adults blanched, flinched, and turned away. A few wretched in the gutters.

Even the most compassionate among them could not bring themselves to approach him or offer help. Instead, they watched him pass. And where his journey ended, none could say. Later. Much later. When the war was all but forgotten, and those who fought in it turned to dust, the legend of Mr. Crispy would be used to frighten children into good behavior.

If you don't eat your vegetables and brush your teeth, Mr. Crispy is going to get you. Like a tumor, his story would grow and mutate, and his tragedy would become monstrous. he would grow eight feet tall He would sprout horns and fangs and claws And the number of corpses he carry Would grow to fill a cart

That in some stories was drawn by a fire-breathing goat Only one detailed remained consistent With every telling of the tale It was a sound he made Over and over Undoing anyone who heard it It was a sound of a giant insect, waiting in the shadows for its prey. It was a sound of a clock ticking down to doomsday.

It was a sound of bones clicking against each other on the grim reaper's belt. Creepy Presents Mother's Room, written by David Skeel and narrated by Alicia Atkins. Thank you for seeing me. again short notice like this and i'm sorry if i frightened you on the phone i don't even remember what i said i haven't slept for a very long time and now that i'm here i i don't even know why i don't know how you can help me i guess i'm just scared to go home i'm trying to remember when i talked to you last i'd been living with my mother for a month, maybe?

I'd just quit my job, I think, so I could care for her full time. A month in. Yes, I remember. I thought I was anxious. I thought I was stressed. Because I was having trouble dealing with the... The what?

Yes, the unpredictability. That was it. Not knowing which mother I would be talking to from one moment to the next. The one who thought I was six years old and wanted me to sit on her lap, or suddenly the one who was throwing plates at me and screaming for the police because she thought I was a home invader. The one who happily held her arm out for an insulin shot, or the one who cried and crouched

in the corner when she saw the syringe. Still, even with the unpredictability, life had its routine back then, more or less. try to get her to eat breakfast, check her glucose monitor, try to get her to nap, try to get her to eat lunch, check her monitor, nap, dinner, etc., etc. Maybe watch a show with her at night, explain 10 or 15 times who the people on the TV were and what they were doing. Difficult? I guess, but now I would take all that back in a heartbeat. I could deal with all of that in my sleep. If I ever got any. What?

Worse? Yes, things got worse. As bad as the days could be back then, the nights were basically all right. Occasionally she got up and wandered around. Once she even tried to get out at four o'clock in the morning and find her sister, who's been dead for 30 years. But mostly she slept. Then one night, things changed.

I woke up and she's standing over my bed. There are people in my room, she said. They walk around me and stick their faces next to mine. I hear them talking, feel them breathing. I had to take her back to her room, check for people like a father checking for monsters under the bed. See, Mom? No people.

I did this, I don't know, for a week or so. I noticed she had started doing weird things to her room. There was this big, ugly Civil War-era Black Walnut Bedroom set in there. A huge swivel mirror above the dresser, with the backing so old and messed up, the reflection was always rippled and distorted. She'd covered that mirror,

hung one of her shawls over it. The knobs on the drawers were all shiny white porcelain, and she'd covered those, too. Tied little strips of fabric over each one. I asked her why, and she just stared at them. at me. All of this was wearing on me, these once a night wake-ups, but I could still find blocks of unbroken sleep here and there. But then, it was two times, three, five, until I almost stopped sleeping altogether. And there were new variations. The people were whispering her name,

someone was pressing their teeth against her, not biting her, just pressing clothes teeth against her cheek, her arm. She said she could feel the hot breath hissing through them. I explained to her over and over that no one was pressing their teeth or whispering at her.

That it was all in her head. That all these people were imaginary. And sometimes I would even convince her. But then, of course, she would forget immediately that I'd convinced her. At this point, I was

barely functioning. I don't know how I was managing to take care of her at all. Remembering to cook and shop and clean, give her her her shots. I know. Last time you kept saying, get her to a care facility. You have to get her to a... But there was never any money for that. One day, I left her napping, went to the store, just to get out of the house. It felt good. So good. So good. I remember to be in a brightly lit place with music and voices and wide-awake people. But on the way home, I stopped at a light and just closed my eyes for a second. And the next thing I knew, there was a line of cars behind me, all laying on their horns, people shouting out their windows, giving me the finger.

Well, that night. That night she scared the crap out of me, the way she woke me up. She's standing next to my bed, screaming. Why is a sheet, shaking, terrified out of her wits? Something was buzzing, she kept saying, buzzing in a room like a bee or a wasp. She said it kept crawling into her ear. Well, I was... I was halfway out of my mind.

Delirious with lack of sleep and my heart's... still pounding out of my chest from being wakened by a screaming woman, and I lost it. I told her, you're insane. Do you understand that? You're a crazy, sick old woman, and your mind is making up ridiculous crazy delusions. Get that through your damaged brain, and then get back to your fucking room and let me sleep. But she wouldn't. She wouldn't go. She just started crying, and she grabbed onto my arm, crawled in next to me, just started babbling. babbling and sobbing at the same time. I could barely understand her.

Over and over. They were trying to kill her. They were trying to kill her because she was the weakest. She was the weakest. She was the... And she couldn't go back in there. But it didn't matter because they were getting stronger now,

and maybe they could follow her anywhere she went. I tried to get her up, get her back to her room. Tried being nice again, yelling again, even picking her up and moving her by force. But she wouldn't go. She grabbed my headboard and held on for dear life. So, I left her there, crying and muttering to herself. I went downstairs, sat in my big chair and tried to watch TV.

I must have dozed off because suddenly there was this shrill, shrieking sound giving me the second heart attack of the night. I couldn't compute how she was making a sound like that. But then I realized. It wasn't coming from upstairs. It was coming from my phone. Her glucose monitor. That especially awful sound it makes when blood sugar drops dangerously low.

And it had. It had plunged down to 49. A total blood sugar emergency. I pictured in my head the things I'd bought from the store that day. Orange juice, crackers. Pictured finding a glass in a plate. But I didn't. I couldn't move.

I was intuned in those deep chair cushions. 40. Then 38. 35. The alarm got louder. I had to do something. I did. I turned off the phone.

And I fell asleep. When I woke up, light was streaming into the room. 10.30. I'd slept for seven hours. hours. I didn't want to go back up there, but I did. Force my body up the stairs down the hall. She was in my bed. Ride left her. Eyes wide, but empty, gone. Hands frozen in their final position, clutching at her throat. The E.MTs were sympathetic. I'd been recharging my phone, I said, and forgot to turn it back on, so I never heard the alarm.

They bundled her up and took her out. One of them patted my arm on the way out. Sadie was sorry for my loss. I barely remembered that day. I wandered around the house in a fog, not sure what to do from one minute to the next. It felt so strange. The quiet.

The emptiness. That night, I went upstairs to sleep. My first real sleep in months, I thought. But I couldn't. Not in there. In my bed. I changed the bedding, of course.

But still, she died there. I could feel the indention of her body. Well, probably not, but that's what I kept thinking. So I did the only thing I could. I moved to her room, her bed. The first thing I did was pull the shawl off the mirror, then all those fabric strips off the knobs. Turn this into a normal room, I thought. The uncovered mirror lasted about 20 minutes.

I don't know. I'm so aware of that oval black hole hanging there. That rippled black maw. And I couldn't stand it. I hung the shawl back up. An hour after that, I tied all the strips back on the knobs. They gleamed, you see, caught the ambient light from the hall and shined like dull little lights. Which was fine, except from time to time, they would blink, as if something was passing in front of them. I tried to keep my eyes shut tight, but I couldn't.

I knew they were doing it, doing their blinking, and somehow not seeing it was warm. worse than. So I covered them back up. But even then, it didn't stop that sense of something moving through the room. You know how even with your eyes closed you can see light against your eyelids like sun on the window blinds? Something was always moving into that light, blocking it, like someone was suddenly next to my face. I'd set up chest so tight. I'd set up chest so tight I could barely breathe, but there'd be nothing. And when I did fall asleep, if I did fall asleep, it was getting hard to tell, there'd be words, fragments of words, breathed into my face, just pieces of things.

He's, why, here, a short bark of laughter, like things coming through a staticy radio. Right next to my ear. then softer on the other side of the room answering every time i jump up looking around wildly and again nothing just the dark shapes of bedroom furniture looming in the dimness but as soon as i'd close my eyes and start to drift sometime around 3 a.m i began to feel the teeth pressed into my side then into my jaw hard and shiny and wet. Hot breath hissing between them. I'd scream and paw at my skin,

thinking I could feel the tiny indention still there. But the worst, when it came, was the thing in my ear. She said a bee or a wasp, but it was much more horrible than that. Not the pristine, dry buzzing of a bee. Something louder, sloppier, wetter. A sound dripping with malice, trying to ram its way into my ear canal. The most awful thing I've ever heard, ever imagined hearing. I ran screaming, out of the room, out of the house, walk the empty streets like a madman or a zombie.

Then I called you. I haven't been back yet. Into that house, that room. But I have to go back. I have no other choice. Oh, I know you're thinking. Maybe there's some other place you could put me where I'd feel safer. But don't bother.

She said whatever is in that room could follow her. And I think she was right. You see, I keep looking at that light behind your head, noticing more and more how something keeps moving in front of it. And anyway, when I think of what I did to that poor woman, refusing to believe her, forcing her back night after night. Oh, sure, I can say I didn't know. I was only trying to help, but there's no escaping. What I did was offer her up to whatever is in that room. So, it's only fitting, isn't it?

that I offer myself up? After all, I'm the weakest one now. 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 share-a-like licensing. or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast

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