Creepy - Mr. Widemouth

Episode Date: June 12, 2017

I had this friend...***Credited to perfectcircle35***Presented by Wynabego Warrior: The Tales of John Wannabe (http://audiobliviousproductions.libsyn.com/)***Sound design by Pacific Obadiah***Intro/Outro by Joe Stofko***Music by Alex Aldea 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 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. Mr. Whitemouth. Credited to Perfect Circle 35. During my childhood, my family was like a drop of water in a vast river,

never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and they were remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are ridded in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belonged to the various homes we lived in when I was much younger. Most of these memories are unclear and pointless, chasing after another boy in the backyard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on a creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on.

But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that spring. but in my heart I know they're real We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard Maine population 643

It was a large structure Especially for a family of three There were a number of rooms I didn't see in the five months We resided there In some ways it was a waste of space But it was the only house on the market at the time At least within an hour's commute

To my father's place of work The day after my fifth birthday, attended by my parents alone, I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bedridden. We were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger rail and books several times a day, and these served the fungely. of being my primary form of entertainment for the next few weeks. Bortem always loomed just around the corner,

waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery. I don't exactly remember how I met Mr. Wide Mouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with Mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Wide Mouth because his mouth was large. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body. His head, his eyes, his crooked ears. But his mouth was by far the largest, but kind of like a Furby.

I said as he flipped through one of my books. Mr. Weidmore stopped and gave me a puzzled look. Furby? What's a Furby? He asked. I shrugged. You know, the toy. The little robot with big ears.

You can pet and feed them almost like a real pet. Oh. Mr. Whitemouth resumed his activity. You don't need one of those. They aren't the same as having a real friend. I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. I lay under your bed. He later explained.

I don't want your parents to see me because I'm afraid they won't let us play anymore. We didn't do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at. my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. I have a new game we can play. He said. We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can't see us play it.

It's a secret game. After my mother delivered more books and sewed at the usual time, Mr. Weimaltz slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. We have to go to the room at the end of the hallway. he said. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave the bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in. The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper.

The only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Weidmout darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground. We were on the second floor of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle, the drop was further than two stories due to the east. incline, Mr. Widmouth explained. I pretend that there's a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough, you bounce back up like a feather.

I want you to try. I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and consider the possibility. It's a long drop, I said. But that's all part of the fun. It wouldn't be fun it was only short. If it were that way, you might as well just bounce on a real trampoline. I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes.

But the realist in me prevailed. Maybe some other time, I said. I don't know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt. Mr. Wide Mouse's face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. If you say so, he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.

The following morning, Mr. Widemouth arrived holding the small box. I want to teach you how to juggle. He said. Here are some things you can use to practice before I start giving you lessons. I looked in the box. It was full of knives. Parents will kill me. I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemotha brought knives into my room.

Objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. I'll be spanked and grounded for a year. Mr. Widemouth frowned. It's fun to juggle with you to try it. I push the box away. I can't. I'll get in trouble. Nives aren't safe to just throw in the air. Mr. Widmouse frowned deep and didn't into a scowl.

He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me. I started having trouble sleeping after. After that, Mr. Widmouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window. A big one. One that I couldn't see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemoth persisted.

Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump. It wasn't so fun to play with anymore. My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Ecstatic, I put on my shoes and trotted out the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face. Mr. Widemouth was waiting for me, he said. I must have given him a weird look because he then said, Promise.

I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. This is an important path, he explained. I've had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path. You aren't ready yet. I returned to the house wondering what kind of. a place lay beyond that trail. Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving

truck. I would be in the cab of that truck sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving. But even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature's intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise. For this reason, I decided to keep my departure of secret. My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennsylvania by lunchtime tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack energy drinks.

He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still. Early enough for you? My father asked with a hint of sympathy. I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. This is the last move, son. I promise. I know it's hard for you, as sick as you've been.

Once Dady gets promoted, we can settle down and you can make friends. I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. White Mouse silhouette, my brother. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the main road. He gave a pitiful little goodbye wave, a steak knife in hand. I didn't wave back. Years later, I returned into Vineyard. The piece of lander house stood upon was empty except for the foundation,

as the house burned down a few years after my family. left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejesies out of me. But I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to the house that no longer existed. The trail ended at the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery. I noticed that many of the tombstones belong to children. This episode of Creepy is presented by Season 2 of the Winnebago Warrior, The Tales of John Wienabee. Howdy, folks. Pull up an ear whilst I spin you a tail. Don't worry. This ain't the same old tale I told you last time.

Nope, this is an exciting new tale front with new peril and danger. And, of course, new redemption and renewal. It's still the tale of a man determined to find the old west that he remembers from the silver screen of his youth. The tale of a man looking to live the life of a wanderer helping folks in need. Except this time, it looks like he's going to be needing a little help of his own. I know deep in my gut troubles of brewing and being the helpful type, I've decided to inquire about the current situation and see if I can lend a helping hand. Actually, while I do appreciate you mistaken me for such an iconic image of Western law and justice,

I am only the deputy. Come on back and enjoy hearing from old friends like Hatchet McCoy. God, aliens are real, your existence is a lie, cowboys are dumb, And RVs are for Desperate Losers. His ma' old Lizzie McCoyne. John, I thought you were brave and handsome. Well, I guess you're just handsome. I don't think you have the faintest idea what just to say.

As well as a few other familiar faces you might remember, the clean-shaven looking suit are part of my new job. Told you I was giving up bounty hunting the last time we met. I'm a private investigator now This is fucking bullshit All I wanted to do was steal a fucking car And get out of this fucking place But no, now I've got to help this bitch

Along with a whole slewet new faces And new problems for John Zee tries To help another small town in need Don't you try to dissuade us With your living on the grid logic You ain't stopping us You'll see, you all see Come noon when that train pulls up

You'll all see If you're going to follow up on something somebody says, you need to pay attention. Try again and don't embarrass us this time. If in something we're transpire and you is suddenly in a position of need, well, don't come to us looking for help. We may be simple, folk, but we're simple folk by choice, not because we can't be something else. How's folks supposed to drink and celebrate the arrival of our new sheriff if in the dang bar ain't open for us to drink in? So come sit by the fire and get ready as we follow John. Lizzie and Hatchet on their continuing adventures outside of life in the lonely valley to see what the road ahead has in store for them.

In the exciting season two of Winnebago warrior, the tale of John Wayneby. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. at creepypod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at creepypod at gmail. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.