Creepy - My First time & For Iphigenia

Episode Date: January 18, 2024

My First time***Written by: Keely McCarthy and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***For Iphigenia***Written by: Shahrzad and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content Warning: Murder, child abuse, childhood trauma, near-death experiences***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents,

My First Time, written by Keeley McCarthy, and narrated by Michelle Kane. They say your first time is supposed to be special. It's supposed to be a magical, beautiful, transformative experience, taking you from one state of being to the next. metaphorical fireworks and explosions to celebrate your transformation from child to adult, from girl to woman.

My first time was sloppy at best, awkward fumbling in the dark and false starts. His name was Randy. He lived in my apartment complex. He was almost a foot taller than me at six foot tall with sandy brown hair and blue. blue eyes. We had run into each other while checking mail, and I found myself lost in those eyes and his easy way of talking. You could tell he wasn't from around here. He was too nice. And gorgeous. There was a nice Midwest vibe to him. He had an affable, crooked smile that made my insides melt. I have to admit, it was exquisite, the rush of emotion that had flowed through me,

that first time we talk. We had met a few times at the mailboxes and chatted like old friends. Randy loved the way my name, Chantal, rolled off his tongue. He made it a habit of using my name at least three times during every conversation. I loved the way he said my name, the way his full lips cradled and caressed it. Like a secret only we would share. He lived across the complex, on the ground floor next to what the apartments called a pond, but looked more like a swamp.

Tall trees, sticker bushes, and muddy water. The manicured lawns were about 30 feet from the water's edge. When it snowed, the kids loved to sled down the small inclines to the icy water. Beyond that, lay the tall fence with the main road winding into the city. He loved the sunlight, keeping his curtains. open daily. I loved how easy this made it for me to watch him as he went about his day. In the comfort of his own home, he chose to forego clothing, except for his boxers, cute plaid boxers and slide sandals as he puttered around his living room and kitchen. He always cooked, never ate out, and liked to watch

superhero movies or play video games. Not a deal breaker, exactly, but I would have preferred if he had read a book occasionally. He liked high fantasy games and eating chips and pizza on Friday nights. He preferred soda, but occasionally liked a beer, a regular beer, not that hipster IPA bullshit either. I liked that. He was so wholesome and down to earth, not partying and living like an idiot. I watched him from afar, planning our next meet cute at the mailboxes. I could bring bring up the new Marvel movie or talk about how my shitty ex-boyfriend stole my PlayStation. What an asshole, he said in response. I know, right? I had it before we even met, and he felt like he could just take it. He didn't even play. He used it to watch DVDs. I replied,

tossing my curtain of blonde hair over my shoulder. You game? Seriously? He asked with wide eyes. I nodded and looked down feigning shyness, biting my lower lip. Yeah, I know it's dumb, but I find it so relaxing after work, you know? Oh, I totally get it, he said with an excited little hop in his step. So cute. I mean, I game too. It's how I stay connected to my friends and family back in Nebraska. Nebraska, huh?

I was right about the Midwest. His arms looked like they could pull tractors out of the mud without any help. I gave him my best, flirty smile and asked him about what games he liked. He suggested we get together some time and play a little one-on-one. I giggled, which made him blush and stammer, and I told him it was a date. The first time I had gone to his apartment, he hadn't even tried to kiss me. He was a perfect gentleman, playful, and entertaining. even letting me win when he insisted we game old school on some Mario Kart.

I discovered that he loved to read. All those times when I thought he was scrolling on social media, he was reading on his phone's book app. He liked thrillers like King or Coons, but also admitted to being a Game of Thrones nerd. He was a decent cook and even bought a lovely Merlot for when he made me dinner on our second date. He kissed me that night, soft and almost chaste, his lips seeming to memorize mine.

My hunger for him grew. Our night together came fast after that kiss. I planned a surprise for him, and boy was he surprise. He awoke to me straddling him, my knife at his throat. Sheryl Crow once saying that the first cut was the deepest, but she can have been more wrong. My first cut was shallow and superficial. Randy just stared at me with those big goldfish eyes.

Confusion after waking abruptly from his slumber made him slow to react. So I slid the blade again, cutting deeper than my false start before. His throat was soft, yet hard at the same time, so I added more pressure. This time blood welled thick and dark against. his collar bow. His mouth gaped open, giving him even more of a passing resemblance to a goldfish. I couldn't help myself. I giggled. The cut wasn't quite deep enough, however. And to his credit, he bucked his hips to try and dislodge me. I clamped down on him, years of training at the local country bar's mechanical pull, giving me an edge over him. Blood smeared over my arms and coated

my bare body as we wrestled in the sheets. I giggled while he made choking, spluttering sounds when the blood trickled down his esophagus. His hands slipped in his own blood, trying to get a hold of me, tangled in the sheets and comforter. It was awkward, my naked body flailing against him as he fought. I began to stab. My knife found entry into his body through his stomach, neck, and chest. It felt like stabbing into a cloud until I hit a rib. The knife lodged against the bone, jarring my hand. My fingers tingled in pain and I almost dropped it. He was still thrashing, but less and less.

His gurgling was quieter, and I used my slight weight to pin him down, my face right next to his. Shh, be still. I whispered against his lips. tasting the copper and brine of blood, tears, and sweat. He managed a whimper, but soon stopped struggling, accepting his fate. Blood bubbled on his perfect lips, trickled from the corners of his mouth. I laid my forehead tenderly against his, my fingers caressing his jawline.

He gasped and choked, his body trembling against mine, until finally he fell still. I closed my eyes, my lips parted against his, and swallowed his last few breaths. It was beautiful. I stayed in that position for about ten minutes, cradling his jaw in my hands. I showered in his bathroom, washing his blood from my body. I had made sure to braid my hair and pin it to my head so as not to get it dirty or leave any behind. I used his body wash, a nice forest-smelling old spice, and grabbed one of his fluffy towels to dry off on. I left it on the bathroom floor.

I wanted something to remember him by, something no one would notice was missing. So, over my tank top, I pulled on a plain white t-shirt and a red hoodie that had read Nebraska emblazing on the front. It was risky, but I took it anyway, along with a pair of green plaid boxers. I snuck back to my apartment and sat up until dawn. I watched his dark windows, the shades now drawn, remembering the feeling of riding out his death throes and hoping I had left nothing of myself behind. It took them almost a week to find his body.

Turns out, Randy hadn't lived here long enough to make any real connections. He only called home to his mom on Sundays. She was the one who called her. in a welfare check on her precious baby boy. It had been a hot, muggy summer so far, and I had made a point to turn off the air conditioner before I left. So decomposition had been sped up. I came home to the red and blue lights, CSI techs and the coroner's van. It took another two days before there was a knock at my door. Shantal Elbrecht. Yes, I asked, holding the door open but keeping the security door closed.

Sorry to bother you, miss. I'm Detective Sosa, he said, flipping his badge out for inspection. May I come in and ask you a few questions? Oh, yeah, I guess so. What's this about? I asked, opening my home to him. Do you know Randy Williams? He lived in apartment K-104.

I nodded slowly. Yeah, we've had a few dates. I'm meeting him to my room. for drinks. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. He seems like a normal guy. What did he do? Detective Sose's eyes softened a bit, and he motioned for us to sit down. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but he's been killed. My hand flew to my mouth, and I sat hard on the couch. Oh my God! What happened? Was he in an accident? No, he said gently.

I don't understand, I said. I barely knew him. Why are you here? He was murdered. The detective replied, his scrupulous eyes watching me. Stunned, I shook my head. That's impossible. This is a gated complex. We just went out last week. We... How? My voice trailed off as my eyes welled, tears slipping down my cheeks.

We found your information in his house. Tell me how you knew each other. I told him about how we had met at the mailboxes, sniffling through how sweet he was. I told him about our dates at his apartment, the games we played, the dinner we had had. He asked some follow-up questions, including my whereabouts on the night of August 8th. My cheeks flushed crimson when I told him that on that night, we had had our third date and had made love. I was home by 1130 since I had to work the next morning. He took notes as I talked, wiping tears from my eyes and cheeks. The detective asked if I would be comfortable giving hair and saliva samples as well as fingerprints.

I readily agreed, and as the investigation progressed, he visited me a few more times. asked a few more questions. Then the case went cold. I was so sure I had incriminated myself, but no. I watched a truck arrive, and two men load Randy's belongings from his house, while a woman wept off to the side. I assumed it was his mother. She had clung to what I supposed was his father. She had gone in the day after he had been found and had run out, collapsing on the sidewalk and hysterics. That was when I learned that CSI doesn't claim the crime scene. It was now her responsibility to clean up her son's blood. That was ten years ago. I oftentimes gift my husband a new shirt or add a new one to my collection of night shirts. He never asks me why I wear them.

I see the look in his eyes. I know it turns him on when I do. Turns me on. It turns me on. too, but for different reasons. I learned from my first time, made fewer mistakes, and have thus far gone unnoticed. I have tasted the final breaths of over two dozen men, women, even children. None were ever as exquisite as Randy. There were no fireworks when he died, but I suppose it had been a beautiful and transformative experience. As messy and awkward as it was, I metamorphosed into my true self, and will forever be grateful to Randy for that. I still wear his Nebraska hoodie when I'm feeling down. And as I smell the last vestiges of him on the soft red cloth, I close my eyes and fall back into that wonderful, magical night when I became a woman.

After all, a girl never forgets her first time. Creepy presents for Iphigenia, written by Sharzaad, and narrated by Rissa Montanez. I didn't realize until years later why my father had been trying to kill me so desperately when I was only eight years old. In fact, I mostly forgot what had happened, or at least. I tried to. But once in a while, for no reason at all, a memory of his sudden hard push on the swing would come back to me. It was so vivid. I could still feel his hands on my back, as strong and sharp as that day that we were in the playground together. I remember how my tiny body was flung up high, high, so high, into the blue sky, higher than it had ever been, leaving the swing.

and the feeling of gravity tugging at my arms, swooping in an arc and then falling, tumbling down toward the green leaves and grass and sunlight. I remember thinking I had turned into a bird. And then the terrible thud as I land on the spongy playground gravel. Then I heard my dad calling me, Are you okay, Jenny? I staggered to my feet. I'm okay, Dad, I called, not wanting him to feel upset.

He had seemed really upset recently. And that's when I saw the look in his eyes. I didn't have the words for it then, but they were sparking with anger. Somehow I knew he was hoping that I couldn't get up, but I was only eight. And I didn't know what to do about that. Or I remember that time when I was peddling a on my very first bike in our driveway. It was such a pretty shiny red color,

covered in Cinderella stickers. I loved it so much. I think it was just after I fell off the swing. As I was riding my bike, I looked up and I just saw our car backing in on me. In that moment, I realized that I was going to be squished. Just like the roadkill we saw when driving out of the city, like a squashed bloody pancake with fur sticking out of it. I jumped off my bike,

and the car ran over my pretty red bike with a horrible crunching sound of metal. And I could feel the roosh of the tires just as I lay on the driveway, barely five inches away. Jenny, Jenny, are you okay? My dad rushed out of the car towards me and paused when he saw the mangled bike while I got up.

I saw that same look as when I fell from the swing. Those burning, angry eyes. And then I felt fear flickering deep in the pit of my stomach. I remember first feeling sad about my bike. But then more afraid than sad. After he tried to drown me in a crowded city swimming pool, I knew I had to do something. And I didn't understand why.

He was generally a nice, normal dad. And he had promised me he would get me a new red bike, just like the one he had accidentally crushed with our car. But then the swimming pool thing happened. Me and my dad had this little game in the shallow end. He would stand with his legs far apart, and I would swim under the water and swim through his legs and then come up on the other side.

I loved doing that. I could swim back and forth through his legs underwater a hundred times. Anyway, I swam through once, came up to the surface, laughing with happiness at accomplishing this,

and then dove back down, peering through the blue, stinging, chlorinated water at his legs that were standing right apart, and so I went through, and he brought his legs sharply together, suddenly gripping my sides tightly, squeezing and squeezing. Sometimes I wake up at night, sweating, remembering the feeling of his legs pinning my sides, holding me down in the water. I scrambled and pushed at his legs with my

hands, trying to make him let go of me, but when he didn't, I opened my mouth and bit him in the calf, sinking my sharp new teeth into his hairy flesh as deep as I could. He twitched and loosened his grip, finally, and in that same instant I slipped out and up from the water, gasping and sputtering for air. We looked right at each other across the bright blue waves of the pool. We didn't say anything. I looked down, and I could see the dark trickle of blood by his legs. And then we left the pool. I knew he wasn't going to leave it to chance and accidents anymore, and somehow I knew he was running out of time. I never found out the exact nature of the business my dad was in, but I knew he had to kill me because of his business. He was always talking a lot, loudly,

into his laptop, saying things like, The project has to start. We need the money. Luck is on our side. And then promising he would, Get it done. And somehow I knew it meant killing me. I understand.

I heard him say. I will. By the end of the week. And I knew he meant, I would be dead by the end of the week. And you'll hold up your end? He yasked into his laptop. The investment?

Our project? Yes, yes, I know. I'm not doubting you. Years later, I was studying Greek mythology in high school and learned about Agamemann and what he did to his daughter. And that's what I realized. That was why my dad was trying to kill me. To win, he had to kill me.

To make his business succeed. After the swimming pool incident, I told my mom, she didn't believe me at first. She looked at me with horrified eyes. Jenny, what are you saying? About your own dad? Go look at my bite mark on his calf, I replied, and then she fell silent.

That night, I heard her moving around on the landing outside our bedrooms, just at the top of the stairs. I opened my door a little bit and saw her carefully placing my Lego pieces in a row right on the top stair. And then she went back to their bedroom. I waited. A short time later, Dad came out of their bedroom. He stepped on the Lego, gave a small shriek and tumbled down the staircase. And then mom came out of the bedroom. She was carrying a nine iron, and she went downstairs. I crept out and looked down through the banister and watched. as my mother gave a short, swift bash with the iron to my dad's head. Just as he was lying on the floor, trying to get up.

Almost immediately he fell back, and his legs were still. And then mom bashed him in the head again. When she was done, she came back upstairs. We just looked at each other. And then we went to our own bedrooms. I honestly don't remember much about what happened after that. All I remember is how good it felt knowing that no one was going to try to kill me

just to make their business succeed. 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 Creepard. on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Common Share-A-Lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast

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